Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Al Kohler was tall, dark, and vain. His dark-brown sport coat and tan chinos were immaculately pressed, his pencil-thin mustache exuding flair and panache. What an arrogant, pretentious dork, Scott thought.
“Oh, Scotty!” Al said. “Great to see you here!”
Scotty. Only Scott’s mother, ex-wife, and a few close friends called him Scotty. Al was none of those. From his lips, the childish nickname was grating and degrading. And it’s great to see me here? Where else would I be, you self-important ass clown?
“Uh, yeah, Al, I’m here,” Scott responded as Al walked over and clasped his hand on Scott’s shoulder. Of course, Scott didn’t care for that. That’s a violation of my personal space, and it makes me uncomfortable. And it hurts. Don’t you realize that actually hurts, you knucklehead? But he would never actually say that out loud.
“How’s my IT god? Hey, Robin let you know about the major clusterfuck we had today, didn’t she? I’m sure that if you were here, you could have saved the day!”
Scott knew that Al wasn’t being sincere, because Al was just not sincere. “Well, sir, I just do my job. Follow the instructions. That’s what I do.”
“Yes, but you do it so well! You know, it’s almost time for performance evaluations. Maybe this year you’ll get that merit increase you’ve been wanting.”
Sure, Scott believed that. He also believed they were making snow cones in hell. “Yes, sir,” he responded.
“Of course, that is completely dependent on whether you get me those coding documents I asked for last week as well as running the routine firewall checks. You are going to get me those documents, tonight, in PDF format, are you not?”
Al wasn’t asking, and everyone knew it. In fact, it sounded downright menacing to Scott. That’s just how Al phrased things. Put it in the form of a question, to which there is only one answer—his answer. Scott nodded, and Al waltzed out of the room. Thank God that was over.
“Have fun,” Robin chirped. “I’m heading to check on those servers at Blackwood, and then I’m out of here for the day.”
“Yeah,” Scott said. “Another day, another fifty cents.”
Robin agreed. Then she, too, waltzed out of the staff room and out of sight. A lot of waltzing today. Everyone seemed to dance out of there. Scott guessed that he probably would waltz, too, when he left that soul-sucking place, despite his two left feet.
Robin’s professional presence was replaced by that of an overly cheerful young Asian man who ambled onto the scene, a broad smile on his face. “Hi, Zed,” Scott greeted Zane “Zed” Mitsubishi. “What’s on the agenda tonight?”
“Hey, Scott, how’s it hanging, my man? I’m replacing router switches in a couple of the dorms, so I’m gonna be here late, which sucks. How about you?”
“Me? I’m gonna be here late, because I’m always here late.”
“Oh yeah, the swing shift crew, Simeon College’s last-ditch defender against the terror of network interruptions, the menace of malware, and the horror of hackers. You, Scott, dude, buddy, my main man, you are my hero.”
“Oh, you’re so funny.”
“Funny ha-ha, or funny looking? No, man, I mean it!”
“Like I keep telling people, I’m really not all that good with computers. I’m a desk clerk, and I got this job through a temp agency. All I do is—”
“I know, I know, follow the instructions. Dawg! Most folks don’t do that! That puts you ahead of the game, you know?”
“Well, I guess if you put it that way…”
Zed rummaged through a cabinet filled with USB cables, finding a couple that suited his needs. “So, I noticed Kohler actually graced Cubicle Town with his dickish presence. What did he want this time?”
“Coding documents. Again.”
Zed rolled his eyes. “Again? He knows he can get those himself if he wanted to access the lower-server room. What a bunch of shit. But I guess shit is appropriate for Mr. Toilet there.”
Scott found the analogy amusing. “Mr. Toilet, huh?”
“Hell, yeah, man, you know, like Kohler toilets?”
“You do know, Kohler makes more than just toilets.”
“What, do you work for them?”
“Don’t tempt me. Speaking of nicknames, I’ve never been able to figure out why you call yourself Zed. You do know Zed is the letter Z in, like, Canadian, don’t you?”
