Civil Blood_The Vampire Rights Trial that Changed a Nation

by Chris Hepler

  But who among the victims of the infected ever asked for my help? Were I to tell them what I do, there would have been no gratitude, just fear. My work is secret, for with it comes shame.

  "Here's the question," I say to myself. "What qualifies as having second thoughts, and what's just thoughts?"

  I run my hand over the bed and pillow, feeling and looking for any trace of her. Infinity has long hair, which I know from personal experience sheds at a steady rate. But I find nothing on pillows or sheets. Not far away lies a roll of masking tape, no doubt used in the cleanup effort. I check the trash cans throughout the apartment: all the bags are missing. Her thoroughness is unusual. Simon Walter Davis would not have written an emotional letter and still remembered to give the pillows and floors a once-over.

  I check the broom in the kitchen pantry, another likely spot. Nothing. In my experience, completely getting rid of traces is nearly impossible, and I wonder if she has gone so far as to borrow someone else's cleaning supplies and return them afterward. I examine the vacuum cleaner—amazingly, it too has been picked clean.

  She wasn't afraid of me at my house. But now?

  I try the bathroom. I fish a finger into the drain and get wadded hair, but the strands are mostly brown, possibly some previous occupant's. Reality being what it is, the safehouse probably sees use as a house, period, whenever BRHI has the need. I crouch low, thinking.

  If Infinity had family in the area, she'd have run to them already. With no source of income, she'll likely turn up in police custody or a hospital. I can't imagine her benumbed enough to let the police clap on the handcuffs. She will be shot resisting arrest. Unless I find her first.

  And how merciful can I be?

  A glint of gold gets my attention as I check behind the toilet. Something lies in the narrow gap between the sink's counter and the wall. I have long enough fingers that I can reach it. It's a closed, brass-colored tube of lipstick. It seems odd that Infinity would forget it, for she certainly can't have packed many after relocating to D.C., but then I remember a conversation about her previous careers. She modeled for a time, and we do not throw away our skills and tools when we move on to new things. We keep them, like weapons, and when she met our team, she no doubt had a few tubes for making an impression. I take the top off gingerly.

  It is a plum color, passed over in favor of the red berry I've seen her wear. That does not matter now. The business end of the lipstick is worn down. There will be skin cells there.

  I have her.

  ◆◆◆

  I let the autopilot take over as I fish in the grocery bag on the passenger seat. I acquire a yogurt, key lime flavor, and break out a spoon from a small package I keep between the seats. I don't like autopilots as a rule, but if I'm going to be burning yin in earnest tonight, I should prepare my gut flora to take the hit.

  The setting sun flashes between the trees as the Chevy cruises out of the sprawl and into what passes for rural in the era of never-ending population growth. I tune the radio in briefly to NCR, authorize a microtransaction and play spot-the-tail in the rearview mirror. No cars do anything unexpected; no faces seem familiar. I finish the yogurt and cue up a playlist of classic rock. The best thing about being old is having a decent soundtrack.

  When the car pulls into the home stretch, I retake manual control. I can see figures in the cul-de-sac at the end of the road and slow down to navigate. The neighbors have set up a hockey goal. A team's worth of twelve-year-olds are taking shots with tennis balls at a very beleaguered goalie. I click the garage remote and roll down my window as Parvati comes over.

  "Roland! Sorry for the delay. Samar wanted to try out for the team, so we're giving him the stress test. Did I remember you playing goalie some year and getting awards?"

  I attempt to remember what I've told her. She's been so completely off my radar that I'm honestly not sure. I go with the truth. "No, not on a team. I went to a camp, once, but it was basically to give me something to do for the summer. I got a 'most improved' because I started off so terrible at the beginning of the session."

  "Oh," she laughs. "I was telling them you might help when you got home. If you remember anything, he'd love to hear from you."

  I have to laugh. "After the day I've had, something normal would be good."

  "Trouble with the contractors?"

  "We don't use any at the office."

  "For some reason, I thought you did."

