The leather jacketed trucker flipped through the papers, wrinkling many of the crisp sheets still warm from the high speed laser printer. His voice boomed at the glass, “Where’s the Purity Test results?”
“Joan!” Cheryl moaned, “I’ll be right back.” Cheryl launched from the chair like a deer, snatching at a ring of keys lying to the side of her counter. She needed to unlock the lab door and get the paperwork herself.
The leather jacketed trucker fidgeted in the narrow hall before the window. Fred stood back. He realized his wallet still dangled at the end of its chain. He casually reeled in the links and slipped the wallet back in his pants pocket. He’d verify his debit card remained safely in his wallet when he himself came safely to his truck and had the cab doors locked tight. He wanted to leave but getting to the door meant brushing against that pier of anger. Fred waited as if caged with a hungry bear, quiet and shrinking back. The leather jacketed trucker glanced at Fred with the corner of his eye and Fred felt how the large pupil rimmed in a thin iris sucked at his soul but then thankfully the withering eye swiveled back around to the glass.
“Here you go,” Cheryl returned, “The lab tech had it ready in his outgoing bin.” She dropped the second copy to her pile of retains from this shipment while poking the trucker’s copy to him through the slot. “It’s tank trailer number forty-seven eight nine.”
“Thanks.” The trucker grunted. He paused at the door crumpling the papers into an inside jacket pocket. Then he banged his shoulder into the door and stamped down the steps. The door whipped back on its rebound and bashed hard against the jamb.
“Whew!” said Cheryl, slumping in her chair. “He’s what I hate about third shift.”
“Who is he?”
“Driver from Massai Inc.” Cheryl said, organizing her papers.
“Never heard of the company. Are they getting stuff for chicken feed and need FDA lab tests?”
“Oh, not chicken feed. We used to supply the feed mills but they never want to pay or delay payments so much that we get upside down on cash flow. More regular and valuable sales from Massai. They are particular about our handling the blood from the floor to the tankers and the lab results since they are some sort of blood products company. Maybe they only do research since we don’t have any FDA dealings. That’s only my guess. We don’t really know. And no one is brave enough to chat with him.”
“Strange fellow.” Fred hefted his belly into his chest, “I always thought I was a big boy, but I’m only a shadow of that guy.”
“You’re not kidding. The unloading guys won’t even talk to him. The foreman tosses the tag sheets through a slot in his mostly rolled up window. The guy has the heater on full blast even in the summer with a dozen new pine-scented air fresheners dangling from the vents. Sometimes the fans make such a breeze the paper gets blown out while the foreman tries pushing it through the slot and he has to retrieve it for the trucker. I know because the trucker brought the sheet up here smeared with ramp swamp. Of course, I don’t say anything.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Fred eased toward the door, “I should get going. Hope the rest of your shift goes easier.”
“It will.” Cheryl pushed her keys to the side of the desk, “I know when I see him one shift I won’t usually see him for another three nights.”
“Back to the routine then,” he tipped the brim on his baseball hat.
“Yes. See you next load Fred.” Cheryl waved.
At the back of the trailer he swung first one door and then the second closed. He spun the latch lever. The gripping ends groaned into pockets as they wedged the last inch of the doors closed. The secondary safety catches clinked and banged into place holding the latch lever until the next loading stop. He glanced at the dock as he walked toward his cab.
Even with the dozen dock ramps butting against the plant, and quick work by the unloading teams, the dock remained full with a line of incoming trucks snaking along the street outside. The slaughterhouse ran three shifts six days a week and sold every neat little plastic-wrapped tray that popped out of the packaging equipment on the other end as fast as the truckers filled this end.
He slammed his cab door and drove forward onto the street.
-:- -:- -:-
Fred pulled into the parking lot of the Livix Duck Club.
“You can’t park that stinky rig here.”
“Yeah?” Fred jumped from the last step and slammed the cab door. “Mr. Outback thinks otherwise,” Fred touched his belt and showcased the long sheath of his deer hunting knife strapped there. The militia medallion riveted on it spoke as much as the knife behind it.
“Alright. But who are you here to see?”
“Big Bruce. Is he in?”
“Yeah. He’s in the underground range. See Sammy at the grill.” The guy pushed back the door for Fred. Fred settled the brim of his ball cap slightly higher and strode in. Sammy pointed the way through another door and winding metal stairs down two levels underground. Fred recognized the construction. A maze of ocean shipping containers welded together and buried underground. Fast easy bunkers for protection. The tang of diesel revealed backup power systems somewhere.
The Livix Militia was part of the larger statewide network of independent survivalists. True Believers by some of the more radical members. Most of the members joined for the camaraderie of a boys club and many used it to get away from the wife and kids a couple of nights a month and blow off steam with a pint. Fred belonged to a Howell group but they counted less than a dozen members. Livix had always been better funded from its broader and more diverse membership. They even had a few true ex-military along with the brigade of weekend warrior lawyers and engineers. Their dentist member ensured their teeth stayed straight too.
Fred grabbed percussion muffs from the hooks on the wall and pushed through the heavy door into the shooting range. The gun room monitor came to the counter. Fred asked, “I’m looking for Big Bruce.”
