And then last December happened. Z Day, the press called it. Hundreds of zombies swarmed the city streets and many humans died. A war was nearly declared, but the attacks ended as quickly as they had begun. The number of the Night Things seemed to dwindle after that, even as February came and winter continued to rake the city. Many regulars to the Children of the Moon shelter vanished without explanation. The ones who returned after the zombie attacks seemed to be suffering from PTSD. I counseled them the best I could and dug for answers.
And this is where I found myself shortly before I died, sitting with a client and trying desperately to understand the event that had mysteriously washed away so many.
Colisa Rollins was a werewolf. She was also the leader of the city shifters. She was vital and sexy. Empowered and assured. But something had changed her. She looked more like her own mousy fraternal twin at that moment. She had let her hair grow and taken her piercings out. She had traded her leather and spike heels for sweats and a trench coat. Her beautiful blue eyes were tucked behind sunglasses and she always seemed to hug herself for assurance. She had been a flirt and a joker. But now she was a hollow matryoshka doll.
She sat across from me and stared at the office wall.
"Colisa, what happened to you?" I asked her.
"Wow, you can really kick ass," she said, and it was the first sentence that had come from her mouth since her arrival.
Behind me were several photos snapped at Karate tournaments and my pro fights.
"If I need to, I can take care of myself," I admitted, and I wasn't boasting. It was the truth.
"Why did you give up on the fighting career?" Colisa asked, warming up a bit.
"I lost a front tooth," I said, opening my mouth and pointing to an implant. "I decided I wanted to chew food with my own teeth. At least, while I was still young."
"Did you put those pictures up there to intimidate us?" she asked. "Let us know you can handle yourself?"
"Yes," I admitted. "Not all of the Night Things that come in here are as warm and friendly as you."
Colisa nodded and silence claimed her again.
"Colisa, for the past two months I have been watching you wilt away. You come to our appointments, have your full moon responder checked, and then you leave. You have barely talked to me."
"Its not personal, okay," Colisa said. "I have gone through some heavy shit."
"Is this connected to December?" I asked. "Z Day?"
She took her sunglasses off and her eyes found me. "I can't talk to you about that stuff, Carol. None of us can. Something happened under the streets. Two major mother fucking spooks went at it and we choose the wrong horse to bet on. A shit load of my friends are gone. There isn't a pack in the city, right now. All of the shifters are hiding. We're done."
"Why can't you trust me?"
"It's not about trust," she said. "It's a Night Thing… thing. There are situations in our circles that humans shouldn't know about. I'm actually trying to protect you by not telling you."
"So why are you here, Colisa?"
"I'm leaving. I just wanted to say goodbye."
"Where are you going?"
"As far as forty bucks will take me from this burg," Colisa said.
I reached for my purse.
"No," Colisa said firmly.
"Take it," I said, offering all of the money I had. "Just text me that you are safe and keep up on your responder. Don't lose track of the lunar phases."
She nodded and smiled softly. "I won't."
Colisa took the money and left my office. She took off into the cold of the night and I was sure I'd never see her again.
I stepped out of my office and walked to the break room. It was six pm and dark already. We kept late hours at the shelter as many of our clients required a night shift to keep appointments.
Erin Maher sat on the dumpy couch in the break room and watched the flat screen on the wall. She was a semi-retired volunteer who took a lot of breaks. I smiled at her and walked toward the coffee machine.
"Top of the night to you, Erin," I said cheerily.
"I love your hair," she said, adjusting her old lady glasses. "It's lush, long and dark as midnight. Is it your natural?"
"Nope. Comes from a box," I said, filling a mug with legal speed.
Erin gasped and hiked the volume up on the television. "It's your boyfriend again," she teased.
I looked to the television screen. Johnny Stücke was holding yet another press conference. A lower third text banner read Johnny Stücke: Benefactor or Beast? on the screen as he spoke from a podium in front of his building.
He was gray-skinned, scarred and big as a house. He wore a black trench coat that could have warmed three normal-sized men at the same time. The monster was charismatic and captivating and I was a bit obsessed with him. Johnny Stücke was king of the Night Things. And I was a fan.
"I won't be fielding questions today, ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice booming. "I want to make a brief statement regarding the allegations that have been leveled at me since coming into the public eye."
"Could you imagine being… intimate with a monster like that?" Erin said with a curious chuckle.
"Be quiet a second. I want to hear this," I said, interrupting her corset-ripper fantasy.
"Some of my past business dealings have been scrutinized recently. I am in no way involved in any type of organized crime. As far as the adult film industry goes, I have investments made on my behalf by a dozen money men and accountants. I was mortified to discover that my legitimately earned income was producing such sleaze. I come from a much more puritanical era, and pornography is not something I wish to be associated with. Any ties to these types of shady businesses were severed months ago."
"What about the Night Things?" a reporter called out despite the ground rules of the press conference. "Is it true that you rule them?"
"The man said no questions," a nearby publicist stepped up and said into the microphone.
