"It is still weird," Brad said. "I have to use my digital recorder to make sure my clothes match before I leave the house. And we look like shit on digital."
"It is the most difficult thing for a vampire to get used to. It can cause depression and a feeling of isolation. Do you have a dresser mirror?"
"Yes."
"Replace it with a flat screen and connect a web cam to the TV that will feed an image of your bedroom. Let it run around the clock. When you step in your room, you will always see yourself."
"Wow. That's a great idea."
There was a commotion. People stormed in through the entrance.
"Death to all the Night Things and their sympathizers!" an angry voice declared.
Then, the shots started. "Shit, Brad, get out of here."
He turned into mist and zipped away. I would have congratulated him, but I was already rushing to the hallway.
Four men in heavy jackets and ski masks were poking Uzis into each office and spraying death. I heard screams and the stench of silver wounds quickly filled the air. The attackers turned and scouted back up the hallway. My office was an easy one to miss. My door was in a recess that caused an optical illusion. My new patients always had to be shown my office.
The gunfire ended. I heard heavy steps quickly scrambling up the hallway. Erin whimpered.
"One is getting away!" a gruff voice issued.
"Get her!" the leader commanded.
I first watched as Erin moved on all fours quicker than I would have expected. Then, as I heard the gunman stepping quickly toward her, I braced myself and when he was near, I grabbed him and hauled him into my office. He hit the floor hard.
I stepped on the hand that was reaching for the Uzi. I kicked him in the face with my other foot. He fell back, dazed, and I pulled the ski mask off of him. He was young and his features were light but hard and hateful. He blinked out of the confusion and stared up at me.
"Hey, we missed this room!"
I heard a commotion at my door. I turned and the gunman gave no warning. He filled my chest with silver. I fell to the floor, my body numbing. I spat blood as my lungs exploded.
The face of the assailant I had grabbed looked down at me, regretfully.
"I am sorry about this lady. It wasn't personal."
"Vic, get your God damn mask back on!"
He did and then quickly followed his partners out of the building. I shook and choked and then it was done.
I was dead.
6.
Meanwhile, at Johnny Stücke's Penthouse…
Johnny Stücke was a monster. A popular monster, these days. But a monster all the same. Since showing his scarred face to humanity after Z Day, he had amassed a staggering amount of both supporters and detractors. He was different, in many ways, from the creature that had risen from a mad doctor's operating table. But he was still a fiend, when he had to be.
The girl on the other side of the door he gently rapped upon was a supporter. Or so he hoped. Some days he wasn't sure. But with a teenaged girl, that was a dilemma most human parents must have dealt with as well.
"Holly. It's me," he said softly.
"Come in."
Johnny entered and closed the door gently behind him. Holly sat on her bed. She wore her pajamas and her dark red hair had been brushed back for sleep. She gave him a smile that was meant for his benefit only. Johnny noticed Holly's boxes, still congregated on the floor and half-filled.
"Are you packing up?" he asked.
"No. I still haven't unpacked all of my stuff," she said.
"It's been two months, sweetie. Should I have Victor put your stuff away for you?"
"No. Please," Holly said. "I'll do it. Tomorrow."
Johnny looked at the bare walls. "Put up some posters. Make the joint your own."
"Mommy never let me do that. She didn't want holes in the walls."
"I don't have a problem with tack holes. Knock yourself out."
Holly gave another fake smile. "Okay."
"Holly, I know I am not a substitute for your parents. I have pledged to be your legal guardian and protector. But I want you to be happy here."
"I am," Holly insisted. "Most of the time. I just get angry and sad over it all."
"I understand. Sheila told me you have been saying some pretty scary stuff about the Night Things. Some very vivid and violent things."
"She wasn't supposed to tell you. She made a pinky swear," Holly said.
"She's concerned. And she looks at things much more optimistically than you. It is perfectly natural for you to harbor some ill will for those who did you harm. But you won't have much quality of life unless you learn to deal with the pain in a healthy manner. Hate is a very heavy thing."
"How would you deal with someone who killed your mother and kidnapped you?" Holly said, blackly. "Would you get over it?"
"I think you know how I would handle it. But I am cursed with that type of existence. You aren't."
Holly thought for a moment. "I'm tired," she said, shifting under her blankets.
"Of course. But we need to talk more about things. Good night, angel."
Johnny walked to the door and turned off her light.
"Johnny?" she asked. "Did Dracula suffer when my daddy stabbed him through the heart?"
"Yes. Very much so."
"Good," came her cold reply.
***
Johnny warmed himself in front of his fireplace. Chopin played softly from the turntable near his desk. The elevator doors to his penthouse opened and he knew who occupied it without looking.
"Come in, Abraham."
Johnny turned and Abraham Janvier stepped into the greeting room.
"You summoned me?" he asked with curious indifference.