“Yeah, you know, some kids called me Zero back in high school. Like the World War Two fighter plane. Mitsubishi Zero. Real funny, in a racist sort of way, right? Well, I turned it around. Started calling myself Zed. Last letter in the alphabet. I know you know that Bible verse, about how the last shall be first? Well, that’s me, baby! I shall be first!”
“Yeah…no. No, I still don’t get it.”
“Ah, never mind, man. You will never grasp the awesomeness that is Zed Mitsubishi’s amazing sense of humor. Anyway, out to service routers. Fun times!”
With that, Scott was now alone in his cubicle, alone with his thoughts, alone working his mind-numbing job. It could be worse, he thought. I could have Kohler breathing down my back. That would be unpleasant, to say the least.
Eleven o’clock at night, Scott’s day was done. He finished the final shift report, closed the various functions on the Mac, retrieved his lunch box, and headed out the door to the parking lot. He was looking forward to his usual after-work relaxation: an episode or two of Doctor Who on the DVR and a bottle of Dead Guy Ale.
He fished his keys out of his Dockers, remotely unlocked his car, and then climbed in. The six-cylinder engine rumbled to life, and he pulled out of the parking space and headed toward the nearest street. As he did so, he switched on the CD player. Scott thought that a little Stevie Ray Vaughan might help him destress on the ride home, as he cranked out Vaughan’s blistering cover of the Jimi Hendrix classic, “Voodoo Child (Slight Return).” It was a normal end to a normal day for Scott, just one more normal chapter in his normal life.
“Oy, ese,” Tito “Li’l Loco” Rodriguez shouted into the cell phone, not caring that he was breaking the laws against using cell phones when driving. He was breaking several other laws, too, but at least he wasn’t texting while driving. That was too crazy, even for him. “What did those assholes tell you? That Li’l Loco wasn’t gonna make it tonight? Shit, homey, you know I’m gonna be there. Wouldn’t be a party without me!”
Li’l Loco was the life of the party. He could show those younger vatos a thing or two about finding their way around a dance floor, chasing girls, just having fun. That’s what it was all about. He was done with the thug life, having been too close to receiving too many stray bullets. Now, he just wanted to chill, party, get high, and get laid. Still, he couldn’t be too careful; that’s what the .380 Beretta tucked in his waistband was for. No macho posturing, no threats. But if some cholo wanted to dance, he’d defend himself.
“Is Mariel gonna be there? Yo, she is smokin’, man. I remember, she was at my niece’s quinceañera, and she had on that black dress. Shit, dawg! Damn right I’m gonna be there. But first, I gotta get my stash. But I’ll right over, odelay!”
Li’l Loco’s stashes were legendary. He’d appear at parties with a pound or two of weed imported directly from Michoacán. None of that local shit. He had taste. He kept the stuff from his dealing days, when he made money selling weed but managed to keep a little on the side. Now, however, he had gone legit—a respectable, tax-paying citizen, not the dope-slinging gangsta he used to be. Still, a guy had to have fun, right? Besides, it wasn’t heroin or meth, and it was gonna be legalized soon anyway, so no harm, right? He hit the End prompt on his iPhone, ending the call. Mariel was going to be there! Now, there was a woman. Nice ass, nice tits, long legs, long hair. Oh yeah. Can’t wait to get some of that. But first, the stash.
Eighty-Second Avenue, in the no-man’s land between the city of Portland and northern Clackamas County, was the thesis of urban sprawl, with various businesses strewn up and down t
hat corridor. Many of the businesses were seedy, if not in content, then in appearance; even some fairly active buildings took on the film of urban rot, as though it was contagious. It would come as no surprise that among the more legitimate businesses, less legitimate activities flourished, mainly prostitution and drug dealing. The many low-rate, no-tell motels located on that street were no help to any law enforcement agency that attempted to discourage these illicit activities; that some of these motels were abandoned was even less helpful. Here, you could squat freely and conduct whatever transaction you wished. For the most part.
