The Nymphos of Rocky Flats

by Mario Acevedo

  "Fair enough," I replied. "Now tell me, how far can a private investigator poke into business here?"

  "Your cover would be that you're a nuclear health physics consultant."

  "Why not up the stakes and pass me off as a two-headed plastic surgeon? What do I know about nuclear health physics?"

  "You don't have to know anything. Just talk bullshit and you'll fit right in."

  "What about a security clearance?"

  Gilbert pulled a form from the folder on his desk. "With your top-secret army clearance, I was able to fast-track you a DOE Q-clearance."

  "I only had a secret clearance in the army."

  Gilbert shrugged. "Somebody made a typo. By the time the Office of Internal Security finds out, you'll be done and out of here."

  "I appreciate the vote of confidence, but the more I hear, the more I think your optimism might be a little misplaced."

  "You'd have six weeks."

  "Why six?"

  "Because in six weeks the first shipment of contaminated material from Building 707 will be trucked to the WIPP site, the Waste Isolation Pilot Project."

  "You mean burial deep inside Carlsbad Caverns?" I asked. "If that's the case, why don't you inspect the shipping manifests? I can't believe you don't have the power to do at least that."

  "What the manifests declare and what is shipped can be two different things."

  "Are you that powerless?"

  "No, I'm not. I've got resources. You." Gilbert turned to a section in my folder. "Besides the Blanford case, there was another assignment that told me you were the man for this. The Han Cobras."

  Chinese heroin smugglers. Ruthless. Maniacal. Killed three Federal Drug Enforcement agents, not to mention dozens of foreign cops. Invincible. Except against a vampire.

  Gilbert read from my file. "Felix Gomez survived numerous ambushes…entered the most heavily guarded safe houses undetected…exhibited almost supernatural powers of stealth and escape."

  "Stop it, you're embarrassing me."

  "Embarrassing or not, these, quote, supernatural powers, unquote, are what's going to keep you alive. Somebody doesn't want the truth to get out. Remember what happened to Karen Silkwood?"

  "She died in a car wreck, or was murdered by thugs from the nuclear power industry, depending on your faith in conspiracy theories. What are you getting at, Gilbert?" My vampire sense blossomed into full alert. "I haven't accepted anything. You want a hero, find someone else. I'll even give back the twenty thousand, less expenses for driving my hairy ass out here from California."

  Gilbert closed my file and lowered his gaze. "You could leave now. All you'd prove is how much I misjudged you."

  The words cut like broken glass. My kundalini noir, the black serpent of energy that resided in every vampire's breast in place of a beating heart, shifted uncomfortably.

  Gilbert raised his gaze, his eyes pools of desperation. "Felix, that twenty grand came out of my pocket. And I've got another thirty thousand to hand over when the assignment's done. If you won't do it to help me, then do it for the money."

  Anger at Gilbert made my fangs grow. I pressed my lips together to hide my incisors as I forced them to retract. He had set me up. A friend begs for help, and how could I say no without looking like a chicken-shit gumshoe?

  After a moment I was composed enough to say, "Okay, I'll take your fifty thousand."

  Chapter 3

  MY HOME WAS MENLO PARK, California. Here in Colorado I needed a base for my investigation, and for that I needed a better place to stay than a motel.

  I found an ad for a two-bedroom apartment in Edgewater, a tidy enclave swallowed but not yet digested by the Denver sprawl. Edgewater seemed perfect, right off the interstate, a convenient drive both to Rocky Flats and downtown Denver. It had quiet, short streets crowded with bungalows, a trailer park or two, and a couple of shopping strips. Bars and fast-food joints faced Sloan's Lake, which always had a stream of people jogging along its shore and dog lovers taking their mutts for a walk.

  I drove a Ryder rental truck with my Dodge in tow and parked in front of the apartment building. It was small, only eight units. A short, older man, maybe sixty, wearing faded bib overalls, poked a broomstick along a dormant flowerbed.

  "I'm looking for the manager," I yelled to him.

  He straightened up and walked over, offsetting a limp by bracing against the broomstick. He hadn't done a very good job shaving his wrinkled, dark face. "You the vato who called about the vacancy?" His northern–New Mexico lilt told me that he had been raised somewhere between Española and Raton.

