City Of The Damned: Expanded Edition

by Stephen Knight

  “Yeah, it was my cover story,” Cecil said. “I’m outside the Chinese theater and damn, Beyonce is here! She’s getting outta her limo right now!”

  “You’re… you’re stalking Beyonce?”

  “Hold on…” In the background, horns blared as Cecil suddenly shouted, “Beyonce! Beyonce baby, I love you, girl! You da bomb, sweetheart, the total bomb!”

  Acheson cracked up. Cecil was almost fifty years old, but he still held up traffic on Hollywood Boulevard to shout sweet nothings at the apple of his eye, who likely ignored his star-struck efforts.

  “She looked at me!” Cecil shouted into the phone. “Damn, Beyonce looked at me and smiled!”

  “Outstanding. You’re due in for the ten-thirty.”

  “On it, Boss,” Cecil said. “Hittin’ the one-oh-one now. Damn—Beyonce! I tell you, Mark, she’s soooo smokin’ hot—!”

  “Drive, Cecil.” With that, Acheson disconnected, still smiling.

  At 10:30, he left his office and strolled to the conference room. The staff was already assembled, sans Cecil and Sharon, who was due to pick up her sister, brother-in-law, and baby niece at LAX in an hour. It would be the first time they had entertained company. Acheson wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but he had no family to speak of, and Sharon did. He couldn’t get in the way of that.

  The conference room was a windowless rectangle, mostly gray in color due to the anechoic tiling on the walls that absorbed all but the loudest sounds. Similar tiles lined the roof, and white noise generators buzzed sedately in the overhead, a precaution against active monitoring. The entire room was nicknamed The Cone of Silence after the Plexiglas device in the 1960s spy sitcom Get Smart.

  “Hey folks, how is everyone this morning?”

  Nacho leaned back in his leather chair and put his feet on the conference room table. “Heard something really scary today on the radio, man.”

  Acheson raised an eyebrow as he pulled out a chair next to Andrew Kerr, the Group’s R&D director. “Do tell. A new infestation?”

  “Worse,” Nacho said. “I heard the Alfie look is coming back, man. You and me have to start wearin’ skinny little suits with skinny little ties and ride tiny little motor scooters to work.”

  “Don’t do that to me,” Acheson said. “And get your feet off the table.”

  Nacho barked a laugh and ran a hand through his black hair as he dropped his feet to the floor and sat up straight in his chair.

  The door opened, and Cecil Hayes added his body to the mass of humanity inside The Cone of Silence.

  “Wassup people,” he said. As usual, he wore all black, and his tight designer T-shirt showed off his muscular arms, each of which was nearly as big as one of Acheson’s thighs. “Sorry I’m late, traffic and all.”

  “You big gorilla, there ain’t no traffic today,” Nacho said.

  Cecil pulled out a chair and sat next to Julia. “Yeah, well, that’s cuz I don’t come outta West Covina. I like upscale, beano.”

  “How was Beyonce?” Acheson asked. “Get her number? Beat down her security guards?”

  Cecil smiled sheepishly. “Shee-it.”

  “Let’s get the show on the road,” Acheson said with a smile. “Julia? Intel update?”

  “All’s quiet so far. No signs of any infestations across the country. There are the usual missing person reports that we’re following, but nothing unusual.” Julia McGuiness was the Group’s intel expert and primary operational liaison with the Group’s overseers in Washington, DC. Her shoulder-length brown hair was sun-bleached from spending her off days on the Santa Monica beaches where she lived.

  Acheson grunted. “So no ghouls or goblins to worry about. I love news like that.” Ghouls were newly-risen vampires. Mostly mindless, they lived only to feed, and usually killed their prey by tearing out their throats. Turnings—the process where a vampire spawned another by biting the victim—were a primary indicator of a higher-order vamp, or goblin, at work. As a whole, vampires did not turn many humans; they merely fed on them and then killed them. Large numbers of ghouls were difficult to control, and a high-or mid-order vamp was bound by their culture to rule any clan they might establish. And the problem with a large number of vampires was that they either left a lot of dead people—an infestation, in Group parlance—or attracted the attention of the Group, which usually led to a lot of eradicated bloodsuckers.

