Grit & Shadows Boxed Set

by J. D. Brink

  “Yeah, okay. Makes sense to me,” I agree.

  “Good.” The word has weight. Like I just agreed to something serious. “Follow me.”

  She ducks into her car and slams the door. I climb aboard my rig, a little bit anxious. I think I know where we’re headed.

  Five

  “The Castle,” they call it. It’s a strip mall with brick veneer and these stylish little parapets on the corners. There’s a Dollar Store in there, a Chinese takeout place, one of those sketchy check-cashing joints, and the office of Doctor Victor Moony and Associates.

  It’s those associates that I’m worried about.

  And even though it’s almost 4 a.m. and dark as hell, there’s a line of people waiting at the door.

  My ambulance follows Ophelia’s cruiser into the parking lot. We glide in slow and silent, but not unnoticed. A few people cut out of that line and either step lively to their cars or fade away into the shadows. One of them drops something that two others briefly fight over, before resuming their places. The presence of a police car has definitely added a nervous dance and tick to those left waiting, but they still refuse to be deterred.

  “I knew it,” O growls. We’ve swung around so our driver’s side windows align.

  “A few of them had sense enough to leave,” I remark. “Or shame enough.”

  Ophelia shakes her head. “I don’t even care about them—the junkies, the pasties. They’re stupid, but stupid ain’t a crime. Them bastards preying on them...”

  “The doctor’s in,” I quip. Maybe humor isn’t quite appropriate in times like this, but it’s my only defense. Just in case the garlic dingle balls don’t work.

  “And so are his buddies, no doubt.”

  “Then what’s our next move?” I can see the answer in O’s eyes, so I try to talk her out of it before she can respond. “We scared some home, right? See and be seen, police presence and all that? Maybe saved some lives there.”

  “Until tomorrow night.” Her voice is steady, her glare unwavering. “Or the night after that. And these guys...” She nods toward the line awaiting their beloved executioners. “You think I can just drive on knowing what they’re up to?”

  Just then, the police radio squawks at her. It starts to report an actual crime in progress, a sanctioned need for police support, but O switches it off.

  I feel that hard click and absence of audio static in my chest. I know right then that we’re going in and there’s no way I can talk her out of it. And I sure as hell can’t let her go in alone.

  I draw a deep breath, sigh, and mentally sign on for this ride. I’m all in now; I have to be.

  “I’ve been reading Dracula lately,” I tell her, taking down my papery white dingle balls. The strings were designed from the beginning to easily loop into necklaces. I hand one down through my window, which she takes with confusion. When I lasso another around my head, she gets it.

  “You can’t be serious, Zeus.” She sticks her nose to a bulb. “How long these been hanging in there? They stink. I ain’t wearing this.”

  “O...”

  “This is silly.”

  “What about this ain’t silly? Better safe than sorry, right? You don’t expect to get into a shoot-out, but you still put on your vest every shift, right?”

  Reluctantly, she loops it over her head. “I feel ridiculous.” Now her face shows that sense of silly loud and clear. Maybe too silly to continue? For a second, I think I’ve just gotten us out of a showdown with the undead.

  Then her door opens, she steps outside, and slams it closed. With her standing now, we’re a lot closer to face-to-face. “You coming, partner?”

  “All in,” I mumble aloud.

  First, I retrieve my secret weapon from between the cab seats, then I join her on the asphalt. And she arches that eyebrow again.

  “My abuela’s good dinnerware,” I explain. “Fourteen inches of genuine silver-plated, column-style candlestick. Don’t tell my mom.”

  The thing is like a mace in my hands. And it still carries a hint of the cinnamon-spice candle that sat atop it. Or is that just my imagination? I pat the bulky business end of my weapon against my open palm. “It’s like in that game, Clue. Doctor Blood, in the office, with the candlestick. Game over.”

  Ophelia rolls her eyes and pulls the nightstick from her belt. “Mine’s bigger than yours.” Then she pats the taser and 9mm on either hip. “You think I need silver bullets, Z? Aren’t those for killing werewolves or something?”

  “Honestly, Ophelia, I hope we aren’t shooting anybody here tonight.”