  Standing beside my truck in his overalls and leaning on the stick, the whiskered old man looked like he'd fallen out of a Norman Rockwell painting. All he needed to complete the folksy picture was a straw hat and a pig under his arm.

  "Yeah, that's me. Name's Felix Gomez."

  He squinted suspiciously at my face.

  "It's a skin condition," I said. "From the Iraq War."

  "You a veteran?"

  "Sergeant. Third Infantry Division."

  "An enlisted man, eh?" He smiled. "Qué bueno. Soy Victor Lopez. I had my fill of candy-assed officers when I was in Vietnam. I got a war-related condition, too—commie shrapnel in my ass. Wanna see?"

  I smiled back at Lopez. "No thanks."

  "Didn't think so. No one ever does." He turned around and limped to the apartment building. "Well, come take a look at the place. Where's your familia from, Gomez?"

  "Originally? Chihuahua, Mexico. I grew up in Pacoima, part of L.A."

  "One of those California Chicanos? A troublemaker." The twinkle in his eyes matched his smile.

  "I've been accused of that."

  "I was once married to a California chica," he said. "Damn could she cook. In the kitchen and in the bedroom." The old man sighed. "Then some big negro came riding on a Harley. She hopped on the back and adiós mi amor."

  "Happens. How's the food in Edgewater?"

  "Best goddamn pizza in town. And plenty of comida Mexicana close by."

  "What about meat markets? Butcher shops?"

  Lopez pointed south. "Drive down Sheridan or Federal and you'll find your pick of carnicerías. Tripas for menudo. Sesos. Lengua. You name it."

  It wasn't tripe, brains, or tongue that I wanted but fresh animal blood. Any carnicería would do.

  He showed me the apartment. It was recently repainted and overlooked the lake. The second bedroom would be a perfect office. The place was cable-ready, too.

  I inspected the kitchen, looking specifically in the cabinets, to see where I could build a false partition to hide my laptop in case someone broke into the apartment.

  I signed the lease and gave him a deposit. We returned to the Ryder truck. I detached the towing dolly and my Dodge, then opened the rear door of the truck.

  Lopez watched. "Need help? I know a couple of teenagers down the block who could use the extra money."

  With vampire strength I could easily move all of my belongings, but for appearance's sake I said yes.

  Lopez pointed into the truck. "What the hell's that?"

  "It's a Murphy bed," I replied. "It folds up against the wall."

  Actually, it was my coffin. Some legends are true. Vampires are nocturnal creatures, and keeping a regular human schedule wears us out after a few days. And, of course, nothing is as refreshing as a good snooze in a comfortable casket.

  Lopez left to find the teenagers. I started to move my belongings inside. The teenagers showed up, a chatty blond kid and his girlfriend. After we emptied the truck, I gave them each a twenty, returned the Ryder truck, and caught a cab back to Edgewater.

  I put away my things and took a break to inventory my contact lenses. More than any other accessory, these custom eye covers were the most important item that modern vampires need to blend in with human society. I kept extra sets stashed in my clothes, my car, and about the apartment. Unfortunately, while masking our eyes the contacts also mute night vision and block our ability fo
r hypnosis.

  I practiced inserting and then flicking the contacts from my eyes into my hand. I had to be ready to go from friendly human to controlling vampire in an instant. I wished that I could've practiced in front of a mirror, but, well, you know.

  There was no formal program in becoming a vampire, not even a correspondence course, and I had learned "on the job," so to speak. I found other vampires and learned the tricks and ways of our culture, always mindful of this warning: "Above all, don't let the humans know we exist."

  That evening I ordered delivery of the famed local pizza—pepperoni, black olive, and jalapeño—which I smothered with warmed cow's blood. An hour after sunset I went outside my apartment and removed my contacts. The evening shadows became transparent to my night vision. Every animal shimmered with a red aura. I stepped behind a pine tree where I was hidden from casual view. I set my fingers and toes against the brick wall of the apartment and climbed up, stealthy as a lizard.