  But a goblin working alone could be difficult to identify. Despite all its resources, the Group could not track a single vamp making its way through the country, taking a person here, a person there. They didn’t need to feed more than once a month if they were disciplined. That was why missing person reports were reviewed on a daily basis. Yet many police departments didn’t computerize those records, so there were times when critical early indicators were overlooked.

  “Nothing right now,” Julia agreed.

  “Awesome. Dr. Kerr?”

  At six foot three and approaching 280 pounds, Andrew Kerr was a moose of a man. Bald, with a full but neat beard, he always wore a suit and tie. Though not a “people person”, he was a quick thinker and an expert biochemist. Kerr’s sheer size was imposing enough; when one factored in his intellect, he was a force to be reckoned with.

  Kerr rose and briefed the assemblage on a promising new drug therapy, a regimen he hoped would serve to block the pathogens that “turned” a bitten human into a ghoul. The research had been ongoing for several years, but previous tests had been total failures. The subjects had turned within three days.

  Kerr brought everyone up to speed with the Cliff’s Notes version of his latest discoveries. He and his team mapped over 90% of the pathogenic process, and had come up with a routine that might prevent the spread of the pathogen if administered within twelve hours after infection. Of course, the problem was to find a victim and start the regimen within twelve hours of being fanged.

  Cecil and Nacho capped off the meeting with recruiting and training progress. Of the “new meat,” only Rick Wallace had been assessed into the containment team itself. The others were assigned to the TOC team. The Group had a training classroom on the 68th floor, where recruits were instructed on how to identify and hunt vamps. Almost all were ex-military or former federal security personnel, and hands-on training with firearms was also a priority.

  All in all, everything was secure. The threat situation was low, which left everyone happy and content.

  For now.

  ***

  She was as perfect as they came—dusky skin, long hair the color of pitch, and almond-shaped eyes so dark they almost matched her mane of midnight. Her breasts were on the small side, Tremaine observed, but that would certainly change. No one lasted in Los Angeles without undergoing some change… most certainly not so exquisite a creature as this.

  Tremaine’s hands swept across her smooth shoulders and down her chest, where he tweaked her nipples playfully before kneading her breasts more purposefully. The girl squirmed on the table before him, murmuring something in her native Vietnamese. Tremaine moved on after a time, his hands following the contour of her flat stomach before accelerating down the sweep of her hips. Yes, perfect…

  The crowning attribute that utterly endeared him to her was the five-inch penis between her spread legs, counterbalanced by a pair of small testicles, the scrotum shaved bare. The girl’s voyage into transsexuality was proceeding apace. Though she had been born an effeminate male, she still retained the most potent symbol of male virility, something that thrilled Tremaine to no end. There were times when Tremaine would take her out in public, to The Ivy, the Brown Derby, Miyagi’s… all these places she passed perfectly, with her accented—yet eminently feminine—voice and perfect poise. Her face betrayed no telltale signs of her birth sex that he could discern, and any that might be detected by a biological female were masked by the deft application of makeup. Tremaine knew she shared his pleasure at the joke they occasionally played on the residents of Los Angeles. Nothing made Hoa—Holly, to English-speakers—feel m
ore desirable and complete than to have the common John Q. Public lust after her. And many did.

  Tremaine prayed the Master would induct her into his Family, so that she could walk the landscapes of eternity frozen in this beautiful transgendered condition. He stroked her fully erect penis, as hard as his own despite the hormone regimen she was on. He could feel it flick upward against his fingers with every pulse. Hoa hated her manhood and wanted it reconfigured into a vagina so she could complete her journey. Tremaine allowed himself a rueful smile.

  If I have my way, darling, it will stay with you forever.

  They made love in a variety of positions, starting on the room service table on which she lay. Her rectum was tight and hot, gripping his well-lubricated penis like a satin glove as he slowly impelled himself into her. They started out slow and gentle, as always. By the time they made it to the bed, she had already erupted. Droplets of liquid ivory glittered like jewels in her crisp, black pubic hair. Tremaine pinned her to the bed and thrust into her with more purpose, his tongue against hers as she moaned and shuddered beneath him. At long last, his own orgasm was upon him. He withdrew from her and pushed himself to his knees. Hoa was quick to respond. She grabbed his thick phallus and stroked it powerfully. Tremaine screamed as he ejaculated all over her face and tongue.