No one did stone-face better than Mr. Janvier, Johnny mused. "I want to talk to you about your responsibilities on the streets."
"This a performance review?"
"It is a clarification of duties," Johnny offered. "I hear you've been taking the Night Kopis out of the dust and Sunday driving with it. Trying to locate Dracula."
"I don't need a magical weapon to know the bloodsucker lives," Abraham said. "He tasted my blood and I sense his continued existence."
"That thing will drain your life-force. It is only to be used for special circumstances. It'll kill you."
"Death doesn't stop me."
"Until you father a child, returning is a curse with benefits."
"I would die a thousand times to destroy Dracula."
"You have to get something clear. Dracula is done," Johnny said. "We fucked him up very badly and even if he somehow survived, he's hobbled. Maybe forever. He ain't our problem. I swear if I ever find him, I'll personally gift wrap him for you."
"He may not be near or alive enough to buzz the Kopis, but he is out there," Abraham insisted.
"The Kopis isn't your personal map app. If you don't stop abusing it, I will take it away."
"Fair enough."
"When you came back, I gave you everything you needed to patrol the streets and police the Night Things. These distractions are interfering with that job. And you need to stop terrorizing everything out there. The Night Things need to know that if they follow the rules, they have nothing to fear from you. Dracula's supporters are still around, few though they may be. Quench your thirst on them."
Abraham nodded and digested the assessment. "I will try to do better. I will put Dracula aside for now."
"Vendettas are cancerous. Put your eyes on the prize."
"And what is that prize?" Abraham asked. "What's the endgame?"
"No games. No diabolical plots. That was Dracula's bag. I just want to broaden the peace. Let's all grab the little happiness we can in the down time. You do your job on the streets. I'll do what I can from up here. I have one more favor to ask. It would be an activity that would cut down on your free time. You can decline."
"What is it?"
"I want you to train Holly Hack to defend herself," John
ny said, lighting a cigar. "She will always be a target. She needs guidance. Glass has been trying, but his style is a bit too smash mouth for her."
"That little girl has all of the fuel she needs to destroy herself," Abraham observed. "Or many others."
"Well, I can't keep her here forever, and she is pulling on the leash already. Gary Hack's death put her in an even more intensely dark place. I promised the man I would protect her, but she is smart and resourceful. It will only be a matter of time before she seeks retribution for the death of her parents. Maybe she can slay a few metaphorical dragons under your wing."
"I will help her all I can," Abraham agreed.
Glass, the moody African-American right hand of Stücke, came in from the hallway. "Boss! You know that Night Things shelter in the East Village?"
"I should. I have been quietly funding them since their inception."
"Shit, man. You better turn on the news," Glass said, grimly.
7.
When Johnny met Herbert
The Bronx, NY
November 18th, 1930
Herbert West arrived at the address the telegram had carried. The building had a tired sign, hard to see in the night, that advertised tire warehouse. But that was a likely story. He didn't know what he was getting into, but good patrons were hard to find, and his research required funding.
He stepped inside, seeing a barren kingdom of pallets and dust in the low light.
"Hello?" he called out. "I am looking for a gentleman by the name of Johnny Stücke?"
"Up here," a deep voice responded.
Herbert adjusted his glasses and spotted an upper office fed by a gray staircase. He ascended to the top, and spotted a large man seated at an expensive and polished desk. The man wore darkness. The only visible part of him under the office lamp was his left arm. A cigar burned between his fingers.
"Sit," he instructed.
Herbert pulled the meeting chair out and filled it.
"So, you've moved recently to the city. Arkham too quiet a place?"
"I was finding academia tiresome. There are boundaries to keep you from truly spreading your wings. It was too restrictive. I felt it was time to grow," Herbert explained.
"Now, see, I heard a slightly different version of your departure," Stücke said, keeping his mask of shadow tight. "I heard you got thrown out of Miskatonic over some pretty serious allegations. Misappropriation of cadavers, I believe was the official charge."
"That isn't correct," Herbert said, his usually calm demeanor receding. "I had all of the documentation to clear me of the charges."
"There was a bloodbath at your home lab. A bunch of monstrosities were caught wandering the graveyard near your place and your closest colleague mysteriously disappeared. It took every penny of the funding you had to square it with the authorities and then you arrived here with a suit that needed pressing and just enough change for a cup of coffee."
Herbert stared hard at the shadowy form. "Let's not play games. You obviously know who I am and what my research involves. How can I help you, Mr. Stücke?"
The hand grabbed the flexible throat of the desk lamp and twisted it upward. The creature's monstrous face now illuminated, Herbert stared deeply. He wasn't afraid. If Johnny Stücke's dramatic reveal had been meant to draw fear from him, then the monster had failed miserably. Herbert West was no stranger to horrors. But what he beheld still took his breath away. It was either a monster or a man who would easily be mistaken for one in any light.
