Nocturnal

by Mark Allen

  He turned on the light by pulling a white string that dangled down from above. The bare bulb swung overhead imbedded in a plain brass socket. Subpar black wiring held the assembly, dropping two feet below the peeling plaster ceiling. He gazed at himself in the mirror.

  The wall behind him was cinderblock, reinforced with rebar. Painted several times over the years – white, yellow, and the current faded, pale green that was so pale as too almost be colorless.

  He grabbed a cup, filled it halfway. Drank it down. He grimaced. The pipes were old, rusty, not up to code.

  But it was more than that. San Diego had a problem with its water table. The water was chock full of minerals and particulates, which effected the taste.

  He brushed his teeth, cupped one hand under the faucet. Water filled his palm, and sucked it into his mouth. When he had packed his go-bag prior to locking it in the buses terminal, he had forgotten to pack mouthwash or floss. So he made do with what he had.

  Reggie placed his toothbrush on the side of the porcelain lavatory, so old and worn it exhibited rings of rusty brown from the iron core underneath. He peeled off his underwear, stepped out of them. He turned on the shower, wondering how long he would wait for anything akin to warm water. True hot water was beyond his hopes in a dilapidated beachside dump.

  Suddenly frowning, Reggie strode out of the bathroom. He walked into the main area, glanced around. He padded to the bed, and reached under the pillow, still indented from the weight of his head. His fingers stretched, searching, until they touched something hard.

  Reggie’s hand encircled the grip of his handgun. He pulled it out from beneath the pillow. He smiled a bit, nodded, then turned and walked back into the bathroom. As he turned to enter the bathroom doorway, he glanced over at the main door that led outside. Door securely closed, knob lock locked, a security chain in position, deadbolt still in the locked position.

  About as secure as possible in a dump like this.

  He stepped inside the bathroom, looking for a good place to pre-stage his weapon, in case he needed to grab it fast. The cartel had eyes and ears everywhere.

  He settled on the trashcan. He dumped what little trash was in there onto the floor in the corner behind the toilet. Then he turned the can upside down and placed it beside the shower at the back. He placed his handgun atop the inverted can, muzzle pointing towards the door. Reggie quickly closed and locked the bathroom door, then stood at the shower once more, beside the trashcan, familiarizing himself with this eye line in case the worst actually happened.

  Warmth and humidity quickly changed the enclosed room with the inadequate ventilation. Steam smudged the mirror. He smiled. He was actually going to get a hot shower.

  He stepped into the tub and pulled the shower curtain, the tiny metal rings singing their song along the aluminum rod above his head. The thin sheet of decorative plastic unfurled along the way. Satisfied he would not splash water onto his handgun waiting on the other side of the curtain, Reggie turned his attention to the shower itself.

  Water dumped, an upside down steam geyser from the water spigot. He reached out and grabbed a tiny metal toggle switch just above the spigot. The toggle was pointed down. He pushed it to the up position. The downward geyser immediately ceased, follow by an audible and visible vibration from the exposed pipes that lead upwards to the antique shower head above, encrusted with decades of hard water deposits.

  Hot water exploded from the showerhead, pelting Reggie’s head, face and body, thousands of hot, tiny, wet needles. It felt wonderful. He opened up the paper wrapper on the tiny bar of soap. There was no washcloth in the bathroom, so he soaped up as best he could. He rinsed off quickly, and stood motionless under the showerhead, the gentle sting of the hot water slicing into his pores, running furious rivulets down his skin.

  He breathed deeply, his rib cage expanding, his lungs filling with wet air. He felt heady, engulfed by that euphoria that comes from an influx of oxygen into the bloodstream. He exhaled, forcefully, through his mouth. He had to keep his head in the game. He could not allow himself to stop and smell the roses, so to speak. Even a temporary, seemingly innocuous distraction could prove fatal, if an attack came at that very instant when he was not aware of his surroundings.