  Later, after showering, he drove Hoa back to her home in Torrance, one of the many shoreline towns that composed the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area. At 21, she was still a student, and had final exams to prepare for.

  Once she was safely inside her small condominium, Tremaine spun his red Jaguar around and returned to the Hilton Checkers hotel. Relaxing in his well-appointed suite, he ordered a pot of coffee from room service and relieved himself in the marble-floored bathroom. As he washed his hands, he glanced at his reflection in the broad mirror spanning the wall over the white marble countertop. His dark hair was frosted with gray highlights, fissures lined his forehead, and his blue eyes were flanked by deepening crow’s feet. Tremaine frowned. No matter how often he exercised, how much sleep he got, how well he ate, age advanced on him like an inexorable tide. There was no denying it. At forty-nine, Reginald Tremaine, formerly of Gloucester, UK, was growing old.

  The thought fanned the bright ember of panic that burned deep inside him. He had to discharge his duties faithfully. Otherwise, he would have no shot at joining the Master’s Family. No chance at immortality.

  Tremaine returned to the room and swept open the drapes, allowing the bright sunlight to spill into the room. He gazed upon Grand Street below as he switched on his laptop. It was truly a remarkable day, and he wondered if he would miss days like this.

  He logged onto his laptop, then into his secure e-mail. While his verbal skills were excellent, Tremaine was not a natural writer. It would take hours to draft his report, proofread it, spell-check it, and send it off. The Master was an exacting sort.

  He was briefly interrupted by the room service attendant, who presented him with a sterling silver pot of gourmet espresso. Tremaine thanked the boy and sent him on his way with a five-dollar tip. It took almost an hour to generate the first draft, which included the mark’s name, residential and business addresses, employment confirmation, and a list of known associates. For this, Tremaine had found it necessary to enlist the paid services of a third party—a bail bondsman he had met in Winnetka who moonlighted as an unlicensed private detective. The man had provided some good information, as well as decent digital pictures of the mark, his wife, and his housing staff. Tremaine had learned the mark was mildly disenfranchised with his marriage, even though the couple had spent the last 30 years together. They had two children, one in Europe, the other in northern California. And the mark was a Jew, a God damned kike. Like many in the world, Tremaine had a loathing for Jewry, especially wealthy kikes. All of this, along with the digital photos, would hopefully serve to further the Master’s—and Tremaine’s—eventual goals.

  Finally, Tremaine was satisfied his work would pass muster. He sent the encrypted e-mail on its way. Job completed, coffee consumed, Tremaine changed into his swimming trunks and made his way to the rooftop pool area. After applying sun block, he stretched out in the warm sunshine on a lounge chair. Towering over him a block away was the ridiculous construction known as the U.S. Bank Tower, one of those glass monstrosities Americans could do so well or, in this case, so poorly. Tremaine was perhaps the only man for miles around—perhaps the only one in the entire city!—who knew that another family worked in that huge phallic upthrust. A family his Master wanted eradicated.

  Tremaine smiled. Whatever his Master wanted.

  ***

  The Bentley Brooklands was a wonderful car, by any standard an exquisite balance of luxury and automotive engineering, and Noam Schwimmer found it a joy to drive. At 73, he still enjoyed as heads turned to watch the two-door behemoth glide past. There was nothing better than being noticed in Los Angeles. Well, perhaps having money. Nothing beat that.

