He tucked a note written in both English and French into her pocket explaining her situation if she escaped the restorative convalescence before he returned to her. She would be confused but maybe, with luck, she’d able to read. There might be gaps in her memory; she might not know she’s a vampire. Such a gap would be fatal if she forgot her nature. Malcolm was being optimistic leaving a note, but other alternatives shattered his soul. He closed the lid of the coffin.
He climbed out of the grave and started shoveling the dirt into the hole. He filled it quickly and spread the excess around so their excavation wouldn’t be noticeable in the unlikely event someone went up to the cemetery in the next few days.
He still had three bodies to deal with, Marcus, Scott, and James. He wasn’t going to take the corpses back to town. They were dead. Finally, truly dead. Malcolm looked around. He didn’t want to spend the time digging three shallow graves. They might be discovered. Rhyolite was too far away to be a dumping ground for shallow mob graves. Burning the three would be best. Malcolm scavenged some wood from a nearby building and found some brush, the arid Death Valley environment made trees scarce.
Malcolm piled up the wood and brush away from the cemetery, down the hill in a gulley. He lit the dry wood with a lighter, it caught quickly and soon orange flames were rising, lighting the dry desert walls of the gulley. When satisfied the fire was big enough, he tossed on the first body. It didn’t burn like a normal body of sinew and bone. It ignited quickly, burning hotly, destroying itself until nothing remained. He tossed on the other two bodies and marveled at the fiery display. Whatever chemical composition made vampires burst into flame in the sun made them extremely combustible.
The bodies were gone, burned to nothing. The manner in which they burned sped up the combustion of the wood. Malcolm shoveled dirt over the cremation site and when satisfied the ashes were no danger of starting a wildfire, he walked back to the car. He loaded the shovels and pick into the car. He got in the Jag and started the engine. The cold, dry night breeze lazily swept away the dust disturbed by the Jaguar as Malcolm drove down the hill to the main road. Once on pavement he turned the car back toward the highway.
Malcolm regretted having to kill those he created, but he felt justified in this choice. He was motivated by self-preservation. He had to leave, move to another city. In most large cities they would come into conflict with another vampire’s feeding grounds. One vampire could hunt without being discovered for quite a while. Eight vampires would be noticed. He needed to make his operation, his life smaller. There were now three vampires and himself remaining. He could have disbanded, set all his creations free to do as they pleased, but they were his. He created them. Some part of his ego didn’t trust them to go unnoticed. He gave them blessed eternity, and he brutally revoked it.
The Jag sped down US 95 without headlights at a speed which would have been reckless even in the daylight had it been an ordinary mortal behind the wheel. Malcolm's sight and lightning fast reflexes enabled him to weave in and out of the traffic using only the wan light of the moon. There wasn't much traffic on the two lane highway, and the other cars seemed to be standing still as the Jag careened past. Other drivers glimpsed the car only as it blew by them in the dark night. A dark blur flying by at an appalling speed.
As Malcolm drove he calmed down from the raging, vengeful demon who exterminated the police to kill his foe. He was angry still, but the fog of abject fury lifted. A plan was in motion. Money would be moved. Buildings would be sold. They would change towns. They would endure. They would survive. Ice would recover soon, Simone might recover. He would return in a few years to check on her, but for now she was safe.
The priest, the damnable priest, was the one loose end he couldn’t quite let go of. The man destroyed his carefully constructed world. Malcolm didn’t know where to find the priest in Las Vegas. If he were smart he would be fleeing for his life. The police woman who helped him wouldn’t be easy to find either. He didn’t know her name. Even if he did, cops weren’t listed in the phone book and everyone he knew at the police station was burned to cinders. Maybe someday he would visit the priest in Colorado. Now he needed to focus on the next move, the next town.
Malcolm glanced at the clock on the dash; 1:00 am. He was fifteen minutes from Las Vegas. There was still much more to do before the church was abandoned. Dionysus and Anderson were busy at the church taking only what was absolutely needed. Before driving to the ghost town he told them where to find Ice. They would load his coffin in the truck with three other caskets. For sentimentality’s sake he instructed them to take his desk as well. As an antique it had some monetary value, but to him there were memories attached to the ponderous, cumbersome piece of furniture. If Di and Anderson were as efficient as he expected, the truck was probably loaded and ready to roll.
By now all police resources would be sifting through the ashes of the station. Federal and state agencies would want in on the attack. Their brothers and sisters in blue were killed. They would want vengeance. An attack on one was an attack on all. The news would be filled with tales of horror and loss of life. Speculation as to who and why would be rampant, and the truth was far more sinister than they would ever imagine.
Malcolm and his children would start over someplace else, maybe not a church, but he would figure out some way to feed and survive safely. In a crisis he jettisoned things he didn’t need. It was like the old days, exiting from a city in a hurry when they were in danger of being discovered.