  Once on the roof, I sat quietly on the warm shingles to catalogue the sights, sounds, and smells of the neighborhood. I needed to know what normal was like so I could detect the abnormal.

  While I looked around, I stewed over how Gilbert had suckered me into accepting the assignment. Nymphomaniacs. Conspiracy. Only the federal government could invent such a mess. If I hadn't heard the words from Gilbert's mouth, I wouldn't have believed the cockamamie story. But the offer of fifty thousand bucks did a lot to make me try and see things his way.

  Hell, why was I worried? I should solve this case within hours. All I had to do was interrogate the affected women under vampire hypnosis and get to the truth.

  A black Ford Crown Victoria cruised down the street. The Ford slowed as it approached my Dodge. The auras of the two occupants brightened, showing that they had an interest in my car. After a moment, the Ford sped up and disappeared down the street.

  No cause for concern. My Dodge Polara was a collector's item. I should sell it and drive newer wheels, perhaps a Toyota with an FM radio and a CD player.

  I lay flat on the roof and sighed. This trip to Denver was going to be a vacation.

  My kundalini noir twitched. I sat up and looked in the direction the Ford had gone. My vampire sixth sense nagged at me and whispered danger.

  I dismissed my doubts. I was dealing with humans. What could go wrong?

  Chapter 4

  ROBERT CARCANO LIVED ON the left side of a redbrick duplex in north Denver. For vampires in the Denver nidus—Latin for nest—he was their patriarch. I'd never met him, though we had traded a few brief emails. He edited The Hollow Fang, an Internet magazine for vampire aficionados, and where better for vampires to hide than in the middle of the wanna-bes and pretenders?

  An amber bulb in a glass lantern fixture illuminated the steps leading to his porch. The crisp, night air carried smoke drifting from the neighborhood chimneys. Mixed in with the smells of burning pine and cedar was an enticing whiff of blood. My mouth watered.

  I rang the doorbell and waited. A shadow darkened the curtain drawn over the door's window. The dead bolt snapped, and the door opened.

  A man, shorter than myself, portly, round-faced, and hawk-nosed, with a sloping forehead retreating into a bald scalp, looked at me from around the door's edge.

  I smiled politely and introduced myself, though I knew I was in the presence of one of my own. "Mr. Carcano, I'm Felix Gomez."

  He opened the door fully and waved me inside. He wore a blue sweater, khaki pants, and tasseled moccasins. "Good to finally meet you, Felix. Call me Bob."

  The foyer was so small that Bob and I bumped into one another. Beside the front door stood a rack of shelves, stacked with mail and packages. Once inside, the aroma of blood became stronger.

  He opened an interior door and led me into a sparsely furnished living room. The blood smell grew intense. Tall, black halogen torch lamps shone their illumination upward to the ceiling, spreading a warm glow throughout the room. Along the counter separating the living room from the kitchen sat four blood-transfusion machines. On each machine, a plastic bag filled with blood cycled back and forth on the rocker cradle.

  "It's dinner," Bob explained. "In my day job I'm the quality-control supervisor for the Front Range Blood Bank."

  "Quite the scam," I said, hiding my anxiety at the prospect of insulting my host when I refused a meal of human blood.

  "It's more than that," he replied. "This way I get only safe blood. Can't be too careful these days what with HIV and hepatitis C, among other things. One fellow in Frankfurt contracted Marburg. A ghastly disease, much like Ebola. Poor guy lost most of his lower intestines. Wearing a colostomy bag certainly takes the bloom out of being immortal."

  Bob pointed to the two black-leather and chrome-tubing chairs beside a glass-topped table. "Have a seat. Drink?"

  "What? Bloody Marys made with real blood?"

  Bob frowned. "What do you take me for? Count Chocula? Get real. My specialty is Manhattans."

  "Then bottoms up."

  He mixed Canadian Club, vermouth, bitters, and ice in a chrome cocktail shaker. As Bob shook the drinks, I popped out my contacts and put them in their plastic container, which I slipped into my trouser pocket. With my unfiltered vampire vision, Bob's orange aura danced over his skin. Bright streaks spiraled over his arms and legs. Each creature's aura was as different as a snowflake and remained as unique and expressive as a face.