Johnny gently pushed the man away. "It's okay. I'll answer that. I have lived in this city for ninety years. I have discreetly kept the Night Things in check the whole while. When Z Day occurred, I stepped up and used my own finances and men to take this city back. I protected this island and its people. While the NYPD Spook Squad dealt with the worker ants in the streets, I invaded the ant hill below the metropolis and killed the up rise at its source. Because I love this city. I love this country. I am a taxpayer and father to two human orphans and I sponsor many charitable organizations."
"You runnin' for mayor?" another voice asked loudly.
Johnny Stücke smiled at this. "Thank you for your time."
Johnny turned and walked back toward his building. His entourage swallowed him and a barrage of questions followed.
"He should run," Erin said, dropping the volume on the television. "If he can control the Night Things, it'd be a no-brainer."
***
My work shift had ended and I had a date with a hot bubble bath and my DVR. I was the last person out of Children of the Full Moon. It was five am, and cold enough for snow. I started the short walk to the subway when I heard a loud whimpering from the alleyway of the shelter.
I took the narrow step and saw two figures huddled on the ground. The frightened ghoul on the pavement I recognized right away. His name was Woody. He was a regular to the shelter. He dealt with Erin, most of the time. He was slight, bald and a dead ringer for Bat Boy. He stared up at a black man with braided hair in a bomber jacket. The mugger glowered over Woody. He pointed a machete at Woody's pug nose. The helpless ghoul stared up, his eyes wincing and a fearful pant escaping from his pale lips.
"Where is he?" the man said, and I recognized a Haitian accent right away. "Where is Dracula?"
"He's dead," Woody said, pressing back against the filthy brick wall. "He died on Z Day. Everyone knows."
"I sensed him after Z Day. But it was faint and then he disappeared," the man said. "I know he survived. And I will torture eve
ry Night Thing I come across until I find him."
The man stuck the tip of the machete into Woody's shoulder and the ghoul screeched. Smoke came from the wound. The machete was silver-tipped.
"Hey!" I said, taking off my jacket and approaching the pair. "Get away from him!"
The man pulled the weapon free and turned his angry and hateful eyes my way. He was two things I love in a man: ruggedly handsome and dangerous. But picking on a ghoul was pretty close to kicking kittens in my book. Ghouls were only a danger to dead things.
"This does not concern you. You need to go away," the machete wielding bully warned.
"He's my friend and you are going to leave him alone."
"Or?" the man said, with a cocky smirk. "You will stop me?"
"Yeah."
I stepped up and gave him a punch to his smug face.
He fell back, startled, and wiped blood from his nose. "I don't want to hurt you," he said. "I only give pain to the monsters."
"Well, I really, really want to hurt you," I said, giving him a spinning kick to the side of his head.
He sprang up, quicker than I thought he would, and he gave me a back-handed strike across my cheek. I went down, spun around, and swept his legs. He fell hard to the concrete. He scrambled back up and away. He had his machete in his hand.
"You know, it is really going to hurt when I stick that blade up your ass," I said, getting into my defensive stance.
He smiled admiringly and backed away.
"You are a feròs fanm, but you fight for the wrong side," he said. "Don't trust these Night Things. They are here to destroy us all."
He vanished in the darkness.
I rushed to Woody. His mouth trembled and his shark teeth glowed in the dark.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes," he said breathlessly. "Thank you. He would have killed me."
"Who was he?"
"His name is Abraham Janvier. They call him the Medicine Man. He comes from a long line of shadow hunters," Woody told me. And then his voice dropped to a whisper as he added, "He can't be killed."
"He's a Night Thing?" I asked, rubbing my sore cheek.
"No, he is something else," Woody said.
"He mentioned Dracula. Was he talking about the Dracula?"
"How many Draculas have you heard of?" Woody said, as I helped him to his feet.
"What is happening in the Night Thing community, Woody? Come on. You owe me. I just saved your butt."
Woody sighed and brushed his jacket. "Carol, I would answer any question you have, but I came to Manhattan a week after Z Day. No one is talking about it in anything but whispers. I don't think the city brood trusts me yet."
"But you heard Dracula was killed?" I said.
"Yes. That kind of news is going to circulate. But I don't have the hows or whys. I do know that the Medicine Man has been on a tear since Z Day. He claims that Dracula survived and he thinks we are hiding him somewhere. He has a real hard-on for the king vampire. A vendetta, obviously."
I nodded, satisfied that Woody was being honest.
"Carol, is there an open cot in the shelter?" Woody asked, glancing around the alley cautiously. "I don't want to sleep out here tonight. Especially with this wound."
He showed me his shoulder. His jacket around the injury was wet and black.
"Can I patch you up?"
"No, it'll heal fine. But there are things out here that smell blood."
"All of the cots are filled. We have three zombies crashing tonight, our legal limit, and I don't trust you not to have a midnight snack. But you can sleep in my office, okay? On the floor. Just don't touch anything."
"Thank you," Woody said, relieved and grateful. He gave me a huge hug.
It was a sweet gesture, but the stench hit me and I mourned the blouse I was wearing. The stink would never come out.
"All right, don't get sappy," I said, pulling away. "Come on. I am going to get you situated."