  “Me too,” she says, not very convincingly. “Let’s go.”

  I follow in her wake as O strides up to the brick storefront. The door and big lobby window feature heavily frosted glass, to the point of being almost opaque. There’s a faint grey glow inside, like dusk in a black-and-white horror movie. I notice the posted hours: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., M-F. These customers must be on the preferred client list. Or the doctor just doesn’t advertise primetime care. I didn’t think Doc Vic would actually be hosting vamp night. I figured he was just profiting from the residuals. Residuals meaning treatments. If there’s a real vamp inside, then he’s actually taking part in causing the disease that he then charges people to treat. In that case, the system’s more messed up than I thought.

  “So much for the Hippocratic oath,” I mumble. O doesn’t hear me. She’s in crowd control mode.

  Bam! She starts by rapping her nightstick against the glass. If a cop marching up to the junkie line in the middle of the night didn’t get their attention, that sure did.

  “This office is closed!” Officer Harker declares.

  Half a dozen pasties wait impatiently for their turn...

  Then two of them peel away and take off.

  “You can’t do that!” one stubborn customer complains. He’s tall and skeletal. That blue flannel shirt looks like it’s hanging in a closet on his wasted frame.

  “The hell I can’t,” O growls, leveling the stick toward his face.

  The line leader ducks under the baton and dashes off. A paper ticket chases after him on the night air. The flannel shirt snatches at it desperately in a sudden movement that triggers Officer Harker into action.

  She’s got the guy flipped over and pinned on the blacktop in a blink.

  Another pastie bows out. The last one’s crouched and ready, like a wild animal. He hasn’t decided what to do yet, fight or flight.

  I instinctively mimic him: knees bent, arms up, silver-plated mace ready for action. My heart’s pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

  “Zeus, if that guy’s still standing there in three seconds,” O shouts, one knee on the flannel’s chest and the nightstick up under his chin, “shoot him.”

  The wild animal and I lock eyes. Both of us are scared, I have no doubt.

  But the pastie buys O’s bluff. He takes off.

  Big sigh of relief. I almost admit to nearly peeing my pants, but I don’t want to shake Ophelia’s confidence in her partner. Funny how I didn’t sweat those three losers just six hours ago, and I was alone at that time. Then again, the sun was still technically up. And I hadn’t yet come face to face with a real vamp. And I wasn’t standing outside Doc Vic’s all-night blood donation clinic.

  “What the hell are these?” she demands of her prisoner. The paper tickets have numbers on them, just like we’re at a deli or pharmacy.

  “Lottery,” the tall pastie groans.

  “Makes sense,” I say. “I guess even a vampire can only drink so much in one night.”

  “Makes me wonder how many are inside, though.” Ophelia shifts more of her weight onto the man’s sternum. “You got an answer for that?”

  “I ain’t telling you nothing!” he wheezes.

  Flannel regrets that, if the cry of pain is any indication.

  Right at that moment, I imagine another police car pulling up and us having to explain what the hell is going on. I wouldn’t feel relief, just caught doing wro
ng.

  But that doesn’t happen. O and I are on our own. No one else wants to mess with Doc Vic. He’s like the mayor in this town, but with a higher approval rating.

  “How much?” she demands. Her off hand does a quick pat-down of his pockets and waistband. She doesn’t turn up any weapons, wallet, anything. “How much they charge to bite your neck and suck the life out of you?”

  “Nothing,” he hisses. “Bliss is free. The ride is free. Everlasting life, all free!”

  O glances over her shoulder at me. We share a look of horror and understanding.

  Cheaper than pain pills, cheaper than heroin. No wonder it’s so easy to get them hooked.

  And the shady clinics, the pharmaceutical companies, the Medicare scammers, they all make money on the treatments. It’s practically free for them, too. Pure profit.

  “Get up!” O drags the guy to his feet, slams him once against the brick storefront, then flings him toward the night. He stumbles into the parking lot and nearly falls on his face again. “Get the hell out of here. Go home. Or I’ll run you in.”

