The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon

by Baker, Scott M.

  How could Roach not react to this information? Instead, he shoved his head up his ass and refused to acknowledge reality, coming up with this insipid rationale about chemicals that when mixed with narcotics created spontaneous combustion, a mantra Roach repeated so often Preston thought Roach believed it. That was the extent of his action—to explain away the situation rather than confront it. Never mind that the evidence pointed to a major threat to Washington. We’ll distort the facts or ignore them entirely. If Roach could not get over that mental block, then he sure as hell would never take the steps necessary to stop this threat. Roach merely delayed the inevitable and allowed the undead to grow stronger in the process. The vampires would eventually come out and feed in the open. By then, it would be too late to stop them. That was one clusterfuck of a train wreck Preston wanted to avoid.

  Preston knew for certain that the public would eventually become aware of this. A month ago, no one knew anything about the presence of vampires in Washington. Now it had become the worst kept secret. The security personnel at the Metro and the morgue who prepared the CD-ROMs of the security tapes. The sewer worker who had been attacked. A rapidly growing number of cops on the force. And every one of their family, friends, and colleagues who they talked to. Sure, none of them had the entire story, and probably would never put all the pieces together. But if enough people started talking, the scattered bits of information would take on a life of their own. Once that happened, someone in the media would begin investigating, and at that point it wouldn’t be too difficult to unearth the truth.

  Hell, Jessica Reynolds already must have figured it out, especially since they had kidnapped her. He couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t yet published her story, and assumed that either her or her editor were not yet ready to risk their careers by going public.

  Right now, Drake Matthews presented the biggest threat to keeping the existence of the undead under wraps. On average, the police were arresting Matthews or a member of his group once a week, or could at least place them at the scene of an incident. God only knew how many incidents they were involved in which the police never knew about. Both Matthews and the police were interested in keeping his activities secret. Nonetheless, every time he burnt a bridge, or wrecked a tourist attraction, or engaged in a gunfight with the undead, or blew up a portion of the sewers, he attracted public attention. Preston could not figure out why more reporters like Miss Reynolds had not latched onto the story, although the likelihood of that happening seemed inevitable. As long as Matthews and his group remained free, they hastened the day that the public would become aware of the vampires terrorizing Washington, and the bedlam that would follow.

  Preston took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. This time he felt much more at ease because he realized what had to be done.

  Going over to his desk, Preston opened the top drawer and removed the CD-ROM containing the compilation of security camera footage from the morgue. He knew he should show it to Roach and try to convince him of the threat they faced. He would have, if he thought it would do any good. Preston felt certain, however, that Roach would concoct some rationale to explain it away. Roach was a good cop, which explained how he got to be promoted to chief of police. When it came to politics, though, he didn’t have a clue about how to act, and the chief’s job required a politician more than a cop. Roach should have thrown Matthews and the others in jail a long time ago and tossed away the key. When the mayor asked for their release, as he always did, Roach should have reminded the mayor that they worked for the citizens of Washington and not some anonymous benefactor. But to do that would have required balls, which Roach had traded in for his chief’s badge.

  Preston snapped the CD-ROM in half and tossed the pieces into the wastebasket.

  He would bide his time and watch how events transpired, carefully positioning himself with regards to the threat. At some point this would come to a head, and he felt confident Roach would be unable to handle the situation. When Roach stumbled, Preston would move in, take over as chief, and do what had to be done to clean out the nest.

  In the meantime, Preston needed to find a way to neutralize Drake Matthews and his group, even if he had to manufacture it himself.

  Less than one hundred yards away, Rodriguez sat at his own desk, throwing its contents into the waste basket, but for different reasons. Rather than disposing of evidence, he tidied up clutter and gathered his belongings. Even though only suspended from the force, he would not be coming back.

