The Nymphos of Rocky Flats

by Mario Acevedo

  The sun rose over the edge of the earth. A terrible, incandescent wave bore upon us like the flash of an atom bomb.

  Bob's head and corpse sizzled. His skin turned black and wrinkled. Flesh peeled away from bones and turned into smoke. The tangled mass of his organs spilled from underneath his rib cage. His bones broke apart like brittle twigs. Everything that had been Bob Carcano disintegrated into flakes of ash as centuries of arrested death came back to reclaim their due. The ash swirled and scattered in the eddy of wind twisting before the plywood. After a few minutes, nothing remained of Bob except for a discoloration in the dirt and a last smudge of smoke dissolving into the air.

  As a vampire, Bob was lucky to get this modest little ceremony. Solar immolation was our way of destroying the evidence of our presence to humans, nothing more. Bob would be missed, certainly, but as undead creatures who walked in step beside the Grim Reaper, we accepted the inevitability of our final destruction.

  The vampires in robes gathered around the plywood sheet and kicked free the two-by-fours holding it upright. The sheet slapped the ground with a whap. The vampires dragged the plywood and lumber down the slope and tossed it into the trash littering the gully.

  Carmen and I walked back to her Audi TT roadster, a sleek, flattened lump of metal with narrow windows. We got in, she in the driver's seat, I next to her. Protected by the Audi's tinted glass, we pulled off our goggles, hoods, and gloves. Behind us, the other vampires dispersed into three groups and climbed into a copper-colored station wagon, an SUV, and a long-bed pickup with dually wheels.

  Carmen unsnapped the collar of her leather jacket and pulled the zipper midway down her cleavage. Neither of us had said much on the way out here last night, consumed as we were with dismay and outrage at Bob's death.

  She plucked a plastic bottle from between her seat and the center console and proceeded to smear her face with coconut-scented SPF 90 sunscreen. Tiny golden Aztec calendars dangled from each earlobe. "With Bob gone, the Denver nidus chose me as its new leader."

  I held my palms up for her to give me some of the sunscreen. "I thought that position went automatically to the most senior vampire in the community. That would be Mel."

  "Under normal circumstances." Carmen squirted the lotion into my hands. "Because of these vânätori attacks, the nidus wanted someone younger and more ruthless."

  I dabbed the sunscreen on my cheeks. "And that would be…you?"

  "Yes. Me." Carmen unzipped her jacket further and exposed breasts cupped within a black leather bra. She buttered the tops of her tits with sunscreen. "The first question from the nidus to me as the new leader was, what was I going to do about your investigation?"

  She flicked her black hair over one shoulder and rubbed sunscreen onto her neck. "Before you answer, be aware that the question came directly from the Araneum."

  My aura spiked defensively. "What's it to them?"

  "The Araneum insists that we focus all our attention, at the expense of all other obligations, on finding and destroying the vânätori, on taking direct action."

  "You mean killing humans outside of self-defense?"

  "Chalé. This is self-defense." Carmen pursed her lips and applied blood-red lipstick. She flipped down the sunshade and looked at the vanity mirror. Laminated pictures of Frida Kahlo and the Virgin of Guadalupe were pinned next to the mirror. Of course Carmen wouldn't see anything in the mirror but the interior of the car.

  "Do you know what I hate most about being a vampire? Fixing my makeup without a mirror." Carmen slapped the sunshade against the interior ceiling. "How many more vampires have to die before we do something?" She smoothed her hair.

  "And the police?"

  She polished the sunglass lenses with a tissue. "Subsisting on chalices and donated blood hasn't made us that complacent. We can cover our tracks."

  "What does this have to do with my investigation?"

  She put on her sunglasses and tugged at the corners to make sure they fit tight. "If things get…uh…sticky, I'll need you. These vampire hunters use guns. You have experience with firearms."

  "And getting shot, too. Don't forget that part. Want to see my scars?"

  Carmen peered over the tops of her sunglasses and gave me the once over. She zipped her jacket to cover most of her cleavage. "Some other time."

  I put in my contacts. Now that I was unable to see auras, the world looked inert and unfinished.