  He poured my drink into an old-fashioned tumbler with thick, beveled edges, very traditional and reassuring. Bob lifted his glass in a salute. "Cheers."

  The Manhattan was sweet, with a good kick to it. Could have used a dash of goat's blood, though.

  Bob sipped and smacked his lips. "The Araneum thinks highly of you. Felix Gomez, vampire detective."

  Araneum meant spiderweb in Latin, an appropriate name for the worldwide underground network of vampires.

  "They did save me. Maybe someday I can repay them."

  After I had returned from Iraq, the army isolated me in a special ward of the Walter Reed Army Hospital. I was too weak and disorientated by my new vampire nature to escape. Then a colonel arrived, one of us, sent by the Araneum to keep the authorities from learning what I actually was. The colonel had me immediately discharged from the service as a disabled veteran and sent home. I never heard from the colonel again and learned only later that his mysterious manner was typical of how the Araneum worked.

  "How much do you know about the Araneum?" I ventured.

  Bob walked into the kitchen and started collecting dishes. "Only that we've been aiding each other to escape the mortals since, well, there were human necks to suck on. Then in the 1300s the Pope ordered the Knights Templar to seek and exterminate us. Our loose arrangement of vampires wasn't enough. So the Araneum was formed and has been active ever since." He ladled spaghetti from a stockpot into a large ceramic bowl. "I wanted to surprise you with mole but my recipe was no good."

  "And how does one join the Araneum?" I asked.

  "They'll let you know."

  "Are you in the Araneum?"

  He smirked. "Wouldn't be much of a secret organization if I told you, would it?"

  "Okay," I chuckled, "but can you discuss The Hollow Fang? Clever way to meet family."

  Bob spooned thick beef cutlets into the bowl. "As a printed newsletter it's been around in one form or another since the 1880s. I took it over a few years ago and put it on the Internet."

  He came out of the kitchen holding a tray with a basket of bread, a large steaming bowl, and dining ware. After resting the tray on the glass table, he arranged the dishes, silverware, and napkins.

  I heaped spaghetti and beef cutlets onto my plate. My fangs grew in anticipation of tasting dinner.

  "While on the subject of the The Hollow Fang, the local fan club is hosting a ‘vampire party' this weekend." Bob handed me an invitation, which I glanced at and tucked into my coat pocket.

  "Come by and get acquainted with the local nidus," he continued. "They're a
fun group. And meet the humans. Mostly posers who get off pretending they're undead. You'll also meet a couple of snaggletoothed plasma guzzlers, real old-timers."

  Bob read the temperature display of the closest blood transfusion machine. "One hundred and one degrees. Perfect. I like my victims to be a little feverish."

  He turned off the machines, the rhythmic click-clack giving way to the soft buzz of the torch lamps behind us. Grasping the bags by the corners, he placed them in a basket, which he covered with a napkin to trap the heat. "These are all type O-positives. I hope that's okay?"

  Now to share my ugly secret. "I'd rather have something else."

  Bob stopped in mid-stride. "Oh?"

  "I prefer animal blood."

  Bob set the basket on the table. "Why? This is premium human juice."

  I dislodged the words from my mouth. "I've never dined on human blood. It has to do with the circumstances of how I became a vampire."

  Bob frowned. "You're not the first. Does this aversion to human blood have to do with your war service?"

  "It does."

  "Why must it bother you? Do you think the real perpetrators of the war—Saddam Hussein, President Bush, the oil barons, the arms merchants—lose any sleep over what they've done?"

  "They weren't there. I was."

  "They use money and power to distance themselves from their crimes."

  "That doesn't mitigate my guilt. I pulled the trigger."

  He lifted a bag from the basket and placed it in my hand for me to experience the squishy feel of 450 milliliters of warm, whole blood.

  "This was donated in the spirit of altruism, to share the gift of life," Bob said. "It wasn't shed in terror or under duress. Enjoy."

  Into my mind flashed the image of blood draining from the bullet hole in the Iraqi girl's belly and staining my hands. The bag of blood turned into the girl's heart, and I dropped the bag into the basket in disgust.

  Bob sighed. His disappointment skewered me.