The former Aces High Motel was one such place. Its tacky, Western-inspired neon sign was now dark and the old pool dry and coated with a thin sheet of algae and mold. The rooms were mostly boarded up, the windows that remained intact were blacked out, and the walls in between, formerly painted in gaudy bright colors, were faded with age and neglect. The pervasive darkness was palpable even to the hardiest of passersby. An old man, clothed in a ratty brown coat and staggering from the bottle of Thunderbird he had recently consumed, looked into the motel’s blackened parking lot from the sidewalk. No, he would not be stopping here, not even to piss.
It was just the place for Li’l Loco to hide his stash. No one would think of looking here. No one would want to. He piloted his orange ’69 Impala—his pride and joy—into the parking lot, driving past the decrepit pool back to one of the last rooms in the motel complex. Room 66. Whereas most of the brass numbers on the rooms had disappeared over the years, not so for Room 66. In fact, it had been added to: some wannabe Satan worshiper had carved an extra six in the door, making the room number 666. Yeah, that’s real scary, Li’l Loco thought. Think you’re badass? Go back home to your rich-ass white parents, you stupid nerd, and quit the spooky shit. Still, he glanced up at the air freshener with the image of the Lady of Guadalupe hanging from his rearview mirror. Never hurts to have friends in high places.
Li’l Loco stopped the engine and hopped out of the car. He looked back and forth, making sure no one was watching, patting the grip of the Beretta just for reassurance. The ambient light—what there was of it—was enough for him to find what he was looking for. He stepped over to the brick-lined planter in front of Room 66 and then started digging with his bare hands, moving aside dirt and dead plants (and that was all that he was touching, he hoped) until he finally reached his goal: a plastic baggie, covered with silver duct tape. Oh good. No one had touched it. He had placed it there a few months ago, and there it had stayed. He knew this was a good hiding place, and the knowledge had paid off.
“There you are, mamacita! Come to papi!” he cried.
“Need some help?” came a voice from the darkness.
“Who’s there?” Li’l Loco asked. Oh great, I’m busted. Just what I need now that I’m trying to go straight.
The figure stepped slowly out of the shadows a few doors down. It was some white guy with long black hair and a long black leather coat. Li’l Loco reached for the Beretta. “You a cop?” he asked. Probably a stupid question. He was much too clean to be a meth head, and if he was looking for a whore, well, Li’l Loco couldn’t help him.
“Me?” the man responded. “No, I’m no cop.”
Then who the hell was he? Li’l Loco, not being the most trusting sort, yanked the nickel-plated pistol from his waistband and pointed it at the dark stranger. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The stranger put both his hands in front of him, showing the Hispanic kid that he was no threat. “You won’t need that. I was just wondering if you’d like some help, that’s all.”
Li’l Loco lowered the Beretta but didn’t put it away. “No, no, man. I don’t need no help. Now, why don’t you move along? This ain’t none of your concern.”
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you. Look, I get it; you don’t need my help. But I’d like yours.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, you have a very nice car.”
The white man’s appearance changed, as if the darkness of the motel lot had been sucked into his very essence. His eyes became black, blacker than the darkest reaches of the abandoned complex. Sharp fangs appeared in his now gaping mouth.
Li’l Loco again raised his Beretta to fire. But Jack was upon him before he could even begin to pull the trigger.
The other car came out of nowhere.
There was no traffic light at the T-shaped intersection, just a Stop sign. The intersection was fairly well lit, despite being surrounded by trees of various sizes and shapes. The Stop signs were not easy to miss. Besides, logic and courtesy dictated that you would stop at such an intersection, regardless of time of day. Scott went through the intersection, turning left onto the cross street, just like he always did on his way home. The streets down there were narrow and not exactly straight; being a neighborhood, speed limits were kept low.
But the large orange sedan ignored such self-imposed limitations.
