by Kathryn Hore
‘What are you scared of Rich, the mill? It’s just an old building, you dumb shit.’ Frankie shrugged his shoulders. ‘If there are any ghosts, you’ll be joining them soon. You can all haunt me together.’
Richie cast a sideways glance at the crumbling pulp mill. It felt even colder up close, like it was sucking the life out of the air itself. He didn’t like the way it made him feel like he was being watched.
As they neared the truck, Frankie stopped several metres from the motionless figure and shoved Richie aside. ‘Hey... hey, arsehole! Turn around, so I can shoot you in the face.’
The man turned to face them. Richie dropped to his knees for the second time. Frankie’s jaw hung slack.
‘Shit!’
The visage staring back at Frank was that of the man he had executed five years before. At least, it was at first. Though it was difficult to tell for sure in the dull afternoon light, the face seemed to exist in a state of flux. First angular with a wispy moustache, then pear-shaped and clean-shaven, then fat and double-chinned. Calabrian, Sicilian, it mimicked the variation of human facial structures, but always in perpetual motion.
‘Nooo!’ Frank screamed. He backed away as the shadowy figure closed the gap between them with uncanny speed. Frank fired point-blank once, twice, a third time. The bullets smacked into the man’s face, which seemed to open up and swallow them within its fleshy folds. Strong, wiry fingers closed around Frankie’s neck, and he stared into the dead eyes of his victims, one after another. The Glock fell into the dirt.
‘Richie...’ he gasped.
Kneeling in the mud, Richie saw Frank’s eyes bulging.
‘Richie... help meee!’
Richie saw the gun lying at the feet of the two figures, but thought better of it. Frankie let out a keening whine as one of the hands moved from his throat and crept up his face. Richie stood transfixed as two of the fingers dug into Frankie’s eye sockets and squeezed. Richie heard a sound like a boot crushing a blowfish and saw a stream of viscera ooze between those skeletal fingers. Frankie bellowed in pain.
Then Richie was running, pounding the dirt. He ran toward the river. He looked back to see the thing drop Frankie and point a long bony finger straight at him. Its eyes seemed to glow. Richie saw the car sitting on the hill beyond the outstretched arm. Then he turned and fled into the bush.
He tore through thick foliage which grabbed at him like gnarled fingers, and splashed along the shallows, not daring to look back. After a while, he slowed and stood, hands on his knees, panting. He listened for any sound, but the world was dead and silent. He hurried on, moving as far away from that awful scene as possible.
As he ran, he played scenarios out in his head. Frankie knew about him and Angelica, Enzo did as well. That meant that the Mob would have already whacked her. Christ, what was he thinking, crossing the Family? He couldn’t go back, ever. He needed transportation. He should double back to the car. Then he would have wheels and a gun. He’d rather face the Mob than that thing back there. Maybe it only wanted Frankie. Maybe it had gone now. But it had pointed right at him. Christ!
Richie slowed to a walk. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. He could hear the river somewhere in front of him. It was pitch black, no moonlight filtered through the clouds. There was no sound of movement from the forest. He was sure that thing was not chasing him. He allowed a flicker of hope to penetrate his despair. If he could find the river and follow it, maybe he could retrace his steps, get to the car, even if it meant going past that mill again. It seemed the best option.
If only there were light to guide him. Then, as if in answer to his prayers, he saw a shimmer through the branches. It flickered in the night sky, like a million tiny lights being switched on.
‘Stars,’ he said.
Richie felt a surge of relief. He could use the stars to navigate his path out of the bush.
He moved toward the sound of the flowing water and focused on the stars. They shone like spun gold through the canopy, seeming to form patterns. Then Richie stopped in his tracks, his heart hammering. He saw the dark edifice of the mill loom before him. He spun in a circle as the glittering orbs encroached upon him from all sides, and realised too late that they were not stars at all.