  He had considered arguing with Roach and Preston, but why bother? The two of them already had made up their minds. Neither were concerned by Hanley’s claim that the undead had come back to life on the mortician’s table, and that Rodriguez had to behead the thing to survive. They were more concerned that he had filed a false report. The same held true for the incident in the sewer during the raid on the row house. Not a word about the thing that attacked them down the tunnel, that bullets had no effect on it, or that when set on fire it crumbled into dust. They were more concerned about his not arresting Drake Matthews and the others, and in his not reporting the details.

  Rodriguez could almost forgive Roach, but not quite. Maybe Roach didn’t comprehend the severity of the situation, being unable to see the danger in the forest through the bureaucratic trees. Maybe he was just being poorly advised and believed that bad drugs were causing spontaneous combustion among its users. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Rodriguez knew there wasn’t anything personal in Roach’s suspending him.

  Preston, on the other hand, could go fuck himself. That self-serving little prick knew damn well what they faced. Preston and Rodriguez had both watched the CD-ROM showing what took place at the morgue. Only a fool could watch it and believe otherwise, and Preston was no fool. Preston and Rodriguez were both doing the same thing—not being dumb enough to commit to the record that Washington faced a threat from the undead. The difference was that Preston would get away with it.

  Fuck it. Let Preston cover his political ass and ignore the threat. Rodriguez couldn’t care less. By the time the vampires over ran the city, he and his family would be long gone. Then Preston and Roach could pull their own butts out of the fire.

  Placing the last of his belongings in the empty printer paper box, Rodriguez gave his desk one final look over. He noticed the red light flashing on his phone voice mail. At first he considered ignoring it, but since he would never be back, he decided to check it out. Rodriguez picked up the receiver, pressed the MAIL button, and punched in his pass code. A few seconds passed before the message played.

  “Officer Rodriguez, this is Jessica Reynolds with The Washington Standard. I’m working on the Michael Fletcher case and was hoping to interview you, or at least get an official statement. When you get a chance, please call me back.” Jessica left her office and cell phone numbers.

  Jessica Reynolds. That name sounded familiar. Then he remembered. That was Drake Matthews’ reporter friend, the one who had been arrested for assaulting Wilson during the attack on the sewer workers. Usually he hated hearing from the media. Not this time.

  Rodriguez replayed the message, this time jotting down the two phone numbers onto a notepad. He tore off the top sheet, folded it in half, and slid the piece of paper into his shirt pocket. He then deleted the message from his answering machine.

  Maybe he could do something about this situation after all.

  * * *

  Reese opened the Bible with the excited anticipation of a seven-year-old unwrapping his birthday gifts, albeit one showing considerable restraint. When the museum opened at ten o’clock, it required every ounce of will power not to rush down to the archives room and pull out Ferrar’s diary. Thankfully, common sense prevailed. He took his time, waiting for the other researchers to take their books before retrieving the basswood case containing Ferrar’s ceremonial Bible. Once back at his work station, Reese removed the Bible from its case, slid the pages out from under the front cover, and began translating where he had
left off.

  On the third day we tried the fire. As we tied Carius to the floor and doused his feet in oil, I thought I detected a touch of fear in his voice as he blasphemed all that is holy about our Church. But when we positioned his feet near the flames, his fear—if indeed it was fear—did not prevent him from continuing his stream of invectives against God and from spewing forth the most disgusting and vile blasphemies about the Holy Virgin Mother.

  From the ultimate evil can flow the ultimate blessings, and that was when I discovered by the grace of our All Merciful God the demon’s weakness.

  Upon hearing such profanity aimed at our Holy Virgin Mother, I succumbed to the sin of anger and lashed out at Carius. Taking the only object at my disposal—the bowl of holy water in the sacramental font—I tossed it on him, hoping to stun him into silence. Instead, I opened the gates of hell.

