Underground Vampire

by David Lee

  Now they were hacking about the downtown perimeter established by Prunella, a blockade about the Underground meant to keep Oliver and his minions penned in, isolated, alone and hungry. After Arabella closed down the blood centers and visited the bars and taverns about the Underground informing them that going forward they would have a Vampire on staff to make sure no unauthorized recruitment would occur, the noose about Oliver had tightened.

  The last step was stationing troops at the known exits from the Underground to interdict any Vamp coming to the surface. Guard duty was the most boring action any soldier could draw, and it was no different for the Vampires assigned to the job. Tedious time requiring long and boring hours, it was showing results as the Queen’s forces slowly plugged each exit, confining Oliver and his recruits to a shrinking perimeter. The problem was keeping Vampires awake, alert and focused. Young and inexperienced Vampires drew the tedious duty, and some learned the hard way the nature of the task. Two had been surprised and killed, an unfortunate incident with a bright side, she thought, as the others suddenly took the job quite seriously.

  Most of the Underground exits were of necessity hidden in alleys or basements or somehow obscured so that the comings and goings of Vampire commerce remained anonymous. Over time, the Clan had worked to protect and disguise their access points, in some cases going so far as to purchase a convenient building to ensure uninhibited access and privacy.

  Throughout the downtown were sprinkled old buildings housing decrepit businesses that never seemed to have customers. Periodically the commercial real estate office of the Clan would close one business and reopen another to divert attention. Their brokers maintained an office, showed properties and, on occasion, went to receptions at the Board of Realtors. In that group they fit right in and no one noticed, so long as the commission checks cleared. All Vamps were schooled to flash in and out so Humans didn’t notice a pattern, get nosy and investigate.

  Normally she didn’t pull guard duty but the call from the Mansion that Prunella was unavailable roused her from her apartment. They had bundled up and headed out determined to make a day of it; after all, they did enjoy each other’s company. It was important to show the flag and, truth be told, she didn’t mind the cold and liked the front line troops. It was simpler than the politics of the Mansion and to the point, find the enemy and kill them. Crossing over, she headed toward the Transit tunnel dig.

  “Tearing down the Viaduct was the single biggest improvement to the City,” she said, surveying the giant machines devouring the structure like insects at a carcass.

  “Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” Jess mumbled from deep within his jacket.

  “Aside from being a death trap, seismically unstable and ancient, it is execrably ugly.”

  “Execrably?” he replied. “Sorry, way too cold for execrably.”

  A dishwater dirty curtain separating the city from the waterfront, the Viaduct was ugly the day it went up. From the water it was East European/Soviet design massive, unsightly, utilitarian, dated from birth. From the land it served to create a spiritual slum along what should have been some of the most desirable real estate in the City, dooming a vast swatch of the City to purgatory. From her window it was a dirty, never-healing scab blighting the view.

  The construction project had become a maze of trucks, demolition equipment, rubble and traffic barriers, with every scrap of empty land fenced, secreting miscellaneous rubble, material and foreman’s shacks. Mysterious signs were everywhere. Holes were dug, abandoned, filled and refilled, then dug again, maybe to have something to do; maybe to propitiate geoengeneering deities. The mess stretched along the waterfront with no discernible organization, a city-sized remodeling project. The area proved impossible to interdict and Oliver’s boys had taken to forcing their way out, popping into construction digs, appearing out of the gloom, attacking a lone sentry, then disappearing into the confusion.

  The farther down 1st they went, the closer they got to Arabella’s favorite printmaker, an Asian shop specializing in Japanese artists. Since the stadiums were built and the crowds came the area had slowly revitalized with restaurants and galleries drawn by big spaces with low rents. Then the hipsters christened it, SoDo, making it safe for Windermere matrons to slum.

