“Here at Josiah’s,” he said, “we sell salvation. It’s our family business. My sons and I have been doing this for about a decade, and we’ve gotten pretty polished at our little missionary game.”
He smiled at the guy running the register, who waved back and quipped some quick aphorism about a gun-wielding Jesus. The guy bore more than a passing resemblance to Josiah—I guessed he was his son. As I made the connection, I noticed most of the folks working in the store looked like Josiah. Gun shops were still family businesses.
“Buddy,” Josiah continued. “You may not know this, but it’s a rough world out there. Darkness lurks just outside your vision, waiting to pounce. The cops mean well, but they won’t get there until it’s time to put you in a nice body bag with the state seal on it. Self-defense, a fundamental human right, is the only way you can guarantee your safety. Since you’re here, we can talk about the best way to get you defended against all that darkness out there!” He walked over, opened one of the cases, and picked up a handgun from the display.
“Glock 17,” he said, offering it to me, butt first. “Trigger’s been tweaked, and I put some nicer sights on it. Guaranteed to stop the kind of darkness that manifests as a mugger. But maybe the darkness you’re up against looks like something heavier!”
I didn’t have a chance to decline before he passed the handgun to one of his sons, who put it back in the case. Josiah walked over to one of the shelves and pulled out an automatic shotgun.
“AA-12,” he said, clearing the weapon and handing it to me. “If you’re interested, I might know a way to get some drum magazines that, well…Let’s just say they fell off a truck headed out of Fort McCoy. I’m guessing that won’t bother you, since the VP9 you’ve got holstered already has the mark of, well, you know who.”
He winked and leaned close to me, taking the AA-12 back. I was a little disconcerted that he’d identified my weapon. I was wearing baggy clothing—it hadn’t printed. But the idea he somehow knew it was magical was much more concerning.
“Buddy, laws, more often than not, get in the way,” Josiah continued. “A man’s got to protect what’s his, you hear?”
I nodded. This guy liked the sound of his own voice.
“I’m guessing you’re Mr. Soren,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you, glad you got our mailer. What are you in the market for?”
“I need to defend myself against vampires,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound stupid.
He grinned broadly.
“Hate those bloodsuckers myself,” he said, “and I don’t hate many things. Before I found my calling as an arms dealer, I had a job where I dismantled quite a few.”
He motioned for me to follow him into the back room.
I had never seen anything like the armory we walked into. Vinter’s had more guns, but this place had more magic. There were four desks and some tables that looked like they were for reloading ammunition, but the items displayed on them looked more archaic and more arcane than anything out front. I saw orbs that glowed unusual colors, a cross that kept breaking apart and putting itself back together, and an unusual hope chest with a bunch of writing I didn’t recognize that continuously writhed, arranging and rearranging itself into meaningless patterns. Josiah motioned for me to walk over, and I tried to focus on why I was there.
“Now,” he said. “Most superstition about vampires is little more than conjecture and glorified fan fiction. But what does work, and work well, are the following instruments.”
He picked up a wooden stake and passed it deftly from hand to hand. The stake was about six inches long, with a point that looked like it could easily double as a shank.
“This is the best. A stake through the heart. But what they don’t tell you, is that the type of wood you need depends on the vampire. American and Euro vamps usually go down with oak, ash, or pine, ideally blessed by a cleric. Jiangshi, and those weird Japanese kinds with the floaty heads aren’t fazed by stakes. South American vampires require tropical wood—very expensive to import. I’ll sell ‘em to you at 50 bucks a stake, but you gotta do your homework on which vampires you’re after; I’m not in the information business.”
He walked over to a shelf full of flasks.
“Holy water works pretty well,” he explained. “But you can never be sure if the blessing was done correctly until you test it. These days, a lot of clerics go through the motions, but they don’t do it right. Not their faults, no sir, most of them aren’t trained in it. Lots of churches think that kind of thing is all ritual, no substance, and that’s a shame.”