Rapid but muffled semi-automatic shots burst from somewhere on the other side of the next door. The monitor pointed to his ears and Fred put the hearing protectors on. Then the monitor pressed a lock solenoid and the sound door opened for Fred.
He stepped across the threshold into a dozen stalls arranged like supermarket shopping isles. Fred spied how the range aisles were made from enough forty-foot shipping containers bolted side by side and end to end with their sides sliced out with cutting torches to fill a decent over-night truck stop. Big Bruce stood in isle six squeezing the trigger of his pistol in rapid succession. The recoil lifted the muzzle slightly with each round but Bruce tipped it back on target from muscle memory. Fred waited by the door until Bruce finished his clip.
“What can I do for you?” Bruce asked as he dropped the clip to the sideboard and slid in another preloaded clip until it clicked in place. Bruce cocked the action and set the gun down thumbing the safety. “Come on over.” Bruce boomed, “I’m reloading clips.” He spun a box of bullets around and flicked off the lid. Then he grasped a clip in one hand and a fistful of bullets in the other and pressed them quickly in the clip with a practiced and calloused thumb. Fred knew from his own experience that loading against those clip springs can tear up your hands.
“I think I found an interesting piece of information for you.”
Bruce put down his already loaded clip. His hand hovered over the next clip, “What kind of information?”
“I found you another vampire.”
Bruce picked up the clip, “Oh, we’ve got a lot of vampires we’ve found already.”
“Did you know a vampire picks up blood from the slaughterhouse?”
“No. We don’t have any members working at the slaughterhouse.”
“I heard they get a tanker full every three days.”
Bruce tossed the remaining shells in their box and set the second unfinished clip down, “Interesting.” He pulled off his hearing protectors and bellowed, “Phil, get over here.”
Phil came out of the monitor’s room
, another box of bullets in hand, anticipating Bruce.
“No, I’m not out of rounds. You work at Vermilion on that little military project?”
“Yeah. Lab tech.”
“I think Fred here has found where the vampire feeding tube starts, we thought it might be synthetic. We’ll have to explore this. It will fit in with the party we’ve been considering.” Bruce flipped his protective glasses onto the sideboard and dropped his hearing protectors beside them. “It’s Fred from Howell, right? I appreciate the tip. If your group wants to borrow the range some time then let me know.”
“Thanks.”
-:- One -:-
“I woke,
she fled,
and day brought back my night.”
– edgar allen poe
The empty end of the hunter-green park bench throbbed hotly as the sunlight bared down upon it. The morning heat already pushed me under the shadow cast by the broad reach of the old oak yet the metal bench dragged heat toward me. I separated myself from the hot iron by poking my sweatshirt under my thighs and again looking furtively for another possible perch.
My first weekend free of vampires and I felt mostly normal again. Maybe. Horrible scars knifed my heart deep from my first encounters and how it ended so badly. Wounds that might never heal. I killed two of the monsters in self defense but still my mind relives that horror. The fear.
My heart twinges and rent tears from pushing away Garin. I loved Garin – possibly my only True Love. But too much mixing with the undead. Too much of their world. I knew I did not want to be a vampire – and I feared that being involved with one, Garin in that way, would surely and inexorably drag me over that cliff. I chose to live! Even though my heart disagreed and protested the loudest when I remained still and quiet in the night.
So I distracted myself. I kept my mind occupied with a variety of methods including sitting on the park bench reading my Kindle. My latest book recommended by Fillian at Fillian’s Books pointed me to The Fire Gem. I liked the strong main character. I wiggled on the bench and read.
“I smelled you across the valley,” growled a voice penetrating like daggers through her chest. A reflective platinum dragon lounged on the upper balcony. “Are you here to take my vast horde of treasure?”
Koren glanced across the barren, empty balcony. “No, we came to find the Forge.”
The dragon hunched forward and said, “I have not heard talk of the Forge for centuries!”
Roller blades and blue jeans startled me from my novel. The skater roared across the cracked sidewalk too close to my knees. He ground his heel brake into the concrete and spun around, “Sorry Anna –”
I recognized the voice. He pushed sweat off his brow into his recent haircut, his face sharply lit with sunlight. The light cut across the angle from his shoulders to his waist accentuated with a slightly tight and sweaty mauve T-shirt. The roller blades made him taller. Nearly unrecognizable and alarmingly attractive.
“It’s me. Brett from the coffee shop.” He said before my thoughts fully collected. He skated toward me.
“I’ve never seen you without your flannel,” I could smell his fresh and still pleasant sweat. Later it would be a stinky-locker-room aroma but for now ok, or maybe a little better. I tipped my flustered thoughts, “Nice haircut. You look different without that coffee shop around you.”
“I know what you mean. I see one person in one spot or doing one activity and they are defined by it. Step away from the situation and you don’t recognize them.” He moved on to, “I like how you change your hair practically every day. Something for me to look forward to that I’ve missed – you haven’t been visiting in a while.”
“Anime,” my hair hung straight and short with thick spikes and some temporary neon pink streaks with matching eye shadow. “I get bored with the same style for myself.”
