The Nymphos of Rocky Flats

by Mario Acevedo

  Confused, I muttered, "My point…my point is that I don't understand what you're getting at."

  Merriweather pushed away from his desk. "Then I'm glad that I brought you here. A layman could look at what happened today and come away with the wrong conclusion. I'm not going to let anything happen on my watch that could tarnish either my own reputation or that of the Department of Energy."

  "What happened today was a little more than tarnish."

  "How so? My guards reacted appropriately. Nothing was compromised within the Protected Area."

  "What about the three casualties?"

  "Injuries," Merriweather corrected promptly. "The last time this happened—"

  "This happened before?"

  Merriweather frowned at my interruption. "The first time, the results were disappointing. Even I will admit to that. Six hundred and thirty-eight rounds fired. One injury. The second time, one hundred eleven rounds fired, two injuries. This time, ninety-six rounds expended, three injuries. By anybody's measure, that's a big improvement, in marksmanship alone."

  "That's not much consolation for those who got shot."

  "I hate the word ‘spin,' but I don't want people to draw erroneous conclusions about what happened today."

  I remained silent, stunned by his logic.

  Merriweather stood and walked over to a thick steel pipe behind him. He pressed a button on the wall. There was a hum as the pipe rose until handles and a viewfinder along its side appeared from a hole in the floor.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "A Mark 4 attack periscope. A memento from my days at sea."

  "How did it get here?"

  "Not that it's any concern of yours, but since you asked, it was paid for with discretionary funds." Merriweather folded the handles down from the periscope. He grasped the handles, closed his left eye, and pressed his open right eye to the rubber gasket surrounding the viewfinder.

  "In my navy career, it was my privilege to serve four tours aboard a submarine, the last as captain." Merriweather paced in a circle and rotated the periscope. "I learned that, above all, loyalty was the most important attribute of a good sailor. A loyalty that manifested itself in selfless devotion, discipline, and dedication. Are you following what I'm saying?"

  "That I should be loyal."

  "The ultimate test of loyalty, of the trust that our government and commander-in-chief set upon me, was to execute our nuclear attack plans when that the time came…" Merriweather stopped his pacing. "Regrettably, that opportunity never materialized."

  I didn't regard nuclear holocaust as a missed opportunity.

  "You would've been impressed by the thoroughness of our planning. After we expended our load of twenty-four Trident missiles, do you know what our orders would've been?"

  "I'd say cruise to the Caribbean, break out the sunscreen, and water-ski after the fallout settled."

  Merriweather shook his head, oblivious to my attempt at humor. "No. Our orders would've been to rendezvous with a supply ship, reload, and continue the attack."

  Attack what? By that time most of the world would've been radioactive rubble.

  "Can you understand the depth of my loyalty?" he asked.

  "I can. But the next question is—loyal to whom?"

  "If you ask that, then you're thinking too much. In this post-9/11 world, none of us has the luxury of thinking too much. Leave the thinking to the government. Otherwise you run the risk of not being serious about your oath of federal service, specifically about defending our country against all enemies, both foreign"—Merriweather pulled his face from the periscope and looked at me—"and domestic."

  "I fought as a soldier in the United States Army. There's no question about my loyalties."

  Merriweather slapped the handles flush against the side of the periscope. He touched a button on the wall and the periscope retracted into the floor. "Excellent answer. Then you're dismissed."

  I know that we had been eavesdropped upon because at this point the door opened. Both guards waited for me to leave.

  I rose from the chair, dizzy with confusion and a growing dread that our nuclear weapons had ever been entrusted to this lunatic Merriweather.

  I returned to the locker room, where I stripped out of the overalls, showered, and put on my street clothes. I tucked the copied file into the interior pocket of my jacket and went home.

  I tried to relax and drank wine while I lingered over a quick dinner of posole and bull's blood. I spread Dr. Wong's file on the table and picked at the food as I studied the report. The blood congealed and formed a red scab over the stew.

  The file was the collection of Dr. Wong's travel and expense vouchers. Why these had been stored with classified documents mystified me. I was confident that a bureaucrat's love of documentation would lead to a slip and allow light into the crevasses of DOE security.