  SoDo proved difficult to guard, as the lack of retail shops made loitering Vampires obvious, especially in this weather where no one was outside. Flecks of snow stuck to Jesse’s watch cap, adding a festive look to his otherwise strong face as he trudged along. Perhaps it was the walk, maybe the swirls of snow and the sense of freedom with him, the shop fronts filled with art, pottery from Japan with the aesthetic she craved that distracted, interfering with her radar so she missed the warnings.

  She nodded to guards, some sitting in nondescript cars others less lucky, dressed like bums harboring in alleys. Closer to the big dig, small businesses and supply houses gave way to the construction with material and equipment haphazardly thrown about. The combination of the late afternoon and stormy clouds darkened the street and the lights came on without doing much good. Telephone poles loomed overhead with cables and power lines providing a lattice in the gloomy air.

  Arabella searched for the next guard without success and pulled Jesse behind a pile of concrete traffic barriers stacked beneath the overpass. Disturbed that there’d been no Vampires for the last few blocks she searched carefully looking for something amiss to justify her sudden anxiety. Traffic thundering above masked sound while shadows and night darkness obscured her vision.

  Jesse put his hand inside his jacket feeling for the gun tucked into his jeans while she regretted not bringing a blade. Motioning him to stay put with his back against a pillar, she moved into the dark directly beneath the overpass. She could feel the dampness of the fresh dirt on her and taste the depths in her nostrils as she moved closer to the dig until she was at the edge of a pit and the unmistakable odor of the abominations struck her in the face.

  Turning to warn Jesse, she was struck in the face as the Vampires dropped onto her. Stalactites hanging beneath the overpass, they fell upon her without a sound and smothered her under flailing arms and kicking legs. She went down scrambling desperately to avoid sliding into the pit as the mob grabbed and poked, pulling her closer to the edge.

  So close was the mob that none were able to direct a killing blow and, as they continued to drop and mob her, they became so densely packed that, while she couldn’t strike them neither could they her. The numbers were telling and while none could deliver a fatal blow, the combined damage of their nails driven into her flesh sapped her strength until one was finally able to rake her neck savagely, damaging an artery. As her blood pumped the mob lost focus, distracted by the smell, failing to finish her.

  Having learned his lesson in his first foray into the Underground, Jesse habitually carried a flashlight with his gun. Running across the debris he flipped the switch, hitting the Vampires dead in the face with 2000 lumens. Temporarily blinded, several tumbled into the pit while the others shrunk back in agony. Continuing forward, he pulled his pistol and shot three in the face. Reaching down, he grabbed the collar of her raincoat and reversed, dragging her back toward the street. Stopping, he trained the light on those still standing until they dropped into the pit, unable to withstand the light.

  Dragging her body behind the barriers, he called to her as he unbuttoned her coat. Unresponsive, she laid still, blood still oozing from the wounds to her neck. Pressing with his hands, he tried to staunch the flow without choking her to give her body a chance to repair itself. He’d seen how quickly she recovered and, aside from the gunshot when they first met, he’d watched her repair combat wounds with rest and her will.

  He waited but she did not revive. Checking, he found her pulse erratic and her heartbeat weak. Having no idea how much damage she could survive, he had no way of judging her injuries and no way to get her to the physician. Without thinking, he bared his arm and using his penknife cut into his wrist, producing a few drops of blood. He
held his wrist over her lips, clenching his fist to force out the blood and watched as the drops fell onto her lips. At first she did nothing, no response to the warm drops, then tentatively her tongue tasted a drop, then another, and he pushed his wrist to her mouth and she began to lick and suck at his cut vein.

  The flow grew greater as she grew greedy, pulling life from him and into her. Turning, he saw scaly heads sticking from the hole. The night people recovered from the light were gathering for round two. He wedged her body between a pillar and barrier as best he could, then charged the Vampires boiling out of the hole, light in one hand, gun in the other. All boys who want to be cops secretly want to John Wayne the bad guys, heroically defending the Alamo, singlehandedly holding the fort against the Hun. None actually get the chance and most satisfy the urge abusing citizens chained to the ground.