  A thought occurs. "Let me just send the car in," I say, and Parvati steps off.

  "Okay, kids, other side of the street! Roland wants to see what you've got!"

  I press the Go Home button on the car's dash and grab the remote off the visor. The car is pretty bright. It idles forward slowly until the kids are out of the way and then heads into the garage. I go over to the new goal setup, click the garage remote and gather my audience.

  "Everyone bear with me," I say to the kids. "It's been a while since I've done this. The first thing to do is to push, not hit. It gives you more control. Here, I'll need a stick—"

  For a few seconds, I have no idea what happens. I am hit in the back, as if one of the kids plowed into me, and I sprawl onto the asphalt. Only after I realize the kids and Parvati have also been knocked down do I register the sound of destruction that pounds my eardrums louder than any gunshot. I prop myself up on stinging forearms and look back at what is left of my house.

  The main structure still stands, but the garage is gone. Giant holes gape where the walls were, and the beams of the frame are bowed outwards. The garage door is in the driveway, ringing as debris rains down on it, shingles and wood and smaller things. The Chevy's windows have all blown out, and its roof is now crumpled down. Black smoke billows from it, mixing with the plume of white dust above the house spreading into the trees.

  My first coherent thought is that a drone has hit the building with a missile. It doesn't matter what the truth is. The danger is that whatever caused this could do much worse.

  "Who's hit?" I yell. "Can everybody run?" The words sound faint. I need to heal my eardrums. But it's not a total loss and I can read Parvati's lips a little. They're bloody from the pavement.

  "God, what is this?"

  "Get away from the house," I say. Pain registers in my head and neck. The kids start talking, but it is mostly expletives. "Everybody!" I bark. "Call 911. Get everyone in a vehicle and get out of here."

  "What happened?"

  "Someone just tried to kill me. They could still be here. You have to leave."

  That gets them on the move. I scan the skies, but don't see anything like a drone. I shake my limbs—nothing broken. I pull my pistol and advance on the rubble of the garage before realizing six teenagers are getting a good look at me doing so. I don't care. If someone is following up on the hit, I'd better be prepared.

  The knocked-off garage door has nails sticking out of it. Mostly bent, some in pieces, some embedded sideways into the aluminum. Then, I get close and see hundreds of holes shredding the roof of the car. The shaped charge and its nail bomb were targeted. The concrete floor of the garage was slammed the hardest—the doors and walls were just gravy.

  The door closing was the cue. A day's surveillance would have shown my usual routine: pull into the garage, close it behind me via remote while still in the car. Who has that knowledge? Not Infinity. Not Morgan. This is someone new, or it is Breunig and Yarborough? And Kern, who knows where I live.

  The building is on fire, but it isn't an inferno made to look pretty for a movie camera. The worst of it is trying to breathe. It is all dust and smoke, with the chemical crap smell from the garage's cans of paint and WD-40. Had the car or lawn mower not been electric, their fuel would have gone up like fireworks. As it is, most of what I smell is burning upholstery. The trash cans look like a giant punched them. Every tool I ever hung on a peg board is scattered across the lawn, which hasn't started to blaze yet—

  Ena.

  The interior door to the house is off its doorframe,
and it blocks the route inside. I pull my shirt up over my nose and charge into the cloud of dust.

  I first shove through the debris with one hand, then give up on the whole pistol idea because if someone is lying in wait, it sure isn't inside. I struggle into the front hallway, stepping on the glass and picture frames all over the place. A moment's thought for the front door—yes, there is a second bomb there in case I opened it—and then, I'm on the stairs. There, too, are broken frames: my university and medical degrees, my certifications from the Army, lying on the stairs so I have to kick them aside. I need a clean path because the door saying RESPECT is in front of me, and if I screw this up now, I'll be all kinds of dead.

  My foot comes down on the snake stick at the base of the stairs. I snatch it up. The basement is dim, and I don't risk flicking on a light in case a third bomb is waiting. The white room's musty smell is refreshing compared to the stench upstairs, and Ena's UV light shows that she is agitated. Her body is pressed up against the glass, trying to climb out the top.