  The forms listed flights from Denver International to McCarran Airport in Las Vegas, Nevada, and then back to Denver. Had to be for visits to the Nevada Nuclear Test Site. Once in Las Vegas the doctor didn't claim any travel, meal, or hotel expenses, so I figured he stayed on a secure compound.

  Two weeks after the outbreak, Dr. Wong took a commercial flight from Denver International to McCarran Airport in Las Vegas, Nevada. From there he took a Janet flight to an unknown destination.

  A Janet flight? What was that? And three days later, why did this Janet flight return him to the Jefferson County Airport when his usual home destination was Denver International? Could the reason be that the county airport was only a few miles from Rocky Flats?

  I sat at my laptop and searched the Internet for Janet flights. The first hit took me to a Web page for UFO conspiracies. I scrolled down to a photo of a Boeing 737 sitting on the ramp of McCarran Airport. According to the text, "Janet flights" took federal employees and contractors of DOE and the U.S. Air Force on a short hop to an airfield north of Nellis Air Force Base, a site known as Area 51.

  I gulped the rest of my wine. Area 51? The notorious, notso-secret base at the center of every modern American conspiracy. Either I was on a snipe hunt, or suddenly I had caught the tail of something huge.

  Chapter 14

  WENDY TEAGARDEN AND I climbed the steps to the wooden door under a tattered green-and-white-striped awning. Above the awning, a neon sign, El Pingüino, in white script, cast a cold, inert light into the dark street. An outline of a penguin, complete with top hat, spats, and holding a martini, glowed beside the letters. Taped to the door was a hand-lettered sign scrawled with a broad tip marker: CLOSED TONITE AT 8.

  I held the door open for Wendy and we entered a short, dingy hallway. A petite yet well-toned Latina wearing mirrored wrap-around sunglasses, a black leather halter-top dress, and matching open-toed pumps stood before the next door. Her brunette hair, pulled into a bun, contributed to her sleek appearance. She peeked over the tops of her sunglasses and revealed briefly her tapetum lucidum. She smiled and nodded, indicating that we could proceed.

  Wendy pushed open a battered metal door, heavily scratched and mangy with hand-sized blotches where the latest coat of paint had flaked loose.

  We walked into the lounge. A karaoke singer was mangling "I Got a Line on You." A row of dim amber lights above the bar illuminated the room. Most of the frayed vinyl stools around the heavy wooden bar were empty. Cigarette smoke curled from ashtrays and mingled with the luminescent ribbon of silvery haze that snaked above the patrons' heads. A conglomeration of smells—hair spray, drugstore cologne, perspiration, spilled drinks, and cigarette ash—told me that I'd probably have to soak in bleach to get the funk out of my skin.

  Wendy waved to the bushy-haired man behind the bar. "Hi, Mel."

  He lifted his head and nodded. The mass of his gray hair wove into bushy sideburns that sprouted from his jaw. Thick muscles and a substantial belly filled out his shirt. Mel's eyes, like most of those that flashed toward us from the clientele, glowed from the reflection of his tapetum lucidum.

  A small microwav
e on the bar counter pinged.

  Mel grabbed a potholder and pulled a 450-milliliter bag of blood from the microwave. He snipped a corner of the bag and poured steaming red liquid over a bowl of nachos already drenched in melted cheese.

  A waitress in a pink tube top and black stretch pants squashed her cigarette into an ashtray on the bar and placed the nachos and two bottles of Fat Tire ale on her tray. She took the tray and circled past us. The incandescence of her vampire eyes matched the luster of the fake rhinestone in her belly ring.

  Wendy led me to a booth between the bar and the stage. I sat next to her, careful not to peel the duct tape from the vinyl seat.

  I was glad that Wendy had asked me out for an evening of entertainment. My investigation was at an impasse. I'd learned that such interludes can allow my subconscious to work on the next step, or at least keep me pleasantly distracted until the next break happens. For now, my worries hovered in the distance.

  I took out my contacts. Around me, everybody shimmered from their auras, the vampires in orange, the few humans in red, and Wendy in green.