He paused, briefly, before motioning to his shelf of holy water. I got a good look at several flasks, each labelled with their contents and how much. Beneath the shelf, what I had thought was some kind of crate turned out to be a refrigerator. Josiah, seeing my interest, opened it and revealed a bunch of gallon jugs, as well as quart bottles. I avoided a snarky comment about room temperature killing blessings.
“Now, I don’t respect sloppy craftsmanship, so all of my holy water is tested, but you understand, that means it comes at a premium.”
“How do you test holy water?” I asked.
The gun seller grinned. “Hypothetically speaking, maybe I’ve got a cursed artifact. Maybe that artifact doesn’t react too well when it touches blessed water.”
It didn’t sound too scientific, but I wasn’t about to call the guy a liar when I needed his help.
“Anyhow, the water is a bit marked up. Sold in quarts and gallons, nothing smaller, and if you need pallets, I’ll have to arrange delivery. Glass flasks, which shatter on impact, come for ten bucks each, and hold about a pint of holy water.”
He walked over to a shelf of crossbows. Modern designs sat next to pieces that looked like they’d been bought during the Crusades, or at least, at a nearby Renaissance Fair.
“A buddy of mine, a few years back, got the idea to try stakes in crossbows. He wasn’t the first vampire hunter to try this, and he likely won’t be the last. It works well enough, I guess, but he ran into some problems. He only tested it a few times, though the Apple Valley Coven ultimately caught up with him before he could start major production, may he rest in peace.”
Josiah took a moment and made the sign of the cross. I nodded, pretending to understand what he said.
“Now we get to what I call the perfect solution to vampires,” he said, proudly. “A holy weapon. These are exceptionally rare, but I won this Browning Hi-Power, blessed by St. Agnes, at a pretty difficult auction. It ain’t cheap, though. I’ll need $500,000, plus a little extra to keep Uncle Sam happy.”
I didn’t stop him to ask if he meant taxes or a bribery slush fund. He turned and stuck his thumbs in his belt loops. He grinned broadly, and his blonde hair and beard seemed to glow.
“So buddy, what do you think?”
I didn’t want to tell Josiah I already had a holy weapon. I still didn’t know who this guy was, beyond some kind of supernatural arms dealer. Generally, though, telling arms dealers you don’t know that you already have something super valuable they could sell and retire on isn’t a good plan for a long, healthy life.
“Holy water,” I said. “Two gallons. And ten stakes, oak or ash.”
He pulled out a pad and started making notes.
“What about armor?” I asked. “I don’t want to get bit.”
“No,” he said, chuckling. “I’m sure you don’t. So, let’s get you something that’ll help. I’d like to equip you with dog bite protection, but that’s a bit hard to conceal. Let’s see what we’ve got in your size.”
He walked into another room, and came back, bringing a set of biker’s leathers.
“Sport bike equipment is going to be tough to get through. Plus, it’ll keep you warm. It’s not too expensive, just shy of $200 for the jacket and the pants. And, I’ll throw in a trench on the cheap, one that’ll conceal you.”
“I’m good on the coat, but I’ll take the leathers,” I said. I had enough coats, I didn’t need some
knock-off brand from a gun store. Some people had no sense of fashion.
“Sure,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Any information you can give me on vampires in the area?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I know the ones up in the Twin Cities are largely Euro-vamps, though I’ve heard rumors of a jiangshi, that’s a Chinese hopping vampire, in the area.”
I avoided the urge to blurt out that I’d already met her.
“I know of three covens,” he continued. “There’s Lyndale—bunch of hipster kids around the Uptown area. Roseville is over on the St. Paul side. They’re matriarchal, but I don’t know much else. Then, there’s the Apple Valley Coven. Bunch of brutes. If you tangle with them, make sure you make your funeral arrangements first.”
“Thanks,” I said, though I realized I’d be better off asking Lotus for more details. I hadn’t heard of Apple Valley other than Josiah’s crossbow story. Thankfully, it sounded like the ones causing my problem were all Lyndale. That made my life a little easier.
“With that,” he said, “before we get you over to checkout, is there anything else you might need, anything more conventional?”
“Yeah,” I said. “How about a thousand .223 rounds, a thousand of 9mm ball, and a couple boxes of Hornady Critical Duty.”