Chapter 22
Bad News
“I need a shower,” John said as they arrived at Maggie’s house. Once inside he looked at his haggard face in the entrance hallway mirror. In the single, low wattage overhead light near the door, he saw his face was still spattered with blood from the afternoon and the annihilation at the police station. The sockets of his eyes were deeply shadowed, the look in his eyes was haunted by everything he witnessed. Maggie came up behind him and perched her chin on his shoulder, leaning her head next to his. Her arms encircled his waist, her warm body pressing into his back. John froze. He looked at Maggie’s reflection in the mirror. What he felt for her couldn't be denied, nor could he forget who he was.
Gently he extricated himself from Maggie’s grasp so as not to offend her. “I really need to get this blood off of me,” John whispered. He wanted to say something else but found it impossible to articulate the words. Everything he was, everything he knew was being a priest. He had sublimated a part of his humanity to do the job he was called to do. Having it awakened made him graceless and awkward. A priest without grace, without divine blessing, was sadly human.
“I know,” Maggie replied.
John let out a small sigh, relieved at having not hurt her. She understood his dilemma. He hadn’t said what he felt he needed to, but she understood anyway.
Maggie headed to her bedroom and shower, and John walked to the bathroom in the hallway. Less than twelve hours had elapsed since he was looking into the same mirror wondering what would happen next. What happened was death and carnage, and a devouring inferno. He was somewhat successful in his quest. Three vampires died by his hand. Maggie had killed two more. The cost of those five victories was enormous. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, his tired face gazed out at him. The character lines he acquired over the years seemed deeper now, more obvious. He felt older too, like he had lived years in the last three days.
John started the water for the shower. He could hear the shower in Maggie’s bathroom running. Hopefully he wouldn’t be fighting her for hot water as they showered together, separately. He stripped of the blood spattered clothing and tossed it into a pile in the corner. He would wash it all later, if they survived the night. If he didn’t live to see the rising sun then soiled clothes were nothing to worry about.
He adjusted the temperature of the water and stepped in, the hot spray coursed over his body refreshing and invigorating his tired muscles and mind. He quickly washed the dried blood from his hand
s, face, neck, and sticky hair. Having blood as a mask had been horrifying. The police had given him nothing to clean his face with. It was evidence after all, but the pictures they had taken of his face would be sufficient proof of his condition when they found him at the church. Those pictures were destroyed by the fire.
Being a priest, living a spartan lifestyle, it wasn’t often he spent any great deal of time while taking a shower, but tonight was different. He felt like he deserved the indulgence. With the blood, so would his sins be washed away. The sin of arrogance, of hubris, of violence, of pride, of rashness, these flowed away with the gyre of water swirling down the drain. The only sin remaining was covetousness. As clean as his soul might be, he needed to go out and do it again. He needed to go back into battle thinking he was right and righteous again. This pride, his hubris, and quest might be the end of him.
And Maggie. He half-hoped she wouldn’t accompany him on this second excursion to the church. She was stubborn and willful, and she saved his life in the parking lot. If she decided to come with him, nothing would change her mind. She said she would follow him if he ditched her. And if he was able to leave her behind, she would be angry. He wouldn’t admit it but he was comforted knowing she would be with him when he returned to the church looking for Malcolm. It was a fair assessment they might both be dead by morning. He pushed those thoughts from his mind. With an attitude like that they were already dead before any battle was joined.
John shut off the water and let the excess moisture run off him before stepping out of the shower. He dried off with two large towels, wrapping one around his waist and hanging the other over the towel rack mounted on the wall. John glanced at the mirror and looked at himself closer with new eyes. Without the blood he looked like a different man. The dried blood on his face made him feel hopeless. He plunged into a pool of despair because of his actions. Destroying life, even those he deemed unholy and evil, offended his morality.
John opened the bathroom door and walked down the hallway to the living room where his bags were to get fresh clothes. He dressed in the bathroom and ran a comb through his short hair. When he emerged he heard Maggie in the kitchen. The smell of food cooking reached his nostrils and awakened a ravenous hunger he unknowingly suppressed until now. The last meal he had was lunch before going to the church. The police didn’t stop for take-out while driving him to be interrogated. Fear and adrenaline masked a basic human need. When the horror and panic subsided, his hunger returned.
John entered the kitchen. Maggie was cooking at the stove top. She was wearing black jeans and a black long sleeved shirt. It looked like a uniform shirt without any emblems or patches. Her auburn hair was pulled into a ponytail.
“Feel better?” she asked.
“Much. You?” John asked.
“Very much so. I had GSR on me and smelled like gunpowder.”
John looked at her blankly. He didn’t know how to respond. She wouldn’t have been there had he not dragged her into his holy crusade.
“What’s for dinner?” It was lame, but diverted the conversation.
“Breakfast,” Maggie replied, “it’s fast and easy. I don’t have any dinner type stuff in the house. It’s been a busy week and I haven’t gone grocery shopping.”