  He goes, but not willingly. About halfway to the street, he crouches down and sits on the blacktop. Silent protest. But far enough away not to be a threat anymore.

  Now it’s just me and my partner. And whoever might be inside.

  Six

  “Stay behind me,” Ophelia instructs me, ready to breach Victor Moony’s house of horrors with her 9mm in both hands.

  I make a couple of practice swings and defensive blocks with my dinner mace, tug on my own necklace string to ensure it’s still there, then give her a nervous nod.

  O leads with the gun.

  The glass door isn’t locked.

  Inside, the lobby is empty. It’s in black and white, too, like an old creep-fest movie. Grey-upholstered chairs and couch; a black magazine rack; a flat-screen TV switched off; a painting of zebras drinking obliviously from a stream while a lion stalks in among the brush. The receptionist window is a counter protected by more frosted glass. The lights are low, half the fluorescents lifeless in ceiling. There’s a door cocked open with nothing but darkness beyond it.

  I bob my weapon toward the door and whisper, “Looks like an invitation. I don’t like it.”

  “Me neither,” O whispers back.

  She pulls a small Maglite from her police officer’s belt, cross-bars her firing arm with her flashlight arm, and shines it through the smoky glass of the secretary’s suite. Much of the searchlight’s glow is reflected by the frosting, but there appear to be no silhouettes lurking back there. O gives me a half a breath to object, then moves toward the open door.

  It swings wider, coaxed by her foot. Somewhere in my subconscious, I expected it to sound like a coffin creaking open, but the door makes no sound. Her flashlight probes along the walls, all the way to the flower-and-vase still-life hanging at the far end. It’s a hall of doors, every one of them closed. Each has a placard posted outside: “Exam Room 1,” “Exam Room 2,” et cetera.

  There’s a switch on the wall. I silently ask if I should turn the lights on (‘cause that’d sure make me feel better!), but she shakes her head. “Maybe they don’t know we’re here yet,” she whispers, so quiet I barely hear her. It’s more lip reading than ear work.

  We hesitate, pausing. Are we listening for noise or just not sure what to do next?

  Then I hear it: Breathing. Heavy breathing. Slight moaning.

  It’s coming from the door on the left, Exam Room 1.

  Ophelia mouths a count of three, I turn the knob, and she barrels in, gun ready.

  A dark shape lies limp on the exam table, a heap of clothes and misery. Two figures blunder inside on the mirror above the sink, opposite wall, and I swear I almost crap my pants seeing that motion in my peripheral vision. It’s us, of course, but I need another full second to start breathing again.

  O pulls me inside, shuts the door, and turns on the light.

  The figure on the table groans and rolls away from us, shielding his eyes. He’s hidden in a black hoodie and jeans, too tall to fit on there, even in the fetal position. The thin paper drape beneath him has large spatters of blood on it. There’s more on the vinyl cushion and a few drops on the white-tiled floor.

  “He’s alive, at least,” I whisper.

  “Then he’s not our problem,” Ophelia says. “Not why we came.”

  My mouth hangs open for a second, not believing that I have to explain this. “I’m a paramedic, O. This is why I’m here. I need to treat him.”

  “Keep your eyes on the prize, Z. Focus. The scene isn’t safe yet.”

  “Z?” the victim grumbles. He rolls toward us again, barely staying on the table, and I see his face. Pale, ashen, but recognizable.

  “Lou?” It’s my absent partner. The EMT who’s usually driving the rig with me, who had called in sick yet again. I shouldn’t be so surprised. I’ve long suspected he was a pastie, just didn’t think I’d ever have to see it with my own eyes.

  If Lou wasn’t so far gone, so deep into the blood-drained bliss, he might have been ashamed. Instead, he cracks a tiny smile. “Hey, buddy. You finally come to join up?”

  I grab Lou by the wrist and check his pulse. Its quick and thready. Trying to keep up with demand, but his blood volume is so low, it’s just a matter of time before his body gives up.

  Ophelia and I lock eyes. She knows what I’m going to say.

  “Damn you, Lou,” she grumbles, “you piece of dirt.”