“Lot of firepower,” he said, chuckling. “Buddy, I don’t know who you pissed off, but you’re making some smart investments against the darkness. Hey, tell you what, unless you really like that Critical Duty, I’ve got some better bullets for you. Federal HST. Made here right in Minnesota, and more lethal than those Hornadys.”
“Yeah, that sounds fine,” I said.
Josiah smiled. “Let’s get you to the register and get you all checked out.”
I walked to the register as he motioned to a stock worker to go get my order ready. The gun store’s cards were in front of the register, along with the cards of some shooting instructors in the area, a local gun rights organization, and a couple of attorneys who apparently specialized in self-defense cases. As Josiah rang me up, I snapped up the attorneys’ cards, just in case.
“That’s quite the total,” he said, spinning the register’s display to face me. “But we both know you can’t really put a price on security, except perhaps, the retail cost of an Abrams Main Battle Tank, heh heh.”
I paid him, in cash, which he didn’t bat an eye at. His stock boy bagged my gear in one of those plastic bags with “Thank You” written a bunch of times on it, as if the interjection somehow carried the goodwill of the store with it.
“Jeremiah, here, will take your stuff out to your car,” he said. “Keep up the fight, buddy! Oh, and my number’s on the receipt, do me a favor and keep in touch.”
I forced a smile as I walked through the front doors, Jeremiah in tow, dutifully carrying my bags, presumably in pursuit of a generous tip. I gave him a fiver, change from my purchase, as he finished putting my bags in the back of the rental car, and prepared to head downtown.
I’m still relatively new to the covert operations game, and the slice of it I’m in is more than a bit unusual. With the vamps break-in at my place, though, I knew it was risky to keep storing a lot of my gear there. Luckily for me, Baby Face Nelson, or the specter thereof, had taught me a lot about caching supplies.
I maintained three storage sites in the Twin Cities: a full safe house in downtown Minnie—about a block from where I shot Khalif—and a couple of storage sheds, one in Bloomington and one up toward Maple Grove. I didn’t like that they were all on the western side of the Mississippi, but I hadn’t gotten around to expanding. Perhaps, more appropriately, I’d never had the time nor the need to. The Devil of Bureaucracy would whip up ownership deeds for anywhere I needed to go that would mysteriously destroy themselves after I was done. So, I had to be happy with the way things were.
I visited my safe house apartment, parked the rental in visitor parking, and dragged a couple of duffel bags in through the back door. The concierge, an elderly woman embroiled in a pulp crime novel, didn’t even look up to see who had walked in. I nodded to a yuppie couple with a beagle as I got into the elevator and hit the button for the 13th floor. Yeah, so sue me, I bought into the gimmick. When you shoot people in the face for a devil, you take your humor where you can find it.
The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and I walked down the hall to my only real safe house. The hallway was a bit dingy, and the overlapping food smells from several families cooking dinner mixed with what might’ve been mold. But, for the price I was paying each month, I didn’t think I’d get a better deal. It wasn’t like the (largely illegal) goods I stored there gave a shit about the condition of the apartment.
I unlocked and opened the door, turning on the light as I crossed the threshold. I gently stepped over the tripwire attached to a Claymore in the entryway closet. There’s no sense in having a cache if you don’t protect it with something to discourage visitors, otherwise you’re just waiting to get robbed. If I’d thought about it, the Claymore was probably overkill and would attract a lot of cops, but I wasn’t used to operating without a supernatural benefactor who could order all the cops in Minneapolis to go to Duluth on a whim and watch them agree.
My supplies were in a tough box with USMC markings—a bunch of AR magazines, full of .223 rounds, a few marked with a silver stripe indicating their loadout, a couple of handguns obtained from dead gangers, and three brand new Improved First Aid Kits, lifted from a national guard supply room. The tough box was trapped with a thermite grenade that would go off if the locks weren’t opened in the right sequence. I couldn’t have intruders, especially those with badges, looking for evidence, getting ahold of my stuff.