  Reggie reached down and turned the water off. Lingering water already in momentum inside the pipe, continued to drip from the showerhead. He stood in silence. He could not even hear his own breathing. He concentrated, listening for any sound on the other side of the curtain. On the other side of the bathroom door. Within the apartment beyond.

  He did not hear anything. Somehow, tonight, that did not bring him any comfort. He knew the remnants of El Gecko’s men, and the men El Gecko had worked for, would be out in force tonight, trying to track him down and kill him. They had to. It was a matter of honor with them.

  It was also a matter of survival. They had to kill him, and kill him quickly, promptly, or other organizations would see them as being soft, weak. Vulnerable for a “hostile takeover”, which usually meant a lot of blood and a lot of bodies as the outside group fought to wrestle the business and the revenue from El Gecko’s bosses.

  Reggie gently pushed the curtain aside, from right to left, gingerly trying to not generate a lot of noise as the metal rings scraped along the aluminum tubing above his head. He still heard nothing. Still sensed no threat.

  Good.

  He stepped out of the shower and onto the floor mat. He shook excess water off his hand, picked up his handgun to move it out of the way. His fingers curled around the worn cotton towel underneath it, lifted it up away from the upside down trashcan. He placed his handgun back atop the trashcan, and toweled off quickly, efficiently.

  He folded the towel over once lengthwise, then hung it from the imitation chrome towel rack attached to the cinderblock wall. He noted as he turned away that the whole rack bowed a bit under the weight of just the one towel.

  He picked up his handgun, made sure the safety was still on. Satisfied, he twisted the dull door handle and pushed the door open. Steam billowed out, pushed into the blackened room by the air movement created by the door movement. He padded across the forty-year-old shag carpeting – did they even make that stuff anymore? – to his bed. He tossed his handgun down. He grabbed his duffle off the floor, tossed it onto the rumple sheets in front of him.

  He unzipped the bag, began pulling out fresh clothing. He stepped into new underwear first, then pulled up his dark green pants to buckle them around his waist. He faltered a moment, looking at two different shirts, trying to figure out which one he would wear.

  The moment lingered. Reggie could not make up his mind. His eyes moved back and forth between his two choices.

  “I’d go with the black mock turtle.”

  The voice from the far dark corner of the room, even though spoken softly, exploded through the silence. Reggie, startled, eyes wide, dove for his handgun, flicked the safety off, and aimed at the darkness.

  “Freeze, motherfucker,” he growled.

  He sensed no movement in the room. Whoever it was, was using the darkness as cover. Like a goddamned ninja or something. Concentrating and squinting in the gloom, Reggie thought he could just make out the barest beginnings of a shadow. More amorphous than anything else.

  He retrained his weapon slightly, pointing more directly at where he perceived the threat to be. “Okay, dickwad,” he said. “Come out slowly with your hands where I can see them.”

  “Dickwad?” the voice responded. It sounded as if whoever was there was trying to keep from laughing. “That’s amusing, Reginald.”

  Looking down the length of the barrel of his handgun, putting his sight right in the center of where the voice was coming from, Reggie’s brain hit a fog bank. Something recognizable about the voice. Something half-remembered.

  “Wait a minute.” His voice was unsure, faltering.

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve met before.”

  “Very good.” The person in the shadows
seemed genuinely pleased to be remembered. Perhaps it was a rare occurrence for him.

  “Step out of the shadows. Come into the light. Let me see your hands.”

  The figure moved slowly, serpentine. Like coils unrolling, revealing themselves slowly, luxuriously. Like blurred wisps of smoke on a moonless night, all fog and darkness began to coalesce.

  Into a dark solid mass.

  He moved laterally in measured steps, careful to not alarm the already frightened police officer holding a large caliber firearm, zeroed in with a laser like focus on everything he did.

  The vampire stepped forward out of the shadows. His hands out to his sides, palms open, empty, and facing forward. Reggie truly saw him for the first time.

  He wore dark pants, expensive, and shoots of good quality, a navy mock turtle of his own, and a long duster-like, black trench coat, with the top collar popped up, hiding a part of his lower jaw. Moisture from outside still beaded on the waterproof material. He wore wraparound sunglasses, black and opaque, completely hiding his eyes. His frame was thin, almost slight. To the casual observer, he might appear frail.