  She started the Audi and honked the horn. The station wagon honked back. Carmen pressed the gas pedal and her car darted off the shoulder of the road. Gravel pinged against the chassis. When the tires bit into the asphalt, the Audi lunged forward and we accelerated toward the highway.

  Carmen cocked her thumb to the tiny backseat. "Gimme that portfolio, will you?"

  The portfolio sat atop a pile consisting of cross trainers, a yoga mat, and a gym bag.

  I placed the portfolio on my lap and stroked the cordovan leather. "Pretty nice. Expensive, no doubt."

  "Sí, un regalo." Carmen nodded simply. "A gift from one of my chalices."

  "Like your leather outfit?"

  "Like my leather outfit."

  I tapped the instrument panel. "And the car?"

  "What can I say? My chalices are generous people." Carmen gestured toward the latch on the portfolio's flap. "I asked the Araneum to send me what they had concerning vampire-hunter attacks in America."

  I pulled out several manila folders and flipped open the first one, a document in a language I didn't recognize, followed by what appeared to be an English translation.

  "What language is this?"

  "Romanian," Carmen answered, "the native tongue of Transylvania. You'll need to become familiar with it."

  I read the English translation. "It says that ten vampire deaths have been attributed to these vânätori de vampir. On a path that started in New York and ended in Denver."

  I upended another envelope and a bunch of color photographs clipped together fell into my hand. A sticky note on the top photo read that these were photos of the vânätori pursuing us. On the back of each picture was the name of the man depicted.

  The first picture. Mihail Vasile. A thin face, hungry eyes peering from under strands of hair, as if he were a shrew trying to hide in his own skin.

  The second picture. Teodor Vlasov. A round, bearded face, less a head than a hairy bowling ball perched upon a thick neck. I remembered him—he was the sniper who had killed Dr. Wong and was one of the two attackers who had dragged Bob out of the Buick.

  Next. Petru Codreanu. A slightly lesser version of Vlasov, but with an equally fierce expression. Close-set eyes that seemed to flicker anxiously even in this frozen image.

  Finally. Nicolae Dragan. An apt name for their leader. Eyes that burned at me from the paper. As I studied his image, his presence became so powerful that I expected an aura to radiate from the photo. In his beard and close-cropped, steely-gray scalp, he looked like a zealous mob boss, the kind who would incite a lynching and supply the rope. Dragan was the one who had come after me with a crucifix and an ax, and then more recently blasted Bob with a shotgun.

  "Look familiar?" Carmen asked.

  "Most definitely. All four of these scary bastards." I slid the photos back in the envelope, relieved at shutting the psychic connection.

  I turned to a folder marked "History of Colorado Attacks." I read the first entry aloud. "Three vampires were allegedly killed by vânätori in 1883, two around Leadville, the third at Central City."

  "Wasn't our guys," Carmen said. "We're dealing with mortals. Those hunters would have died long ago."

  I continued. "The next attack occurred in 1969." My thoughts froze on the date. I opened the folder labeled "Attacks in the 20th Century."

  "There were several vampire killings from 1910 through the mid-twenties. Then nothing until 1947."

  I could feel my aura sparkle in alarm. Reaching into my pocket, I retrieved the paper Wendy had given me. I compared her list of nymphomania outbreaks
with this record of vampire murders. "Roswell, New Mexico, 1947—nymphomania and two vampires killed. Dayton, Ohio, 1952—nymphomania and two vampires killed." I paused to control my quaking, excited voice. "Denver, 1969—nymphomania and three vampires killed. Now recently, another outbreak of nymphomania in Denver followed by the appearance of vânätori de vampir. In every case, the vampire-hunter attacks followed the discovery of nymphomania by mere weeks, sometimes days."

  We reached Highway 36. Carmen whipped the Audi around the corner. The tires squealed across the asphalt. I grabbed my shoulder harness. We cut in front of a semi. The driver blasted his air horn. Smiling, Carmen straightened the steering wheel and floored the gas pedal. The turbocharger kicked in and the Audi zoomed west toward Denver.

  "You keep driving like that," I said, looking back at the driver as he flipped us the bird, "and we won't need any vampire hunters to finish us off."