  Money… Schwimmer still had faith in money. No matter how much the world changed, only several million pieces of green-and-white paper separated him from the ranks of bums who slept on the oceanfront greens in Santa Monica and Hermosa Beach. Schwimmer had inherited his father’s coffin-making business. His father and uncle were the ones who had done all the hard work, building up a small yet vital industry into a revenue-generating enterprise that turned a tidy profit to the tune of one million dollars per year. But when Schwimmer had taken over the business, the fortunes multiplied tenfold. His father’s greatest weakness was his inability to take in the Big Picture. The Big Picture had nothing to do with making coffins so that Mary Ellen Peabody’s dearly departed mother could rest in peace in Calvary Cemetery or Hillside Memorial (if Mary Ellen Peabody came from money—after all, not everyone could enjoy the Eternal Sleep next to Jack Benny). No, the Big Picture had to do with making sure as many people as possible chose a Schwimmer as the dearly departed’s final vessel.

  That had only come about in the 1960s, when Schwimmer began buying mortuaries across Los Angeles, Orange, and Ventura counties. Not only did the mortuaries generate income on their own—everyone from Irish-Americans to Chinese immigrants needed a place for services—they were also a wonderful focal point to push the elaborate Schwimmer line of caskets. By the 1970s, Schwimmer had taken his father’s modest business and turned it into a regional empire.

  Schwimmer was guaranteed to never be one of the little people. It just couldn’t happen, not to a man who owned several homes across the nation and abroad, his own Gulfstream G550 business jet, and last but not least, the Brooklands. And to ensure his prominence, Schwimmer worked every day. He rose at six-thirty, breakfasted, then journeyed twenty-six miles to the south, where the warehouse and manufacturing complex lay in El Segundo, a small city just south of Los Angeles International Airport.

  Los Feliz was an exclusive region of the Los Angeles metro area because it catered to celebrities and old money. Schwimmer’s neighbors were cut from a different cloth than those from Santa Monica, retired movie stars, musicians, even one or two people like himself, captains of industry who had retired to a more tranquil life in their golden years. The Schwimmer residence was befitting a man of his stature, a large, sprawling Georgian-style mansion with windows that overlooked the curves of the hills above and the bright sweep of the city below. The black iron gates at the base of the steep driveway parted for him when he pressed the remote in the Brookland’s console. They closed behind him, separating him from the rest of the world.

  Schwimmer parked the Brookland next to Miriam’s silver Mercedes and checked his watch. 8:49PM. Rosario, the Schwimmers’ live-in chef and housekeeper, would have one of her tasty dishes ready and waiting for him. He looked forward to that.

  He stepped into the house and closed the door behind him. The entryway was dark, and his hard-soled shoes clicked as he walked across the vast entry hall’s polished marble floor.

  “Miriam! Rosario, I’m home!”

&n
bsp; He headed for the double staircase that led to the second level and shrugged off his navy blue blazer. He would change out of his suit and into something more casual before having dinner, then retreat to the den for a cigar and a snifter of cognac.

  “Miriam! I’m home!” The double doors leading to the master suite were closed, which was unusual. Schwimmer slung his jacket over his shoulder and depressed the satin chrome door handle. The wide doors swung open. He stopped in the threshold.

  Miriam and Rosario lay on the bed as if asleep. One of Miriam’s flat-soled shoes was missing, her freshly pedicured foot plainly visible through the sheer material of the ankle-high nylons she so loved. The lavender comforter covering the king-size bed was speckled with droplets of red. Schwimmer took a step toward them. He let his jacket fall to the floor.

  Blood, he thought absently.

  “Good evening, Noam.”

  In the sitting area to Schwimmer’s left, several people were clustered—two women and three men. Occupying the couch and lounge chairs, they were dressed in a fashion he was generally unfamiliar with, not those tawdry rags one might see on MTV—or Sunset Boulevard—but something more sublime, almost gothic, all blacks and indigos. They radiated a peculiar presence that made him feel almost ill, as if something dank and fetid had been shoved into his mouth.

  Schwimmer spun and raced toward the panic switch next to the bed.

  He had barely taken two steps when one of the women seated on the couch streaked past him in a dizzying blur. She snapped back into focus only a few feet before him and placed delicate hands the color of ivory on his shoulders. Though her hands were cold, he sensed they were strong enough to rend steel.

  Her eyes were silver-in-black, eerily seductive, eternally calming, entirely alien. Her gaze entranced him immediately, and his hammering heart began to slow. The woman’s fine, porcelain features barely creased as she smiled. Her soft grin revealed four fangs.