BLOODLUST
Steve Cameron
I was checking in at reception when I felt the presence of someone standing close behind me. Not waiting for the clerk, waiting for me. White flowers sat in a tall jade vase on the counter. I closed my weary eyes for a moment, relishing the cool fragrant air and trying to imagine who it could be. I decided I’d let them make the first move, and opened my eyes once more. The clerk smiled, passed me my card and key, and I slipped them into my wallet. Grabbing my shoulder bag, I turned to leave without so much as a glance behind me.
‘Toby McAllister.’ A statement, not a question.
I stopped and turned around. The speaker was a rotund middle-aged Chinese man. Medium height, short thick hair, thin lips. He wore an expensive grey suit, but most importantly, he was holding out his police identification.
‘Malaysian Police. I’m Inspector Chim,’ he said, and gestured toward the lobby bar. ‘Please, if I could have a moment of your time.’
‘What’s this all about?’ I asked.
He gestured to the bar once more. ‘Please.’
I sighed. ‘Inspector, I’ve just flown in from Melbourne. I’m hot and tired and need a shower.’ I paused. ‘If it’s not urgent, you can see me tomorrow. Otherwise, please just tell me what this is about.’
He shrugged. ‘OK, Mr McAllister. Your life is in danger.’
Needless to say, we went to the bar.
#
We sat opposite each other on leather couches, between us sprawled a low table. The Inspector drank a scotch while I sipped a pinot gris.
‘You’re not what I imagined, Mr McAllister. You don’t look like a private detective.’
Which is true, I don’t. I’m thirty-seven, but regularly pass as ten years younger. I’m medium height, quite slim, and have short wavy blond hair. My eyes are blue and I have a face that an ex-girlfriend once described as ‘pleasing’, whatever that means.
‘So why is my life in danger, Inspector Chim?’ I took a sip of my wine.
‘I’m not going to beat around the bush. I know all about you. We need to trust each other here. We need to commence this conversation from the same point of reference.’
‘Which is?’
‘Vampires.’ He smiled, and leaned back as though savouring a victory. My eyebrows lifted in surprise, not at the existence of vampires but that Chim knew about my involvement with the clans.
‘Vampires,’ I repeated.
He flipped open a small notebook and read. ‘Twelve years with Victoria Police, including time in the Homicide squad. Six years as a private detective. Last year you did some work on Victor Wallace, the head of the Melbourne clan. Now you take cases which, shall we say, have a paranormal element.’
‘You have done your homework. Where did you get all this information from?’
‘I have friends in Melbourne, Mr McAllister. I lived there for three years and did my undergraduate at Deakin University.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Vampires, Melbourne, Victor Wallace. Why would my life be in danger here in Kuala Lumpur?’
He dropped his notebook back into his jacket pocket. ‘Roland Lee. Mean anything to you?’
‘Sure.’ I frowned. ‘I remember Roland Lee. I ran across him last year. He was an Australian-Chinese vampire who got bloodlust. The clan prefers to remain hidden nowadays, but he was bringing them unwanted attention. Rather than be discreet by having the occasional light feed, he returned to the old ways and ripped out a couple of throats before he was taken care of.’
‘By you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m an investigator, not a killer. He was staked by federal agents. I was there at the time though.’
‘Not a killer? Not even of vampires?’
‘Not even of vampires,’ I said
.
‘That’s not how the story was told here, Mr McAllister. Roland’s cousin, Jimmy, is a hot-headed young vampire. He believes you’re responsible.’ He paused. ‘And I have received intelligence he knows you’re here and wants his revenge.’
#
The elevator foyer was shiny, all mirrors and glass. Chim and I were reflected on ten different surfaces, in ten different ways. Two pale girls, determined and confident, strode past. Blonde in a purple satin jumpsuit, brunette in a tight red miniskirt. Their heels clacked on the tiled floor. Barely out of their teens. Gorgeous, I thought.
‘Russian hookers,’ snorted Chim.
There was a soft chime and the doors swished open. ‘I’ll get changed and be back soon,’ I said.
He nodded.