  Carius cried out with an intensity I have never heard before. Whereas three days of interrogation barely left a mark on Carius, the holy water burned him, searing the flesh and inflicting unbearable agony. I watched him writhe in his restraints, howling, disoriented by fear, pain, and disbelief. In his frenzy, Carius partially broke his restraints and nearly overpowered three guards. He relented in his attempt to escape only after I threatened to douse him again with holy water. Carius calmed down and allowed himself to be returned to his cell where he now rests. He is bound by twice as many chains as before, and guarded by twice as many sentries, each armed with a flask filled with holy water.

  I know not what evil possesses this man’s soul, or if he even has a soul left to possess. Tomorrow I will begin researching whatever demon it is that haunts this man. If there is even the slightest chance of redemption for Carius, then I must try.

  30 September 1485

  The creature that lies in our jail is not possessed by evil. He is the incantation of evil itself, a man with a soul long since consigned to hell. My research indicates we are dealing with a vampirus, or a vampiro according to lay people. One of the undead. Legend states that vampirus were once men whose souls were forfeited to Satan, some voluntarily, others being forced to do so against their will. Their very existence mocks our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, for vampirus are immortal, sinful, and live off of the blood of man. Their only weaknesses are holy water, fire, sunlight—items of purity.

  I know I should destroy this thing. My duty as a representative of God’s Church on earth compels me to do so. However, my duty as an inquisitor compels me to interrogate Carius, to discover the true depths of this evil, and to offer one final chance for the redemption of his sins and the salvation of what remains of his soul. I beseech Thee, oh Lord, to guide me and let Thy will be done.

  In the meantime, for the sake of my guards, I have taken precautions to protect them. Ever since burning Carius with holy water three nights ago, he has been particularly vehement in insulting and blaspheming the guards, even threatening harm to their families. They are afraid that Carius might break his bonds and turn them into the undead. Or worse, that by being so close to evil, they may themselves become tainted and suffer damnation. Drastic action needed to be taken to assuage their fears. I devised a method that hopefully will keep the vampirus contained. The guards triple tied and triple chained Carius, then placed him in a coffin that was tightly sealed. The coffin was placed into a large tub set up in Carius’ cell, which was filled with holy water. Carius will be kept there until I decide what to do with him.

  2 October 1485

  Last night, the answer came to me while I slept.

  I moved Carius’ interrogation chamber from the dungeon to a hall on the main floor dominated by windows, each of which was covered by heavy curtains. In the morning, when the sun had safely risen above the horizon, the guards brought Carius’ coffin from his cell to the interrogation chamber. Carius must have realized that, having discovered his vulnerability, we would use it against him, for when we opened his coffin he fought back with the strength of a demon. He nearly overpowered all five guards until I pulled back one of the curtains, bathing one corner of the hall in sunlight. I threatened to open them all unless he allowed us to proceed. Fearful of death, he relented.

  Since only holy water appears to have an effect on Carius, I again placed him on the strappado and inserted the cloth down his throat. This time, I soaked the cloth with holy water.

  The effects of pouring holy water on the cloth were instantaneous—and horrifying. As the cloth became saturated, Carius thrashed around violently, trying to break his restraints. Then the choking began, as if he were suffocating. One of the guards withdrew the cloth, only to find it soaked with blood. Carius hacked for several minutes, spitting up frothy blood and chunks of lung. Yet, still, the vampirus would not confess his sins and ask for redemption, and through a scratchy voice began blaspheming us with increased ferocity. Now, rather than contempt, I detected fear in his voice.

  Carius underwent five additional strappado sessions. Each time, he suffered unspeakable agony. And each time, he refused to confess his sins and ask for redemption. After the seventh session, however, Carius could take no more. With wisps of white smoke flowing from his ravaged lungs with each exhalation, and with a raspy voice barely audible due to the searing of his throat, Carius related his story.

  Born in 1321 to a family of merchants in Barcelona, Carius was a university professor in his hometown, a good Christian who loved God and his family. That life ended in 1348 when the Black Death swept across Spain. A hoard of vampirus followed the plague, using the disaster to feed unnoticed. Carius became one of their victims, attacked one night on the way home from lecturing at the university, dragged into an alley, and drained of blood. He awoke the next night, one of the undead.