  As he ran towards the horde he screamed into the cold night, blasting the horror with photons and bullets till they wavered, then fell back to the ground, disappearing into the depths. He stood at the edge firing down as they crowded into the channel they’d opened until he was alone. Concerned about the noise and light he ran back to Arabella, frantic to get away before the police arrived or the vampires returned.

  In his absence she’d dragged herself to the roadway, her sweater stained with blood and dirt, torn and ripped in the attack. For a fleeting moment he thought how angry she would be that it was ruined, then he dragged her back behind the barrier, knelt by her head and cut himself again, thrusting his wrist to her lips. She drank, an involuntary response, until pushing him away she said, “No, never will I drink from you.”

  “You must, we have to leave and you’re too weak to walk.”

  “No,” she said, “one moment and then I will be strong enough.”

  Easily pushing her arms aside, he again put his wrist to her mouth and she drank his life. He could feel electricity as his blood entered her and her force flowed into him. A serenity overcame him, and he grew comfortable laying on the rough cold concrete. They might have stayed that way, wrapped in each other had the patrol car not come to investigate and shined its light above them, shattering their peaceful illusion. Moaning, she pulled back, the harsh light burning her eyes; he stood fumbling for his badge, fumbling for an explanation.

  The two patrol cops walked forward, wary in the night. They both reached for weapons as behind him Arabella stood, her lips crimson, hair wild and crazy, flecks of blood on her pale and beautiful face. They began to scream the contradictory commands that get so many people shot when she stepped forward, seizing one then the other with an implacable vision, telling them it was nothing, ordering them to leave. Holstering their weapons, they returned to the car and drove off befuddled, wondering what they were doing here under the overpass in the cold and blowing wind.

  Taking her phone Jesse called the physician, describing her wounds, as they stumbled toward her apartment, a couple walking off too much wine on an afternoon. He met them at her door and tended to her, commenting that the wounds were deep and dirty. Jesse’s field first aid had saved her, and when the doctor left they talked long into the night.

  He asked to be turned and she told him no, she would never do that to him. He told her he wanted to spend all time with her and she said she would spend the time they were given with him. He said he would grow old and she would stay young, and he would grow grey and feeble, dying before her. She said that was her burden and she would bear it happily and be his, but she would not sentence him to the hell that was her life.

  Tired, they slept, recovering from wounds of the flesh and the mysterious wounds we do to ourselves. They recovered over the next few days, laying low in the apartment in the sky, venturing out briefly for food and to be seen, returning home to marshal strength an d resources, and to find a new way with each other. In the end they decided to live together the days left to them.

  CHAPTER 22

  “This guy really knows how to line ‘em up and blast ‘em.” Marching about and waving his arms as the 4th movement of the Ninth built and the chorus joined.

  “This guy,” she moaned, “This guy, please? Don’t refer to Ludwig as this guy; it hurts too much.”

  “Oh my god I’m getting old; next it will be cardigan sweaters and slippers.” Vigorous, now conducting the last of the millions ascending to the Lord.

  “I’m not sure Leonard would approve; at least get on the beat.

  It made no difference. He waved both arms above the Sound stridently summoning fishes from the depths.

  “Anyway you aren’t getting older, your tastes are maturing.”

  “I like that. Sounds better than getting older.”

  “You’re welcome,” she replied, as the finale died away and he stood at the window waiting for the applause.

  “I suppose you knew him.”

  “No, he was in Vienna to the East; I never met him, a mistake that I have always regretted.”

  Jesse’s cell rang Double Trouble, which meant Malloy was on the phone, which meant there was a problem, an unpleasant problem, probably involving Vampires and death, he thought. Ignoring Akon, he focused on his plans, which were limited to a brisk damp walk into Belltown, maybe detouring through the Sculpture Garden for some art appreciation, then a trendy dinner with an Oregon pinot, back to her place, admire the view, then kinky Vampire sex.

  “Answer your phone,” she said. The problem with assigned ring tones was that not only you, but everyone you spent time with knew who was on the phone.