  "Sorry," Carmen replied dryly. "I like to drive the way I like to have sex. You know, turbo-banging." She patted my knee. "You okay, grandpa?"

  I clasped her wrist. "Don't test me."

  Carmen grinned and tugged free. She raced the Audi around a minivan. "So the vampire attacks and the nymphomania are related?"

  "Have to be. There's too much coincidence. The question is, what happened in Roswell in 1947?"

  "What's the date?"

  "Of the nymphomania?" I perused Wendy's list. "July seventh, ninth, and sixteen."

  Carmen reacted with a startled "No shit?" She pulled up the hem of her jacket and fumbled with the belt of her leather jeans. "I can tell you exactly what happened on July third of that year. The debris of a flying-saucer was found on the MacBrazel Ranch, near Roswell."

  "How would you know that?" I asked, wondering why she struggled to undress.

  As Carmen tilted her muscled abdomen toward me, she brushed her left hip against the bottom rim of the steering wheel. She displayed a Star Trek insignia tattooed below her navel. "As a Trekker, I'm up on all UFO lore."

  I examined the tattoo. "Interesting way of remembering something. I would've just tied a string around my finger."

  Carmen buckled her pants again. "Do any of those dates mean something to your investigation?"

  I thought for a moment. "Rocky Flats started operations in 1952, the same year there was an outbreak of nymphomania in Ohio. I don't see a connection. Then in 1969, there was a plutonium fire at Rocky Flats, the so-called Mother's Day Fire."

  Carmen took Wendy's list and flattened it across the spokes of the steering wheel. "That outbreak of nymphomania in Denver occurred shortly afterwards—in May, June, and July. When did the vampire-hunter attacks happen?"

  I glanced into the folder. "August and September."

  Carmen folded Wendy's list and handed it back to me. During a long moment of silence, she gradually tightened her fingers around the rim. Her knuckles turned white. She pressed harder on the gas pedal. "What is it about the nymphomania that draws the vampire hunters?"

  I shrugged, embarrassed by my ignorance and inability to connect the facts. "I don't know."

  Carmen passed a Corvette. "Let me check the dates. Maybe I can find something useful."

  "Call when you do. In the meantime, I can do more than wait around Denver with my thumb up my butt." I tucked the folders back into the portfolio. "Give me twenty-four hours."

  "Twenty-four hours for what?"

  "I need twenty-four hours to complete my investigation. At the end of that time I'll either be available for your direct action or I'll be dead."

  Carmen eased off the gas. The speedometer needle arced down past a hundred miles an hour. "Dead? Killed by whom? Vampire hunters?"

  I shook my head solemnly. "No, worse. The guards at Rocky Flats."

  Chapter 25

  I TURNED OFF HIGHWAY 93 for the entrance to Rocky Flats. At this time in the afternoon there was a line of cars heading in the opposite direction, going home. I was the only one coming in.

  Low, dense clouds from an oncoming storm threatened the Front Range. The forecast called for an evening blizzard. Already, intermittent flakes of snow floated from the sky.

  I continued past the administrative trailer complex where I worked and parked in the lot adjacent to the plant manager's office.

  The Protected Area stood one hundred meters to the east. A Humvee with a machine gun mounted on the roof was parked outside the gate. Within the fence perimeter remained the white trailer, the same one Gilbert Odin suspected contained the cargo that had caused the nymphomania. Guards in sage-green parkas and armed with submachine guns walked the fence. A black semi-tractor truck backed up to the white trailer. Workers in heavy overalls and yellow safety helmets motioned to one another as they guided the truck into position. More Humvees and a row of white Suburbans were parked on the road leading from the Protected Area. It seemed that the trailer was going to move out tonight by convoy, regardless of the anticipated blizzard.

  My plan was simple. I was going to get answers directly from Herbert Hoover Merriweather, the plant manager. If Merriweather wouldn't share what he knew with Gilbert Odin, Merriweather would have no choice but to cooperate with me once I put him under vampire hypnosis. Then I'd wait for the gloom of night to stalk and subdue the guards, hypnotizing them one by one until I could penetrate the Protected Area, break into the trailer, and expose the secret behind the conspiracy. Hopefully I wouldn't contaminate myself and the Denver metroplex in the process.