  Against the wall to our right, two men with orange auras stood on a stage, or rather on a slightly raised platform covered with worn and stained carpet. The large mirror behind them was chipped and cracked along the edges. The mirror showed a room with a few humans, though vampires were also present.

  One of the vampires operated the karaoke machine, which occupied the top of one table, while the other vampire, bald, with a white turtleneck and black suit, held a cordless microphone and sang. He glanced at the words scrolling across the television screen hanging above him. Long fangs protruded past his upper lip and into the gape of his smiling mouth.

  Mercifully the song ended. The vampire hummed the last bars of the tune, became silent, and bowed. A group at the far end of the room clapped and hooted. The vampire acted as if he had treated us to a musical masterpiece, though the best part of his performance was when he shut up at the end.

  "The acoustics back there must be better," I whispered to Wendy. "Because from up here, I've heard better notes from a wood chipper."

  The waitress stopped by our booth. "The drinks include rabbit blood. For an extra three bucks, we can make it human. Type o-positive is the special."

  "I'll take a Dos Equis," Wendy said. "Hold the blood."

  "Carta Blanca for me," I added. "With a rabbit blood chaser."

  The waitress nodded and left.

  The karaoke crew dismantled their machine before anyone else could wreck our Western musical heritage. Faces in the lounge turned toward a commotion in the back. Six vampires in black mariachi outfits appeared from the rear of the lounge. They carried guitars, cornets, and violins at the ready as if the instruments were rifles. Lights glittered off the spangles sewn to their jackets and trouser seams and the sequins stitched along the brim of their sombreros.

  The mariachis got onstage and did a sound check. The leader of the group adjusted the microphone stand and introduced himself and his colleagues as Nahualli. The name of sadistic Aztec clerics who had presided over human sacrifice was now the moniker of this cantina festivity.

  The group started with the song "Mariachi Loco," which got the crowd moving with laughter and shouts of ahu-a.

  The song ended and the lights went dark. A single spotlight beamed toward the back of the lounge and illuminated a lone voluptuous figure surrounded by an orange aura. This vampire was so covered with emerald sequins that she looked wrapped in green foil. The spotlight followed her progress through the lounge. The shank of a leg flashed in and out of the slit in her tight dress. Her bosom jiggled like firm pudding. An aromatic banner of perfume trailed her.

  The lead mariachi introduced her as "our own chupacabra"—the demon who drank goat's blood. Smiling seductively, as if her lacquered lips alone could make us all swoon into orgasm, she grasped the microphone. The group started to play Selena's "Bidi Bidi Bom Bom." The chupacabra singer bounced her hips in tempo to the music and began to wail.

  Couples—combinations of human and undead—took to the floor and danced. The rest of us had to crowd close to converse over the musical din. All the auras modulated into a fuzz of glowing static, a measure of our collective good mood.

  The waitress brought our drinks, the beer in tall glasses and the blood in a tall porcelain cup. Wendy and I clinked our glasses and sipped.

  We sat contentedly and absorbed the homey ambiance. Vampires shared cigarettes, joked, and slapped each other on the shoulder. At the tables before us, chalices rolled their sleeves and cut their forearms with razors or penknives. They let blood drip into the martini and highball glasses of their vampire masters. The chalices' eyes fluttered and their red auras spread out from them as they swam in the pleasure of their sacrifice.

  "Wendy Teagarden," I said.

  She turned to look at me, her expression warm and full of anticipation.

  "Don't suppose that's your original name?" I asked.

  "Oh, I've had lots of names through the years."

  "Figured you'd been around a while."

  "You don't date older women?" Wendy looked about twenty-eight, though I'm sure she was several hundred. Supernatural immortals age well.

  She wove her arm into mine and pulled it under the table. Her hand slipped past my wrist until our fingers clasped. With her face fixed on the singer, Wendy nudged against me, crossed her legs and let her ankle drag across my shin.

  Since I've been a vampire, I never needed a woman to express affection for me. When I had the urge, a flash of tapetum lucidum was enough to get into a vagina. Lust and eroticism, these were tools to manipulate humans. What need did the damned undead have for romance?