  Gaunt, Reggie thought. The man is gaunt.

  And pale, Reggie’s mind confirmed. Very pale. This disturbed him more than anything else up to this point.

  Translucent. Yeah, that’s the word. It was like his skin was fucking translucent, or something. Reggie could just barely make out a thin, spiderweb-like latticework of blue blood vessels underneath the yellowish skin on his cheeks and chin.

  Reggie continued to scrutinize this... very strange, completely unique person. Average height, maybe five eight, five nine, tops. No taller, of that he was certain. Long face, angular features. Sloping nose, high cheekbones, pointed chin. Thin, colorless lips gave this guy’s mouth a cruel look. Like his mouth was not really a part of his body, but just a gash in his lower face that occasionally opened up.

  And then there was the dark hair. Lank. Limp. Like it wasn’t even alive. What the hell was wrong with his hair?

  Then Reggie really figured out what was wrong. He put it all together, the look, the hair, the skin. White, lifeless, sallow, with a bloodless, almost yellowish or grayish hue.

  “That’s far enough.”

  The vampire stopped.

  “Any weapons on you?”

  “Not in your definition of the term.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I carry no gun or knife. I have no need for them..”

  “Sit down.”

  The vampire obeyed. He sat down on a decades old, decades out of style chair with a plain wooden back consisting of two upright spines and a single, curved piece of wood about six inches wide connected and glued between the two. The upholstered seat had lost its dubious cushioning long ago. The chair creaked under his weight as he sat.

  The vampire crossed his legs easily, held his palms out, upwards. The corners of his mouth lifted into a patient smile, his teeth still hidden beneath his lips.

  “Okay,” Reggie started. “Let’s start with the basics. Who are you?”

  “Someone who has taken a special interest in your continued well being,” the vampire answered. “Someone who does not want to see you murdered by the cartel.” He slowly leaned forward in his chair. “Someone who can help you track down the traitor in your ranks who betrayed you.”

  Then he eased back in the chair again.

  Reggie’s handgun stayed pointing at the vampire’s chest. The vampire noticed the muzzle never wavered, never trembled. He allowed Reggie to continue to believe he was in control of this situation.

  “So tell me the truth,” Reggie said. “You’re with the cartel?”

  “No.”

  “You a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Then how the hell do you think you can help me?”

  The vampire folded his hands in front of his stomach. “I bring unique abilities to the table.”

  “Like what you did at the ship? How’d you do that, by the way?”

  The vampire now looked directly at the nervous policeman. “I can say the words, convey the thoughts. But it may be quite difficult for you to accept them.” The vampire paused briefly to let that sink in. “You see, my dear young officer, my... abilities arise from the reality what I am.”

  Reggie frowned slightly, confused. “And what, exactly, is the reality of what you are?”

  “You will not like it.”

  “I already don’t like it.”

  “You will not believe it.”

  “I probably won’t.”

  “I am a vampire.”

  Reggie stood there, stock-still. His stomach heaved a little; his mind asked himself if he had truly heard what he thought he had just heard. But outwardly, his facial expression did not change. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he responded at last.

  “You wound me, young man,” he spoke with an edge to his voice. “I would never lie to you. And you offend me at the suggestion.”

  “Well then, please forgive me, sir.” The tone was thinly veiled sarcasm.

  The vampire rankled, moved slowly in his chair. “If I am to help you, we cannot move forward like this.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You must first be amenable to my help. You must understand, accept, and believe I am indeed, a vampire.”

  A grin struggled across Reggie’s mouth. “Just to clarify, when you say vampire, you’re talking about drinking blood, coffins, crosses, all that shit, right?”

  “I drink blood to survive,” the vampire answered. “I don’t do coffins. Too claustrophobic. I lie in a bed, in a dark room under the protection of some ridiculously thick and heavy, and rather musty curtains. As far as crosses go, I find myself rather fond of them. More specifically, what they represent.”