#
Chim seemed like a decent guy, so I took him up on his dinner offer. As we stepped out of the hotel onto the apron, the day’s remnant heat slapped me and I suddenly felt very weary. The street was busy, traffic at a standstill in a darkening canyon of neon and illuminated signs. Ten-metre-tall models gazed at us from department store billboards. Love awesomely, declared one. Celebrate the auspicious, screamed another in large, gaudy letters. Chim’s car arrived and we clambered into the back where it was cool and comfortable. The driver eased out into the traffic, and we sat in silence. I gazed out the window at the crowded footpaths as the traffic stopped and started, stopped and started. Mothers in hijabs and niqabs watched impassively as their children scampered ahead of them. Young women on mobile phones tottered past while herds of men in suits watched them with longing. Teenagers laughed and took photos of each other and themselves. The City Centre complex of plazas and malls was a shifting mosaic of colour and activity. Kuala Lumpur came alive in the cool of the evening.
‘Walking through the KLCC underpass would have been faster,’ I said.
Chim said nothing.
Finally, after a couple of right turns through easier traffic, we pulled up outside a chrome and glass skyscraper. I stared for a moment at the Petronas Towers which dominated the skyline, brightly illuminated against the dark sky like a photographic negative. They were so close I felt I could almost reach out and touch them. Chim ignored me and walked through the revolving doors into the building. I had to scamper to catch him.
Midnight Monsoon was on the fifteenth floor. The restaurant was quite full, and I could hear the gentle murmur of conversing couples. The maître d’ said nothing as we entered, then nodded and guided us to a table, white tablecloth, silver cutlery and flickering candle in the low light. The night view of the ghostly towers filled the window alongside us. As we sat, Chim and the maître d’ conversed in Chinese before departing. Chim was obviously a regular.
‘I took the liberty of ordering wine for us both,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘So what’s the fascination with Malaysia? You come here often.’
‘About once a year on holiday,’ I conceded. ‘I first visited with my parents when I was young, and I fell in love with the place. I can relax here; forget about my workload for a week or two. I enjoy the food, the culture, and I like the people.’ I shrugged. ‘I have an old friend here. I’m catching up with her tomorrow night.’
Inspector Chim’s eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to say something. But he quickly closed it and stood as we were joined by an elderly Chinese man armed with a bottle of wine.
‘Mr Fong, good to see you again,’ said Chim. ‘This is Mr McAllister, from Australia.’
I stood also, and thrust out my hand. Mr Fong smiled, and put down the bottle. Then he clasped mine and we shook.
‘Sorry about the cold hand,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been out in the cool room sorting wine.’
I smiled. ‘Come now, Mr Fong. I’m not stupid. How long have you been undead?’
Fong glanced at Chim. ‘He’s quick, this one.’ He chuckled, then turned back to me. ‘I’ve been undead for a hundred and thirty-seven years. I’m the chief of the KL clan. I hear Jimmy Lee is looking for you.’
‘So I’ve been told. You do realise I had nothing to do with his cousin’s death.’
‘May I?’ said Fong, and he indicated the third seat at the table. We all sat. ‘It doesn’t matter what I believe,’ he answered. ‘Jimmy believes it, and there’s no way to convince him otherwise.’
‘Can’t you take care of him?’ I asked.
‘Jimmy has the bloodlust. He’s out of control and won’t acquiesce to our authority. He’s formed his own faction, along with a few dim-witted followers. I have spread the word to leave you alone, but I fear it will be to no avail.’ Fong opened the wine, poured three glasses, and said, ‘It’s on the house.’
I raised my glass, as did Chim and Fong, and we all drank.
‘In Melbourne, the clan chief, Victor Wallace, takes care of those who get the bloodlust.’
‘We would if we could.’ Fong spread his hands. ‘But he’s gone underground. We’re searching for him, but I fear he will find you before we can find him. We don’t want to attract unnecessary attention to ourselves, but if anything happened to you, there could be an international incident.’
‘And that would bring attention to the Clan from my government,’ offered Chim.
‘Exactly,’ said Fong. ‘May I suggest you return home as soon as possible? I’m sure the good inspector would pass a message to you once it was safe for you to return to KL.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m not going to run just because a vampire threatens me. I work among the clans in Melbourne. My job would be nigh on impossible should they hear I ran from Jimmy Lee. I have a reputation to maintain.’