The sun was setting, painting the living room of the nearly-empty apartment in a pale orange glow through the tattered curtains I’d hung up to discourage surveillance, the way Nelson had shown me. The thing about concealment is that it doesn’t have to be perfect, just good enough. The average person isn’t going to stare into every window. A good pair of blinds will dissuade common observers, and carefully approaching caches and safe houses will prevent people tailing you from picking up on them.
I wasn’t ever 100% confident in my security, but the downtown safe house was at least as safe as my home and not yet compromised by vampires.
I put several containers of the holy water and half of the stakes in my cache box. I also decided to put the leathers in there, figuring I’d only wear them for a big fight, not everywhere, where they might be a bit conspicuous. I turned off most of the lights, then rearmed my traps, shouldered the rest of my gear, and headed back out. Walking down the hall, I was thinking, happily, that the vampires seemed to have deescalated—I hadn’t been followed or watched since my encounter at the furniture store.
I waited a bit for the elevator, checking the news on my phone as I did. The elevator arrived, and the doors opened. A young man got out, apologized as he brushed past me, and I headed in.
Something wasn’t right with the elevator.
It didn’t seem like much, and I almost didn’t catch the loose set of wires dangling gently from a ceiling tile. There’s a feeling you get when things aren’t quite the way they’re supposed to be. It’s not fear. It’s not even suspicion. It’s a lot closer to anticipation, and for a half second, I got that feeling. I looked up as the doors closed and grimaced, dropping my half-empty duffel and reaching for my VP9 as the bell dinged.
The roof collapsed, and a tall, pale man with severe features fell in from the ceiling panels, swiping at me with an ornamental knife. I fired twice, hitting him, and I heard him snarl as the elevator descended. He effortlessly slapped away my handgun, and I heard it clatter behind me as I used both hands to try to restrain him as his knife edged toward me. He grinned a sharp-toothed grin. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but there’s something about finding yourself face to face with a vampire in a goddamned apartment elevator that is inherently startling. I noticed he wasn’t even wearing full pants, but so
me kind of tight capris that some section of society thought looked fashionable on men.
Not just for attacking me, but for his lousy sense of fashion, I had to defeat him. I drove my knee into his stomach, and he didn’t notice. I stomped my foot on his instep, and he moved back, resetting the knife. He closed in on my throat again, and I used my arms to protect myself. . Up close, the knife looked dull, but I had no illusions that, using his strength, he could kill me with it. Although I wouldn’t have to worry about being nicked by a wild slash, I wasn’t reassured.
He was strong and much better at hand to hand combat than I was. If I didn’t do something, I’d be dead in minutes.
As the elevator passed the 8th Floor, I heard an explosion up above—no doubt a visitor to my safe house, unless someone else had a trip-wired Claymore protecting their home. The fire alarm went off, bringing the elevator to an emergency halt and temporarily disrupting my attacker, who stumbled as the elevator shook to a stop. I reached back and slapped frantically a few times at the elevator’s “open” button. The vampire recovered his footing and looked at me, waving the knife as he prepared to charge. The elevator doors opened, revealing an old woman with a walker, who screamed hysterically as I stumbled out, my attacker swiping with the knife as he pursued. On the ground, in the elevator doorway, was my gun, which I tripped over as I tried to prevent my aggressor from pinning me to the wall. The handgun skittered toward the old woman.
“Lady, get me that gun!” I shouted.
She screamed again and fell over. She’d probably had a heart attack or passed out. That is why you assume bystanders are useless in a fight.
The elevator doors were locked open as the fire alarm blared. The panel above the doors said the elevator was out of service. As I dodged another swipe from my attacker, I noticed some of the holy water trickling out of a container broken in the shuffle and a nice, little puddle of it on the floor. My attacker, with his back to the elevator, didn’t see it. I let him swipe again, then charged him, hitting his midsection. I felt a sharp pain as he stabbed me in the back a few times, and I thought about the leathers I’d left upstairs. Despite my pain, I had him where I wanted him. As he dropped his feet back to the ground, he splashed some of the water on his uncovered legs, just above the ankle.
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