  I want to point out that her own partner is no better, but take her advice instead: I focus on what matters. “He needs a fluid bolus and pint of Uni-Red. I’ve got three bags in the rig.”

  She stubbornly shakes her head. “We’re busy here.”

  “It’s Lou!” I argue, trying not to be loud. “And he’s going to die!”

  “He made his choice!” she barks.

  My face smolders into a scowl and I leave, fling open the exam room door, bolt through the lobby and back into the night without a thought to whatever might be between me and the ambulance.

  The rear doors of the rig fly open so hard that they bounce back and hit me in the butt as I’m climbing aboard. The back of the ambulance is stocked with supplies. Some of what I need could very well be in Moony’s office, but the cardinal rule is: trust the gear you know, not the gear you don’t. I grab what I need—an IV starter set, Y-tubing, a liter of saline, and the precious blood supplement—then kick out a duffle bag to carry it all. The Universal Red is kept in a locker. I wear the key around my neck.

  Just as I’ve got my arms full, something hits me from behind.

  The shadow looms up from the open doors a split second before his weight plows into me, but I’m too slow to see it coming. We both get bashed against the forward bulkhead. Then teeth clamp down on my right ear and an animalistic groan is all I can hear.

  Instinct kicks in. My arms and legs fire spring-loaded, shoving the bastard away from me. That’s when I see it: the baggy, blue flannel shirt.

  He trips backwards over the gurney locked to the floor. His skeletal face is all anger and blood—my blood—and he whips around like a turtle trying to right itself.

  Just as he’s rising for battle again, he catches a stream of pepper spray right in the face.

  Then I toss the can and leap on top of him. “Son of a... Bite me!” I’m grumbling, pounding him into submission with painful knuckles. I’m a healer, not a fighter. Only ever been in a few scrapes in my whole life. But I’m not about to give this creep the chance to come back on us a third time.

  After pummeling the pastie nearly unconscious, my ear dripping all over the place, hand aching like hell, I strap the flannel skeleton down to the gurney. Then I dose him again with the pepper spray. Screw him.

  He’s screaming bloody murder inside the locked ambulance as I hurry back to the office with my duffle-load of medical supplies.

  The lobby’s still empty, silent, and creepy.

  Exam Room 1’s door is still ajar.
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  But Ophelia is nowhere to be seen.

  Lou’s on the table, no longer moaning. No longer moving.

  I pause there for just a second in the eerily quiet dark, listening for any sign of... anything. Then I shuffle inside the room and carefully close the door.

  “I’m going to set you up,” I whisper to Lou, dragging him to the floor, “then go find O. And if anything’s happened to her, you selfish ass, I’m blaming you!”

  My ear drips as I set up the lines. That’s when I notice what isn’t hanging around my neck anymore: the garlic. Must have been ripped off in the fight. I’m shaking my head as the needle slides into Lou’s flattened-out vein. “No sense worrying about that now. Don’t even know if it’d have done any good anyway.”

  The saline and the Uni-Red start running on gravity power. I’ve got them set in the sink and am looking around for something higher to hang them from.

  That’s when the door swings open behind me.

  The mirror is right in front of me. My breath catches in my throat but there’s nothing there. Only the growing rectangle of darkened hallway as the door moves. No one’s there.

  Yet the strength of a bear grabs me from behind and throws me against the wall.

  My body cracks the drywall, then clips the edge of the exam table on my way to the floor. The wind’s been knocked from my lungs along with all sense from my head. I lie on the cold tile and suck dirt for what feels like a long minute. Then I hear a familiar voice.

  “What up, Z? Ophelia drag you in here?”

  “Paul?” I groan.

  Officer Paul Dini. Ophelia’s partner.

  “Funny, huh?” Paul scoffs. “It’s a damned reunion here tonight. You and O, me and Lou.”

  My senses start falling in line. A pair of midnight blue Nikes stares at me, even with my face. Above them are Paul’s navy blue sweatpants and a police department T-shirt. My head doesn’t twist around quite enough to see his face, but maybe that’s better. Seeing actual pointed teeth in his mouth right now might shake my nerves too far.

  But I smell something down here, too. Garlic...