"My word," Herbert said softly. "What are you?"
"One of a kind," Stücke said with a grin.
"Am I to take it that Mary Shelley's opus was based on fact?"
"I was indeed the inspiration."
"That novel made me what I am," Herbert confessed. "The heavy-handed morality was… distracting. But it definitely inspired the man you see before you. I would give greatly to hear that tale."
"It is one reserved for close colleagues and friends only," Stücke said.
"Then I now aspire to be both," Herbert said, arching forward for a closer look at the gray and scarred face before him.
"You and I reside in a dark place outside of normal society. You are a man of vision but most would see your work as morbid."
"I work only toward the preservation of life," Herbert said. "But no, none understand. They are mired in their superstitions and gods."
"I had a personal physician for many years. But he passed recently from old age and neglect. Doctors seldom tend to their own health. I am strong, but things give sometimes."
Stücke held up a lame right hand. The fingers were stuck in a permanent gnarl. "He tried his best, but the quality of his work was affected by his decline. I need someone who can fix this."
Herbert stood and bent toward the hand. "The work is… adequate. But I can definitely improve on it. Did your doctor's hands tremble a lot? The stitching is awful."
"Yeah," Stücke said.
Herbert sat back down. "Your unique chemistry could help me in my own researches. I should be paying you."
"If it is a more agreeable arrangement," Stücke teased.
"No, unfortunately I will need your backing."
"So, I'll fund your research and you will keep me from falling apart?"
"I will make you better," Herbert promised boldly. "My mind is already swirling with possibilities."
Stücke regarded his pathetic hand. "Best not to shake on it, I think."
8.
Carol Haddon: After Death (Part Two)
In medias res. That's Latin. Roughly translated, it means "in the middle of things." This is where we started at the beginning of my tale. And if you thought you had missed something because you had to have the large popcorn and the snack line was long, don't worry.
Moments after my reanimation, I broke free from my restraints. I had Herbert West on the floor, choking the life from him. My bare ass was sticking out of a hospital gown and twelve or more angry zombies were encouraging me from behind a thick observation window.
The man didn't panic. He gave up trying to loosen my hands and he managed to snag the silver medical tray I had spilled to the ground. He gripped it tight and slapped me upside the head with it. I let him go and fell back, more surprised than injured. He stood up quickly, coughing and holding the tray in front of him. I growled and found my feet as well. I came at him. And then I saw my reflection in the tray. I paused, the anger and confusion melting away as I spotted my gray and cold face in the reflection. Herbert noticed this, and held the tray like a fancy mirror.
"Yes," he said softly. "Yes Carol, that is you."
I looked deeply at my eyes. They were gray, but not the same dull color of my skin. They seemed to glow. Everything sank in. I took a moment to process it all. And then I regarded Herbert.
"I attacked you," I said softly. "I'm sorry."
Herbert lowered the tray. "You're not the first experiment to go for my throat. It's been an occupational hazard for years. Do you understand what is happening here?"
I nodded. "My office was attacked. I was killed. You did something to me that brought me back."
I looked to the agitated cluster of undead behind the window. "Am I one of them?"
"No," Herbert said, dropping the tray to the floor. "You are nothing like them. They are victims of the zombie virus. I tested your blood before I reanimated you. You don't carry the virus. I wouldn't have used my formula, had you. Bringing back a Night Thing can have… disastrous consequences."
There were a million things invading my reawakened brain, but I couldn't pull myself away from the plight of the zombies. "Why do you have them locked up like that?"
"I have been researching the horde frequency. I am trying to find a way to suppress it. Unfortunately, I need a group to create the frequency so I can run my tests. They all volunteered. They knew what was at stake."
Herbert smiled, and I could tell he didn't do that often. "Carol, you have no idea what a monumental moment this is." He took
my arm gently and steered me to the window. "Do you feel anything in your head? Hear music, whispers or buzzing?"
I stood and stared at my new cousins. "No. I feel some sympathy, but that's about it."
Herbert cried out in joy and wrapped his arms around me. He pulled away quickly. "I'm sorry. I am not usually given to outbursts like that. Carol, the creatures my serum brings back are not the same as the zombies created by the virus. But they all fall right into the frequency. They may be cruder, more violent and less intelligent, but they become zombies, if exposed to the mind group."
I could see where he was going. "But I'm not."
Herbert shook his head and grinned. "No. You are the first experiment of mine to resist the horde frequency. You hold the key to eliminating it. We need not fear a massive attack, like Z Day, again. And these poor bastards can congregate, as they please."
"That's huge," I said, tabling my own dilemma at the prospect. "How do we do this?"
"I need to test your blood."
Suddenly, I felt my energy slipping.
"I'm tired. I don't think I have ever felt more exhausted."
"Reanimation is a grueling process. Come on. I have a guest room. Rest. We'll begin when you have the strength for it."
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