  Ena has a trap box in the enclosure. If I can encourage her into it, I can carry her safely. I unlock the cage, open it, and Ena pours out. She slips away from the pincers once, twice. Then, I get her neck and tail. I aim her head at the trap box, but she crawls to its side.

  A roar comes from upstairs. The stove is gas. In Okinawa, they taught that you had to shut off the gas line in an earthquake, but I hadn't thought of it.

  I have no time. I grip her with the stick and run for the stairs with absolutely no idea what to do next. The guns are in safes, but not all the ammo is. Enough flame could turn this place into Swiss cheese. I want to get the Kriss, but black smoke is everywhere now.

  I have to go through it. Crawling with my hands full could make me lose my grip. The smoke and the particles burn my eyes with such pain that there might be an actual ember in them. The heat from the kitchen is so intense, I don't know if I am running next to fire or through it. I blunder into a doorframe and then into the hood of the car. Ena bumps the hood, wriggles, and my left hand gets wet. I don't care about being crapped on. I use the shredded car as a guide and cough my way through the acrid smoke. Only when I can smell the fresh air of the street do I open the least-painful watery eye to figure out what the hell I can do now.

  Parvati's van is down the street, all hands aboard. My scalp is hot and painful, but I don't dare let go of Ena. I run across the cul-de-sac to the curb. Tomorrow is Thursday, and the highly responsible Parvati left out her garbage cans.

  I kick one over and tug at the locked top with my hand full of shit and snake. The lock comes free, and once it is empty, in goes the back half of Ena. After some slick wriggling, the top is back on and clamped firmly shut.

  Finally, I touch whatever the hell is happening on my head. It hurts more, so I shake my hair until the embers have fallen out. With the hand that is only covered in dust, not feces, I dab at my still-closed right eye, trying to get out whatever has lodged in there.

  Assess. Then recover.

  I start jogging, dragging the garbage can behind me. I need to get away before either the cops, or the F-prots arrive. Their surveillance will still be in place. My phone must be considered compromised, but if I make it to a gas station, I can call a taxi. Then a rental car. Then many other things.

  I feel for the pistol. It has four rounds in it. One for Breunig. One for Yarborough. One for Olsen. One for al-Ibrahim. It is not a realistic plan, but it is all I can think of right now.

  And as for Kern, my anger alone can destroy him.

  33 - RANATH

  September 14th

  It becomes clear over the next few days that the F-prots don't have much of a plan, either. I guess they don't immediately have a good story cooked up for the cops, and that means none of the cooperation that usually puts pressure on a fugitive. I cross into Maryland to withdraw from a bank and turn the cash into a motel stay. I keep Ena in the locking can in the room with a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. I pour energy into the points of my head and neck to speed healing. Then, I get on with the business of finding a potential ally.

  Infinity's signature is not easy to latch onto, nor does it stay still. I attempt unsuccessfully to make contact over five days, but her signal eludes me. When I was new to F-prot, I worried myself thin in situations like this. The source of interference is all too obvious. Every feeding is like a middle finger jabbed in my eye. But I conserve my cell samples and bide my time. As she goes without blood, her signal returns. The trick is catching her just before she feeds again.

  I have performed enough tracking functions to have a rough feel of the signal's distance. When I first detect it, it moves slowly, then takes a sudden acceleration, typical of a vipe who has gotten into a vehicle. After a few fits, she takes a long, linear path into the city. I get into my rental car, letting the function slip into the back of my mind while I drive over the 14th Street Bridge.

  The signal doesn't map to Washington's street grid. Only when I notice its low elevation does the truth dawn—Infinity is riding the Metro.

  Time to guess which stop. Perhaps she's going to a demonstration in front of the Capitol. But as I get close, the road ends: First Street is closed off with giant orange barriers and National Guardsmen in black, ballistic silk waving me east. Once I'm clear of the Capitol, I weave through the semicircles surrounding my next guess: Union Station. In the shadow of stone eagles and flags and fancy, dynamic maglev rails, I park hastily and run in.