“Great, I’m starving," John said. He walked into the living room and turned on the TV. Morbid curiosity made him wonder if the attack was on the news. The sound of the commentator talking filled the room before the picture appeared. “...The fire is still raging. The police station is a total loss. At this time it is unknown what caused the fire, but it seems like there are mass casualties inside...” The picture faded in quickly as the tube warmed up. Fire plumed out of the building, water arced in the air in a desperate attempt to put it out. Smoke billowed into the night sky. Lights from emergency vehicles illuminated the scene, flashing blues, reds, yellows. The neighborhood was still dark only to be lit by the emergency at the station. Firefighters on ladder trucks were perched above the structure pouring water into the roof, silhouetted by the flames and sporadically revealed by the vehicle lights. Figures on the ground struggled valiantly against the inferno as well.
“Maggie, come in here! Look at this!” cried John. She rushed in and stared at the television screen.
“Preliminary reports of the situation say there is a complete loss of life in the building. It’s unsure whether it was caused by the fire or something else. Reports from the neighborhood say people thought they heard muffled firecrackers after the power went out. The fire is still too large to get inside to see what happened. There is also an area in the parking lot to the side of the police station which is cordoned off by police tape. There seems to be a pool of blood by one of the squad cars...”
“They don’t know anything. They are going to keep talking so there's something over the pictures other than silence.” Maggie walked back into the kitchen to tend to the food.
“There is one thing I can tell you, I’ve not found anyone from inside the station out here. In a fire people evacuate the building. I’ve not been able to find a single person who evacuated the burning structure.” The news reporter continued to drone on and on so John turned down the sound. The news man was repeating what he knew, which was very little, and describing the action being shown on screen.
The firefighters pushed forward, up the stairs, and entered the front of the building. Another team followed them in. John wondered if the fire was part of Malcolm’s plan or had it merely been a convenient avenue for covering up the crime and destroying evidence. John walked over to the TV and changed the dial. He flipped thru all six stations. Every station except PBS had the blaze on with some talking head doing a live shot in front of the holocaust. John shut off the TV and sat down on the couch, despondent.
Maggie entered the room with two plates of food and set them on the coffee table. She went back into the kitchen and came back with orange juice, silverware, and napkins. “Dig in,” she said as she picked up a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast with butter and strawberry jam and started to eat.
John picked up his plate and started eating as well. They were silent. They chose not to talk for a few minutes. It was easier to focus on the food in front of them rather than all they could discuss. An obvious topic would be the carnage at the station, but a respite from the horror and violence was needed.
John finished first. He set the plate down and leaned back on the couch staring at nothing in particular, drinking the last of his orange juice. “This is my fault,” he stated in a barely heard whisper.
Maggie stopped mid-bite and looked at him. “Yes...” Her statement was shattering to him. She chewed her bacon and washed it down before continuing. “Partially. You came hunting them. They didn’t have to kill a building full of people. Your decision was the right one for someone in your position. Many decisions have cost innumerable lives. Nobel invented dynamite, and created the peace prize to make up for that discovery. The creators of the Manhattan Project did so to end the war early. They didn’t foresee the nuclear proliferation and forty years of cold war their invention would start. If they had known the fear and problems their discovery would create, would they have finished their work?”
“Sean could have done it differently,” John said quietly, “he put me on the path. Vampires were killed but so were, what? Dozens? Hundreds? He could have revealed himself to the authorities or something. Why drag me into it?”
“Sean started your Holy Crusade? You could have said no. You said he wanted to die. You could have stopped after killing him. He sent you out to kill vampires, you didn’t have to go, and he would never think you’d run into a dozen of them running a church. He was probably thinking of something more solitary, a lone vampire in a big city.” Maggie said. She gathered their plates and headed into the kitchen. John heard her place them in the sink. “Consider,” she said as she returned and sat on the couch. “If he had gone to the authorities like you said, he would be kept as a lab animal to be studied. Who
ever had him would not announce on TV vampires were real. They would keep that secret so people didn’t panic. And people would panic if it were released on the news. There would be a witch hunt, or a vampire hunt. You said Sean wanted to die. He got his wish by coming to you. If he were captive he might never be allowed to die.”
John regarded her at length. “Perhaps you’re right. But I'm still responsible for those deaths.”
“Your morals drive you to that conclusion. The decision to hunt vampires was the correct one for you. The attack on the police station was purely their leader’s evil choice. He killed innocent people not you.” Maggie was beginning to lose her professional shield. The dead at the station were her friends and colleagues. They were not innocent bystanders caught in an unfortunate event. They were professionals sworn to uphold the law and protect people. A war shouldn’t have found them. “Even if you never kill another vampire, you had an impact upon Las Vegas. Vampires were feeding on humans out of a church." She emphasized the last word.
“I had an impact,” said John dejectedly. “I caused the deaths of hundreds of people, the destruction of the police station. Most of the police force is wiped out. To what end? I killed three vampires, you killed two more. Some of them got away and their leader escaped. He can start again somewhere else.”
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