“You inspired me. So I cut my hair shorter. It helps with my new hobby, not hanging in my eyes when I skate. I do loops around town, take a shower, and go to work.”
“That’s a good idea. I should try that too. It could take my mind off things.”
“– the shower?” he joked.
“Yes.” I blushed and almost returned to my book, “No, the skating taking my mind off things.”
“It helps. Skating outside forces you to stay focused. I’ve narrowly avoided three cars and a sport utility – their drivers didn’t look when they turned or backed up.”
“Hmmm. Maybe I should rethink skates? I burned through a box of bandages my tenth summer learning to skate.”
“That’s what this scrape is from.” He lifted his shirt to an angry red pavement burn on his hip and side.
“Ouch. That must have hurt.” I also noticed his tight stomach. Almost too touchable and I felt weak.
“It’s getting better now.” he dropped his shirt, “You could start with a few laps around the park. Dogs and kids are the only worries and they aren’t out in the morning.” He spun a little in the sun, anxious to ask something other than the weather. “Hey, I don’t mean to pry, but while I have seen Garin in the coffee shop I haven’t seen you, one of my favorite regulars. Hope nothing I did or said?”
I quietly scooted the coffee from the candy store behind my arm. “No. I broke up with Garin. Too many differences – too intense, unhealthy and dangerous.”
“How do you mean?”
“One example, he built his car from the hulks of other cars people died in.”
“Using them because they killed people?”
“Oh no, not because people died in them.”
“Or re-using parts from broken cars?”
“His environmental view on recycling and reuse. But too crazy for me to think about and his other things.”
“Extreme environmentalism like chasing down an armed whale ship in a dinghy?”
“No. The idea of dismantling these other death cars and reassembling the pieces like a Frankenstein monster. But that’s a small issue, only symptoms of the other problems. I didn’t feel safe. So I wanted out.”
“That’s too bad. If I can help some time let me know.” Brett remained silent for a moment before he asked, “Well … I was serious before when … when I inappropriately asked you on a date. I’d still like to go out with you some time.” He fidgeted, handsomely rolling from side to side on his skates, “I like that you’re a triple threat in the relationship department: smart, pretty, and driven.”
“Thanks for the compliments,” my face blushed, “Some guys stop talking when they find out I can think about more than shopping and hot-tubs, that I’m a patent attorney … or at least studying for it, anyway.”
“I’ve seen those guys. Too insecure or cowards deep down that are afraid of anything but a diminutive personality. A smart girl sincerely interested in you … is great. More challenging – but great.”
“Doesn’t that lead to more arguments from differences of opinion?”
“Yes but that’s part of the charm and the challenge.” He spun off more nervous energy in his skates under the warm sun, “So … if you’re up for it how about we try a date next weekend?” His movement distracted me, not the barista I had earlier tended to ignore. Brett glanced at his watch, “Oops, I’ll be late for work. Sorry. If you decide you want to do something look for me at the coffee shop and let me know when.” He rolled closer to the bench, leaned toward me, and said in a quiet voice, “And if you want to really talk … I know about vampires.” He spun around in his skates like a sailboat searching for the wind and when he found it I watched him cross the street and recede into a quick dot down the side alley on his way home. I sat there. Are the vampires so transparent that only I didn’t know they existed until Garin? Or what does Brett know?
I gave up reading and any intentions of doing patent work. Maybe I’ll check my Faceplate account. I opened my computer and booted it up. The soft drums at boot reminded me of Garin and the smell of the coffee shop when he had introduced me to this new Ubuntu software. But I already ha
d the Firefox web browser open and typed in my Faceplate login credentials. Pushing through the feelings in a valiant attempt at keeping me distracted.
The site hissed at me in a spit of red letters angrily telling me I used an incorrect password or account ID. I started fresh and carefully typed in both my user name and password with single deliberate key strokes. Again it sputtered and hissed. I tried again and still no luck. About as futile as fighting with the neighbors cat. A small line at the bottom said ‘password secret phrase’. I tried that and got “Germany Mexico Canada England Belgium China Hawaii”. Other than seeing the state of Hawaii listed among countries, I didn’t recognize the puzzle. I normally used lines from Elizabethan plays for my secret hints. I clicked on ‘send your password details to your email account’. Maybe their servers got corrupted and needed time to reboot. I can check later.
I stuffed everything in my shoulder bag and stood to go.
A face flashed and disappeared behind the corner of the jeans store across the street. “Garin? Is that you?” I squinted. Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks. A reflection of the salesperson hanging more pants in the window display flickering back and forth. The jeans guy might have made the movement I saw. His frosted tips and black eyeglass frames moved frantically in there. The pair of too-tight-jeans didn’t cooperate with the stiff manikin he attempted dressing.
Even if Garin lurked there, the vampires are much too dangerous for me. I needed someone safe – even if not filling my life with True Love and princess dresses. I would remain alive and human. I emptied my coffee cup and dropped it in the nearby trash receptacle.
-:- Two -:-
The Vampires Of Livix Twin Pack (Volumes #1 & #2) Page 19