  “And what do they represent?”

  “God, goodness, compassion, kindness. Redemption,” he added after a pause. “I believe in the existence of God, make no mistake about that. I just do not understand his intent. Maybe someday I will have a chance to ask Him about it.”

  “Dude, I think you’re one of the most convincing con men I’ve ever seen.”

  The vampire cocked his head slightly. Reggie watched him reach up, grip the earpiece of his sunglasses within the tips of three long, slender fingers. Reggie frowned a bit again. He had not noticed the long slim fingers earlier, or the long, pointed, claw like fingernails.

  The vampire slowly removed his sunglasses, revealing his huge, crystalline, black eyeballs. They looked like two polished obsidian orbs. Reggie actually took a half step back. In credit to his training and professionalism, he did not panic. He did not scream. The gun muzzle never moved off its target.

  The vampire was impressed. He blinked his eyes, then smiled. He opened his mouth, bared his fangs. The frown furrows across Reggie’s forehead deepened.

  Still sitting as comfortably as he could sit in such an uncomfortable chair, the vampire unfolded his hands, but kept his legs crossed. He gave Reggie a moment to take it all in.

  “We shall now conduct... an experiment,” the vampire announced.

  “W – what?”

  “An experiment,” the vampire replied. “We’re going to test a theory under controlled conditions and observe the outcome. Like the scientific experiments you enjoyed so much in college chemistry.”

  “How did you now I had a blast in chemistry in college?”

  “I know a great many things about you, young man. And I must tell you, I have become a fan of you. Both as a cop, and as a human being. You’re a good man, Reginald Downing. Your heart is n the right place. Your mother and grandmother did a wonderful job raising you. You make me proud.”

  Reggie heard the genuine pride in this person’s voice. But he heard something else mixed in the tone, too. Was it... ? No, it couldn’t be. Did he notice genuine affection?

  Reggie zeroed back in on the moment. “What about your experiment?”

  “Ah yes. The experiment.”

 
“Just to satisfy my own morbid curiosity, what do you have in mind? I mean, how do you intend to prove to me that you’re a vampire, like out of an old Christopher Lee movie?”

  The vampire grinned. “Ah, yes. Christopher Lee. My favorite.” Then the vampire looked at Reggie, dead serious, with those disconcerting black, lifeless eyes. “I want you to shoot me in the chest.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Rest assured, you shall not succeed,” the vampire said with utmost confidence. “But I want you to try.”

  “Why?”

  “It is crucial to the success of the experiment.”

  “But why? Why do you want me to shoot you?”

  The vampire smiled, his fangs showing again. It creeped Reggie out.

  “I shall anticipate the moment you begin to squeeze the trigger,” the vampire said. “I will wrench the gun from your hand before you have a chance to squeeze off a round. Now, it may hurt your hand a bit,” the vampire warned, “but rest assured, it is not my intent to injure you in any way.”

  Reggie turned this over in his mind. The vampire simply sat there, smiling, showing his fangs, his black eyes, though dancing, were as dead as a corpse, and as cold as the grave.

  Reggie’s finger began to tighten around the trigger.

  Moving so fast he could only be seen as a blur, the vampire bolted from the chair, sped across the room, and wrenched the gun out of Reggie’s hand before Reggie could react.

  Reggie’s eyes grew wide once more. His mouth dropped. Sweat popped out across his forehead and upper lip. His pulse shot up to over one hundred.

  The vampire smiled warmly, trying to be disarming. He expertly spun the gun around his hand and extended his arm towards Reggie. He was offering the gun back to him, grip first, the muzzle pointed at his own chest.

  Respect.

  Reggie, mouth still open in shock, reached out tentatively, eyes darting back and forth between the grip of his gun and the vampire’s face. The vampire stood still, an undead statue. Reggie’s fingers curled around the gun’s grip and squeezed tight to handle the weight. The vampire’s own talons uncurled and retracted, allowing Reggie to control of his weapon.