  Wendy's interest kindled a forgotten desire within me. A wave of excitement coursed through my body. My aura sizzled. I tried to calm my aura before Wendy noticed the effect she had on me.

  Wendy brought her right hand across and stroked my upper arm. My aura sizzled more intently, fueled by anticipation.

  She snuggled closer.

  My aura radiated as if I were plugged into an electric socket.

  A human woman bumped against our table. "Have you seen Ziggy?"

  I turned to her and a male companion beside our booth. Because of their red auras I recognized them as the chalices serving Siegfried von Drek, the old vampire I'd met at the Hollow Fang party.

  They wore similar white shirts, wrinkled, and the sleeve cuffs unbuttoned. Their glassy eyes cast worried looks at me. Chalices can become slavishly devoted to their vampires and often pine after them like junkies for their dealer.

  The man's eyes teared. "He was supposed to meet us here." His voice cracked. "We haven't seen him since Sunday."

  This distraction caused my aura to fade to a safe, even glow.

  Wendy relaxed her grasp of my arm and fingers. "Have you tried calling him?"

  The woman reached into the hip pocket of her pants and pulled out a cell phone. "Constantly. There's no answer."

  I resented the intrusion from these addle-brained chalices. "How about going by his house?"

  The woman closed her eyes and raked trembling fingers through her hair. She opened her mouth and it took a moment for her reply to croak through her lips. "Ziggy won't let us visit without an invitation."

  Probably so that these two airheads wouldn't disturb his interviewing other chalices.

  "Do this for me," I said. "Go by Ziggy's place. If he doesn't like it, tell him to take it up with me."

  The woman hugged her companion and kissed his cheek. She panned her head toward the mariachis, as if suddenly aware of the music—it would be like ignoring a freight train—and said slowly, "We'll do that."

  "Now would be a good time," Wendy replied.

  The woman took the man by the hand and led him out the door.

  "They're as stupid as they are cute," Wendy said. "Maybe they've given up so much blood that it's affected their IQ."

  "I doubt their SAT scores were very high to begin with,
" I replied. "Ziggy didn't keep them around for stimulating conversation. Then again, for an old pervert, he is being a bit too indifferent toward his pets."

  "Maybe he needs time to recuperate."

  "Ziggy recuperate? Gossip is he buys Viagra by the carton."

  Wendy clasped my arm again and squeezed. "And how much Viagra do you need?"

  "I've never had cause to use it."

  "Why? Lack of opportunity?"

  "You're talking to a young vampire, a fountain of concupiscence."

  "Is that what you call it?"

  "Call what?" I asked.

  "When your aura went to full burner a few minutes ago. Didn't think I'd notice?"

  I didn't want her to know the effect she had on me so I said, "It wasn't you. It was the singer. The lady chupacabra."

  Wendy released my arm. "Oh." Her aura cooled to a pale yellow-green. Even a supernatural divinity felt the sting of rejection.

  My cup of blood was still warm enough to release a wisp of vapor. I chugged it and washed my mouth with a hearty swallow of beer.

  If this was about sex, I'd pull Wendy close and nibble on her neck before working my way to her mouth as I fingered her. But Wendy was more than a mortal woman, she was a dryad with supernatural powers at least equal to my own. And I was certain she was smarter than me. But the real complication was that I liked her and felt energized by her attention the way I'd been before my life as a vampire.

  With every passing minute, the moat of silence between Wendy and myself grew wider and deeper. The mariachis churned through their repertoire of ballads. Every song about romantic betrayal and loss raked bitter words over me.

  What happened to the simple days when vampires merely prowled the night and sucked on necks? Or did the tales leave out all the the messy details in the retelling? Messy details like this one before me.

  I felt pressed into an emotional corner, queasy with the rush of uncomfortable feelings.

  My cell phone started to vibrate. Caller ID gave me Bob Carcano's number.

  I pressed the receiver to my ear and answered.

  Bob replied, "I'm right outside. Come see me." His clipped tone relayed his distress.