  Saying, “I’ll call him later,” he snatched the phone off the end table that looked just like a box, she referred to it as the cube but it was still a box, and tried to kill the ring. She held her hand out and he put the phone in it, taking a moment to touch her cool skin, his fingertips tracing azure veins distinct against her translucent wrist. Taking the phone, acknowledging his touch, she pushed the button.

  “Salut Xavier.” She was the only person in the world who used Malloy’s first name. Even his business card said X. Francis Malloy and Jesse had never even heard anyone call him Francis. Of course, the way Arabella said ‘Xavier’ made him want to change his name and even made him a bit jealous. She launched into a long burst of French, followed by a shorter time listening to him. Wherever Malloy learned to speak French, his pronunciation was impeccable, she said. Malloy never missed an opportunity to go French, Jesse noticed. Jesse’d tried a snarky comment once and Malloy had only laughed, saying, “Learn the language, boyo.”

  He stood at the window watching the ferry leave Pier 69, wishing they were on their way to Victoria for the weekend because he could tell from her inflection he wouldn’t get a chance to show off his secret research. On one of their first public outings, she insisted they detour through the Olympic Sculpture Park on Western. Only about a mile and a half from her apartment, the walk seemed long to a cop with a department car who, until recently, drove everywhere and parked wherever he wanted.

  He recommended a civilized stroll up Western but she opted to dodge construction under the Viaduct and hike up Alaskan Way. The ferry commuters fighting at Marion lent a surreal aspect to the war zone vibe, and Jesse didn’t calm down till they veered away from the overpass. She ignored his suggestions that they duck into one of the trendy restaurants, plowing along till they reached the Park on Eliot and started up the z-path.

  He’d limited his observation to the obvious: “giant eyeballs,” “look, a giant eraser,” and “that one looks like a giant insect,” capped with a “who’s Persephone.” Her telling him not to sit on the giant couch was actually funnier than it sounded, and he’d survived his first art encounter with no dignity but a stirred curiosity.

  “Oliver’s feeding again” was all she said, handing back his phone, “one dead.”

  “Who got it?”

  “West Precinct has it, along with all the others.”

  “Where did they find it?”

  “In an alley. Next time you go in, find out what they think. One more thing,
Gunderson’s here.”

  “Gunderson? What is he doing down here?”

  “Inter county task force, you don’t think he’d miss it, do you?”

  “Gave up on the wolves, did he?”

  “You know, he shot one. Someone snared a male in a leg trap and he killed it.”

  Jesse said nothing. There was nothing to say to the news.

  “Get ready,” she said walking towards her dressing room.

  Before Arabella, Jesse didn’t know people had entire rooms to get dressed in. So far as he knew, everyone kept their clothes in the bedroom and when they woke up they got dressed and before they got into bed, unless they were really drunk, they took them off.

  The apartment had a bedroom next to the master bedroom. By demolishing the hall door, extending the wall then opening the master to the adjoining room, she had created a mini suite. The original walk-in closet in the master she converted to the en suite, providing an expansive opulent space with, Jesse was sure, the best throne view in the Seattle area.

  Blue collar Catholic families did not have entire wood paneled rooms racked, shelved and hung with clothing. They didn’t have an entire rack of skirts arranged by color, a separate wall of shoes where the boots had their own zip code, with hundreds of belts all coiled with the buckles facing out directly across from the boots and shoes, with the bags in the middle. “How else can you match the accessories,” she explained, sitting on one of the upholstered benches strategically strewn about.

  Jesse’s world had one closet, unless you shared a room and perhaps a chest of drawers where the t-shirts, shorts and socks went. Jesse liked Arabella’s world, and he especially liked it when she invited him to drink his morning coffee sitting on one of the closet benches while she selected and discarded, mixed and matched until the finished look reflected her vision of the future day and her role in it and, most important, the addition of an infinitesimal drop of beauty to a potentially drab and tedious world.