  Over the next two days, Carius related a litany of sins and depravations from his life as a vampirus, a vile and disturbing history that I dare not commit to paper. In truth, the recounting of these horrors is unimportant. Not once during his confession did Carius show remorse or repentance. Not once did he seek forgiveness or ask for absolution. In fact, his recounting was not so much a confession as a prideful boasting of his sins, a mirror reflecting on a blackened soul.

  However, Carius did mention two facts of interest.

  First, he provided the names of other vampirus like himself, demons who are undead but can take on human form when necessary. Most live outside of Spain and are not within our reach. Three live within the realm, one each in Madrid, Barcelona, and Salamanca. I have ordered these vampirus be arrested and brought to Aljaferia under the same restraints we are currently using for Carius.

  Second, because of his education, Carius was tasked by the Master to write a book detailing the history of the vampirus. Carius keeps it hidden in his residence, but told me where I could find it. I have dispatched a guard to retrieve it.

  3 October 1485

  The guard brought me Carius’ book today. It is titled Vampyrnomicon and is repulsive in every aspect. The book is bound in human skin. The text, which is in Spanish, is written in blood. I will read it later, though I fear what it contains.

  5 October 1485

  May God have mercy on my soul, but I’ve begun feeding Carius. I only want to provide enough sustenance to keep him alive in case we need to interrogate him further, and for him to face judgment. Since he thrives only on blood, finding food has been difficult—rats, hares, and whatever small animals I can scrounge up.

  13 October 1485

  The other three vampirus have been brought to Aljaferia. I am keeping them locked up under the same conditions as Carius—sealed in coffins immersed in tubs of holy water. None of them know about the arrest of the others. Two days ago, I began their interrogations using strappados, again soaking the cloth in holy water. Two vampirus eventually confessed, one after two sessions, the other after nine. Each related a story similar to Carius, of being turned into the undead against their will and of lives debased by evil and carnality. Each revealed the other vampirus they knew. Eight in total. In addition to
Carius and each other, they named two more in Europe and one each in Madrid and Gibraltar. I have dispatched guards to apprehend the two Spanish vampirus and bring them here.

  The third vampirus was strong willed and refused to talk. Over two days I conducted fourteen strappado sessions. The vampirus railed against his captors and threatened his interrogators, and blasphemed God and all that was holy. He never revealed anything about himself or other vampirus. We will never know whether he might have eventually talked, for during the fourteenth session, while pouring holy water on the cloth lodged in his throat, the vampirus experienced a particularly violent reaction. He thrashed around and arched his back until I thought his spine would snap. A dark spot appeared on his chest, growing rapidly. The chest caved in, the flesh and organs within turning to dust. Blood gushed from the opening, spurting in the air like a fountain, bathing us and the strappado in blood. Decay washed over the vampirus. Within thirty seconds, the demon had disintegrated, returning to dust from which life originated.

  After this episode, one of my guards had experienced enough. He came to me tonight and said he could take no more, having become afraid for his sanity and his salvation. We prayed, I blessed him, and we bid each other farewell. I do not blame him. If my duty to God and Church did not compel me to remain here to exorcise this evil, I would have joined him.

  16 October 1485

  I finished reading the Vampyrnomicon tonight, and wished I had never heard of it. It mocks Christianity and challenges my faith. If even a portion of what is written is accurate—and God, how I fear that it is—then mankind faces an evil far greater, and far more dangerous, than anything foretold in the Bible. This book bore the darkest secret of the vampirus. I would dismiss this book as the ramblings of an insane man if I had not personally witnessed the interrogation of Carius and the other vampirus. I should destroy this book and cleanse the world of what is within its pages were it not for the passages it contained on how to confront and defeat the vampirus. I only wish I had the moral and spiritual strength to confront the vampirus myself. Since I do not, I am at a loss over what course of action to take, and will seek the Lord’s guidance.