***
I took the subway to my co-op building in Astoria and made good on my promises of relaxation. I had inherited the unit from my grandparents. It was small, quaint and needed upgrades I couldn't afford at that time. I would have unloaded it for a decent chunk of change if it hadn't been for low utilities and maintenance fees.
Dawn was coming by the time I settled into my bed. I turned on my television and was immediately assaulted by an ad promoting the R.I.P. system. A cross fade of people spanning ages and ethnicities stared into the camera while dramatic music swelled. They all had the same message: "I want to rest in peace." The last to make this gentle proclamation was a little pig-tailed girl who squeezed a teddy bear.
Then a warm voice informed the viewer that having a metal rod shoved through their eye socket soon after death was covered by most insurances. A rebroadcast of the evening news was playing. I reached for my DVR control and paused after hearing the broadcaster state: "And now we have an exclusive interview with two figures on either side of the Night Things issue. From his penthouse here in Manhattan, the widely regarded spokesman of the Night Things, Johnny Stücke. Returning with us from the R.I.P. office in Quantico, Virginia is media spokesperson and co-founder of Residents in Peril, Shaun Ginder. Thank you, gentlemen, for joining me tonight."
Both men popped onto the television on split screen next to veteran anchorman, Vern Hemlin. They spoke over each other softly as they greeted Vern.
"Let's start with you, Shaun. The R.I.P. has been getting much attention and support since Z Day last December. You are considered the media face for the organization and for the first time you are sharing air space with Johnny Stücke, who has recently emerged as the self-appointed spokesperson and leader of the Night Things. What would you like to say to him?"
Shaun looked like a cross between snake oil salesman and religious leader. His bright, innocent face dismissed pleasantries and he got down to business right away.
"Mr. Stücke, you contend that you led an army against the zombie up rise but have been reluctant to give a full account of just what happened. Isn't it true that you organized the zombie riots just to maneuver your debut to the world? To appear as a savior?"
Johnny smiled calmly and spoke. "No, Mr. Ginder. I didn't arrange a dangerous display like that for publicity. I have always valued my privacy. I had existed quietly next to man a very long time before the Night Things appeared. But after Z Day, I felt it was my civic duty to expose myself and step up. I have given pertinent details to the local and federal authorities. It is up to them to declassify that information. I have been asked not to speak about it in great detail."
"Who gave you the authority to intercede when it was the duty of law enforcement?"
"Had I not used my resources to combat it, the causalities would have been great. It would have been the spark a new Dark Age needs."
"Let me jump in, gentlemen," Vern interrupted. "Mr. Stücke-"
"Johnny, Vern."
Vern restarted. "Johnny. Are you pro-death? There has been a huge push for the R.I.P. process. Many humans are utilizing the procedure at the time of their passing."
"Yes. Absolutely. I don't begrudge any who seek peace. It is their corpse, and they should be able to decide on such a monumental matter."
"Would it surprise you to learn that twenty-five percent of the business at authorized R.I.P. centers come from Night Things?" Shaun asked Stücke. "I guess for many being a monster isn't a viable option. That goes to show the quality of their… existence."
"Becoming a Night Thing is a very difficult process and the hate and xenophobia we experience doesn't help. At the core of every creature out there, you can find the seed of humanity. Living in a hostile and dangerous environment isn't an easy thing to adapt to."
"Well, monsters aren't easy for the world to adapt to. They are our greatest threat."
"If you look at crime statistics across the globe, humans inflict a great deal more in the departments of murder and violent crime. You make us look like amateurs."
"Y
our history is a violent one," Shaun said. "You sought vengeance against humanity."
"That was a long time ago, and I have learned that the best revenge is success and happiness," Johnny replied. "We are all works in progress, Shaun."
3.
The Red Card
I felt like a ghost the next day. Working the graveyard shift was a schedule my body could never quite get used to. Whether at work or leisure, I always felt half there at best. It didn't help that I had agreed to come in early to keep an appointment with a newly turned zombie. I wasn't accustomed to seeing the day through my office window.
Michael Halfred had been a zombie for less than a month. He had just been released from the Z Station quarantine center on Staten Island and he had been deposited by bus at my shelter. He had been an accountant when he lived. He was a small unassuming man who was now lost and frightened.
"I have nothing," he said. He sat across from me in Goodwill clothes and his eyes barely rose above the floor as he talked. "When this happens, you lose everything."
"It's traumatic," I agreed. "Have you sent the papers to your family notifying them? You know you cannot approach anyone, friend or blood relation, until they have been served the notices, right?"
"Yes. I had one sent to my wife," Michael said, cleaning his horn-rimmed glasses with his sweatshirt. He didn't need them anymore, but many zombies held on to little things like that. "I sent it when I went to the new life center."
"Has she responded?" I asked.
Michael nodded. "She has declined my request. She wants nothing to do with me."
I nodded solemnly. "You have to respect that. Don't take it personally. It's hard for many people."
Michael took a moment before he continued. "It isn't fair. I am entitled to zero. Money. Property. Possessions. I can't even have the people I loved in my life unless they sign a piece of paper. And I can't have more than two of my own kind around me."
Night Things: The Monster Collection Page 17