  I no longer had the luxury of subtlety. Gilbert would have to deal with the consequences of my trampling over DOE's security rules. I'd tell him what I discovered, he would pay my fee, and I'd disappear into the vampire underground to lend my fangs in the fight against the vânätori de vampir.

  Cracking my knuckles, I prepared myself for the unexpected. Nothing would surprise me tonight. To the attacker goes the initiative.

  Flipping up the collar of my barn coat, I turned off the car motor and adjusted my knit cap. I clipped my ID badge to my coat, got out of my Dodge, and tread carefully across the icy sidewalk to the front door.

  Past the second set of glass doors, a guard stood in the lobby. He wore full combat regalia, black webbed harness over a gray camouflaged uniform, a holstered pistol, extra ammo, and a gas mask strapped to his thigh. To his right, between the manager's office and myself, stood another guard. Besides a pistol, he was armed with an HK submachine gun slung over his shoulder.

  Both guards stood taller and more alert when I came in and stamped snow from my boots. They glared at me, no doubt suspicious of why I wore sunglasses on a dark, snowy afternoon.

  The first guard read my badge. "What's your business here?"

  "Merriweather paged me."

  The second guard stroked the forestock of his submachine gun. "You'll have to see him later. He isn't available."

  The second guard took a position behind his comrade. Neither of them stood more than ten feet away from me, and their eyes stared into mine. Perfect.

  "Then please give this message to him." Carefully, so as to not provoke the guards, I removed my sunglasses.

  The closest guard's aura flared with alarm. His eyes opened wide and bugged out. "Holy—" He froze in mid-cry.

  The second guard stepped back. His aura flashed bright. The two of them stood motionless like a pair of mannequins.

  I didn't know how long I'd be with Merriweather, so I would have to fang the guards to keep them quiet. I bit them and dragged their limp bodies to an empty office and shut the door.

  I put my sunglasses on again and approached the thick door to Merriweather's office. My vampire hearing caught him murmuring on the phone. He hung up.

  Remembering that his desk was to the left, I opened the door, entered, and turned, locking the door before I released the knob.

  Merriweather sat behind that wooden barricade he called a desk. His dark complexion matched the leather of his high-backed executive's chair. His squat, square-shaped head looked as if it had been screwed into the collar
of his off-white turtleneck sweater.

  He gasped when he saw me and immediately fumbled with a drawer. I reached for my sunglasses to subdue him.

  Merriweather pointed a SIG-Sauer 9mm pistol at me. "Don't move."

  My hand stopped where it barely touched the glasses. "Careful now. That's not a stapler you're holding."

  His thumb released the safety catch. "How'd you get in?"

  "I walked." I wiggled my fingers to signal that I wanted to remove my sunglasses. "May I? It's dark in here."

  "I said don't move, wise-ass." Merriweather shouted, "Security." He scowled and repeated, "Security."

  When he realized that no one was coming, his expression tightened, and his finger curled on the trigger. "What did you do to my guards?"

  "Sang them a lullaby."

  The cell phone in my pocket buzzed and vibrated against my keys. Merriweather flinched but kept his gaze and the muzzle of the SIG-Sauer trained on me. "Don't answer."

  "I don't intend to."

  Merriweather glowered. After my cell phone stopped buzzing, he reached for the phone on his desk. In the instant he turned his eyes from me, I would fling off the sunglasses and zap him.

  He hesitated from dialing his phone and squinted at me. "Step back. Keep your hands where they are."

  My cell phone buzzed again.

  "You're a popular man," he groused. Merriweather waited impassively until the buzzing stopped and diverted his eyes to his phone. I took my sunglasses off.

  He flipped his gaze back to me. "I told you not to move. What the—"

  The whites of his eyes looked like two enameled disks against his purple-black complexion. His shoulders jerked back, and his finger clutched the trigger. The SIG-Sauer fired. I ducked and broke focus with Merriweather's eyes before I could control him.

  He dropped behind his desk, his aura so agitated with panic that it left a trail of sparks in the air.

  I lay prone on the floor, supported by my fingertips and toes. I crawled toward the desk, quiet as a tarantula.