‘An attitude that may see you killed. Very well, Mr McAllister. I wish you luck, and I will do what I can,’ said Fong. He stood. ‘May I recommend the sirloin steak? The chef selected them this morning.’ He shook both our hands and departed.
‘Steak?’ I said to Chim as we sat.
He nodded. ‘Midnight Monsoon has the best western cuisine in KL.’
‘I’m on vacation. I was hoping for Malaysian.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s my money, my choice. But call Mr Fong back if you want. Perhaps he can ask his chef to pour some satay sauce over it for you.’
#
My footsteps echoed along the underground passage as I walked through KLCC on my way back to my hotel in Bukit Bintang. I could hear the laughter of girls coming from ahead of me, but I could not see them or anyone else. The lights reflected off the tiled floors, while the murals and advertising on the walls stretched into the distance. Although Chim had insisted I be driven home, I had refused. I needed to stretch my legs, to clear my head and to think.
I could not believe Jimmy Lee was ready to kill me for something I had not done. I could not even imagine why he thought I was even involved. No one at home questioned the death of Roland. None of the clan in Melbourne harboured any grudge. Yet here I was, and the KL underworld thought me a killer.
There was no doubt Roland deserved to die. His bloodlust had caused the violent deaths of three people, three innocents. He had turned feral, and was out of control.
No, he had had to die.
But I was a detective, an investigator, not a killer. Even as a cop, I had loathed carrying a firearm. And when I made detective, I had pretty much stopped arming myself altogether. My echoed footfalls continued, the only sound in the passageway. I suddenly realised I could no longer hear the girls’ laughter. I stopped, and took a breath. It was quiet, unnaturally so. Slowly I turned, and fifteen metres behind me stood a tall man wearing sunglasses and dressed in black. Black pants, shirt and leather overcoat. His shoulder-length hair was swept back.
‘McAllister,’ he called softly.
‘Jimmy Lee,’ I said in response. ‘I didn’t kill Roland, if that’s what you think.’
He shook his head slowly from side to side, tutting as he did so. ‘McAllister, is that the best you can do? We both know you killed Roland. We
both know you must die!’ And with that, he screamed in rage and started running toward me.
I turned. I ran. I had no weapon, and I could hear the rhythmic pounding of his boots on the tiled floor. I pumped my legs as hard as I could. My arms flashing, my heart beating, my breath heavy. I quickly looked over my shoulder and saw that he was closer. He ran effortlessly, as vampires can. Ahead, in the distance, I could see the exit I needed. But I still had to reach it. And then I had to climb the stairs. And then I had to lose myself in a throng of people. And with each step, Jimmy was getting closer.
One foot after the other, I kept running. I almost slipped as my foot hit a patch of water, but somehow I managed to remain upright. Another glance. He was closer still, only five metres or so behind me. He screamed once more, a scream that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I pushed my legs to run faster, but they were going as quickly as they could. Just ahead, I saw an exit to the left. It wasn’t the one for Bukit Bintang, and I had no idea where it emerged. Would it lead me into a crowd of shoppers where I might seek safety, or would it end in a dark alleyway where I would be trapped and have no chance of surviving? I decided to continue running to the exit I was familiar with. He was closer now, real close, and I fancied I could feel his breath on my neck — although this was surely just my imagination. As I ran past the exit on my left, I noticed two shadows step into the main tunnel. For a moment, I considered screaming at them, telling them to run before they got hurt. But it was me that Jimmy wanted, and while he was on my tail, he wouldn’t pause to hurt innocents. Stopping would only ensure my death.
With every step, I waited for his hand to grab my neck, his nails to rip my flesh. He would then drag me down and hold me, his fangs slowly extending before he’d lean in and sink his teeth into me like a rabid animal. I risked a glance behind me once more, and shuddered to an abrupt halt. I was shocked to see two men in dark suits standing side by side, their backs to me and wooden stakes held high. On the far side of them, Jimmy paced savagely.