He didn’t see it coming. There was no way he could have. The other car was traveling much too fast. It didn’t even have its headlights on. The driver never hit his brakes. Before Scott could react, before his life could flash before his eyes (not that it would have taken very long or have been very interesting), the other car slammed into the side of his beloved Mustang. In an instant, the driver’s door, A pillars, and front quarter panel buckled and twisted. The driver’s side window shattered, the explosion of glass showering him as the force of the impact jarred him. The front window cracked and spider-webbed, the left side coming out of the frame. The crumpled Mustang was pushed through the intersection and up onto the sidewalk, trailing glass, coolant, and oil as it went, screeching a horrific cry of crashing metal and skidding rubber.
Scott thanked God that he was wearing a seat belt, and—oomph!—that the air bag had deployed. Of course, his glasses would probably need to be replaced, as they had flown from his face to parts unknown, and his underwear would definitely need replacing.
He sat in stunned silence. He tried to collect his thoughts as best he could but found himself unable. His neck hurt. His head hurt. He prayed he didn’t have a concussion. Scott looked into the still-intact rearview mirror and noticed small abrasions on his face, caused by the flying glass from the shattered driver’s side window. Just a little blood, nothing major. At least, that’s what it looked like. Yeah, I have to be alive, he thought. I’m in too much pain.
Scott’s thoughts briefly went to the driver of the other car. Was he drunk? Was he fleeing from the cops? Maybe he had a stroke or heart attack. That would be terrible! Poor fellow, out for a nightly drive, and suddenly he vapor locks. Gee, I hope he’s okay…Now, Scott, it could be a she. Well, I hope she’s okay.
He tried moving. It was a laborious and painful process. Plus, he believed that he was pinned in and couldn’t leave anyway. “Great,” he moaned. “I hope the car doesn’t explode.”
In the fog of pain and confusion, Scott didn’t notice the man who stepped out of the other car as though nothing had happened. He didn’t notice this other man approaching the passenger side of Scott’s now ruined car. He only took notice when the passenger door opened. At least that still worked. And hey, here comes someone to the rescue! Scott felt some relief but had a difficult time even opening his mouth. The wind had been taken from him, and his jaw was sore. Another fearful thought came to mind as he found himself concerned about his teeth. He hoped he hadn’t lost any teeth.
“Hi there,” the man said. Scott could barely make him out through his blurred peripheral vision. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you.”
As far as Scott could tell, the man was dark, and yet oddly pale, with long jet-black hair. Tall, dark, and creepy. And handsome. Not that Scott was a good judge of that sort of thing.
The other man slowly leaned in toward Scott, aiming toward his neck. Scott was wondering what the guy was doing, but he wasn’t exactly fearful. After all, he had just survived a major accident. How could things
get worse?
Jack drove his fangs deep into Scott’s exposed neck, which Jack found difficult, as Scott’s neck was a bit thick. Oh well. A little fat never hurt a vampire, plus this allowed Jack to create a large and rather messy wound from which the blood would spurt freely as well as not easily betraying the source of the injury.
Now Scott returned to panic mode. What the hell is this freak doing? Is he trying to kill me? Holy shit, he’s trying to kill me! By eating my neck!
Streams of blood cascaded from the gaping neck wound into Jack’s mouth, the vampire enjoying the sweet, sweet red flow coming from Scott’s now severed carotid artery.
Scott tried to scream, to yell, to protest, but he could not. He remembered feeling very tired, his resistance—what there was of it—slipping away. He remembered that the weirdo who was biting his neck let go after too long an interval. He vaguely remembered that same said weirdo opened his own wrist with those fangs of his (Fangs? Scott asked himself. Where’d he get those fangs? These aren’t Halloween costume-shop fangs; these are as sharp as…well, fangs!) and lifted his bleeding wrist to Scott’s mouth.
“Drink,” Jack commanded. “Drink, you fool, or you’ll die!”
The notion repulsed Scott, yet here this guy was, practically shoving his wrist into Scott’s mouth. He was too weak to resist as drops of blood began falling upon his lips. It was totally unsanitary. He had no idea what diseases this weirdo carried—Hepatitis? HIV? Ebola? Whatever it was, Scott knew he was definitely catching something from this. And it’s really gross, he thought.
Suburban Vampire: A Tale of the Human Condition—With Vampires Page 3