  I push through the lobby. It's all overpriced shops and weak interior lights. I go for an empty corner and kneel as if to rest, glancing at the crowd. It's thin without the commuter rush. No transit police but enough witnesses to hang me if something has to happen.

  I breathe deeply, exhaling for a count of eight to relax into the function. Instead, I think of Infinity, bags packed, car ditched, bound for parts unknown in the northeast corridor.

  No. Even if she has an e-ticket, she'll have to wait at the gates like everyone else. I spread out my net. It would be just like Infinity to leave no gap between her arrival and boarding time.

  Thap-thap.

  I get nothing at first, soured by performance anxiety. My face is clammy. I wipe it, rehearsing what I will say. I have brought her wooden image, to give it back to her. I'm not sure if she'll want it. But as a pretense for not being a complete stalker, it's as good as any.

  Then, I feel her by the tracks, tasting a strange mix of emotions in her elements. I would think she'd be full of loneliness and fear, but here she is, impressed, welcoming, companionable. If she's working a prey item, she's preternaturally calm about it. She's also moving: going down.

  I run after her, and my stimweb threatens to shake loose and dim the qi function. But I know where the Metro entrance is. I put my hand in my pocket, over the pistol, and run through the crowd, identifying passing people. No one upstairs has Infinity's shape or age. I choose the stairs over the escalator: faster, less crowded.

  I hear her laugh as she goes through the turnstile. Someone is with her. I get only a glimpse of a head scarf and sunglasses and freeze. I can jump the turnstile and confront them or blend. A third option: I could get back to the car and follow them overland. No. Damned if I'm going to lose visual contact now. I dash to the ticket machine and feed in bills because I can't dock my phone. It's at the bottom of the Potomac River, where the F-prots can try to find it.

  As much as I want to rush after the women, being spotted could provoke Infinity. Besides her considerably dangerous martial art of choice, there aren't metal detectors here, and she wears a firearm. I want to rule out at least one of the two before making a move. I stay on the upper platform, out of sight, until the lights by the tracks begin to flash. As the subway train floats in, I go down the escalator and hook around its opposite side. I wind up some five meters behind her, out of her line of sight as she enters.

  The women sit by the window as I rush for the next car back. I move to the interior door and get a good look at her throu
gh its glass. I only see the corner of the strange woman's face—she has not removed her sunglasses. Vipe, maybe. But Infinity has her own eyewear off, so it's not a question of light level. Drug use? Eye exam? No. The sunglasses are a wide, old style. She doesn't want to be recognized.

  I leave my post as the exits open and glance down the side of the train. Not their stop. Next stop, too. By the time I return, more people are in Infinity's car, and I can't see her at all.

  "Coming up, Gallery Place-Chinatown," announces the driver cheerfully. I rack my brains. Did Infinity know any celebrities in her time in Los Angeles? But that makes no sense—who crosses the U.S. by rail rather than air?

  I tap the tacks in my skin. This surprise can't shake me. When the next stop comes and goes, I squint through the dirty glass and find Infinity's car is still full. I wonder about the woman's head scarf. I can't imagine Infinity sustaining a friendship with a devout Muslim or, for that matter, a devout pretty-much-anything.

  Another stop. They're still laughing. The woman's Western pantsuit is not a good clue, but I strive to place the nationality of the head scarf. My best frames of reference are a Jordanian girl I met briefly at MIT and an Iranian newscaster. I'm pretty sure the two are significantly different. I'll search-engine it later: I can't be distracted now.

  The train pulls in to Metro Center. Infinity follows the crowd. I hurriedly exit. Once, she hesitates, looking around, but her gaze sweeps right past me. The women descend yet another escalator, me shadowing them.

  Infinity doesn't get on the first train. She holds her companion back. They converse, then turn to the opposite track, where another train is getting ready to depart. Infinity points at the display on the side of the train. Wrong destination. The two women go up an escalator, not the one they came down. This is my opportunity.