Vampire Miami

by Philip Tucker

  “My Omni?” asked Selah as they hustled down the hall. Hector stood in the doorway, arms crossed, glaring at them both. Maria Elena gave him a nervous smile, ducked her head, and slipped past him and back out into the nexus. Selah felt a pang, muffled though it was by exhaustion. Her father’s Omni. What was she going to do without it?

  Back into the blue light and music. Out into the entrance hall, then through the doorway, Maria Elena paused to snatch up her jacket, and then out into the night. A large crowd had gathered outside. Maria Elena and Selah stepped out around the side, and then began to stride away, away from the club, away from the sound and light and people. They crossed and went down a side street between two large hotels. Music and the sound of people desperately enjoying their night filtered over from behind designer hedges that separated the hotel entrances from the street. Down a half block, and then, miraculously, completely without warning, the beach.

  Maria Elena pulled her over to a low retaining wall made of stone, capped with a smooth concrete top, and sat on it, but Selah remained standing, staring over the wall and at the white sands. The moon had risen. It was like a blessing, a sign that she was still alive. A promise. It painted the beach a marble white, patterned shadows under each scalloped sand dune, and then beyond it, the glory of the ocean. Vast and ponderous and sending its waves up the sandy slope in whispering surges. It was a calm night, no wind. Selah gazed at the great darkness of it, at the sparkling, scintillating waves under the moon, and inhaled deeply, cleaning her lungs of the smoke and replacing it with the tang of salt.

  Remembered, then, how the vampire had breathed only so as to be able to speak. His black eyes, locked on hers, never blinking. The Dragon.

  “All right,” said Maria Elena, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply. “Now. Start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”

  Selah settled down next to her. Studied her face. The sight of the moon had given her a new sense of calm. Perhaps it was just the fatigue. Could she trust her? She was only a couple of years older, but right now, having gone through that experience in the club, Selah felt the more mature of the two. Perhaps only by dint of having survived it. She reached out and took Maria Elena’s hand.

  “Are you my friend?”

  “What?” The other woman frowned at her, as if the question didn’t make sense. “Your friend?”

  “Yeah,” said Selah. “Are we friends?”

  “Damn girl, I nearly died tonight saving your skinny black ass. You bet I’m your friend.” Maria Elena blew out a plume of nearly invisible smoke and smiled. Still jittery, still nervous. She hadn’t, Selah thought, saved her. The vampire had. Nothing Maria Elena could’ve done would’ve changed things. But she had come. Had come for her, and not abandoned her. So she squeezed her hand, and felt Maria Elena squeeze back.

  “Seriously, tell me, how the hell did you get the Dragon’s attention?”

  Selah felt a fey, strange amusement well up within her. She controlled her face, tried to not smile. It was all so surreal. Looked out at the ocean and said calmly, “Oh, it was no big deal. We just danced for a while.”

  Maria Elena let out an outraged squawk and stood. Stared at Selah, hands on hips. “You what? You danced with him? For a while?”

  Selah looked up, smiled. Felt brave, foolish, happy. She was alive, she was free, and she suddenly loved the look on the older girl’s face. “Yeah. Only until I got bored, though.”

  Maria Elena took her clutch purse and smacked Selah across the shoulder, and Selah nearly fell off the wall, laughing so hard that Maria Elena hit her again and then a third time, driving Selah off the wall and onto the sand.

  “You,” said Maria Elena, pointing her cigarette at her, cherry tip bright in the night, “are grade-A crazy.”

  “I didn’t know who he was,” said Selah, standing up and sitting back down.

  “So like, what—is he a good dancer?”

  Selah grinned, and then realized she was being teased. “Not bad.” Her smile smoothed away. That small room with a drain in the center. Those black eyes. The rancid fear. She swallowed, looked down at her hands, then back up. “Thanks, by the way. For coming in to get me.”

  “Pssht, whatever. So OK. Start from the beginning. Tell me everything. Hector told me to take the night off. We’ve got time before we have to meet Angelo and get a ride back home.”

  So Selah did. Maria Elena was a great listener. She began with her father’s disappearance, and then threw caution to the wind and told her about his investigation to Blood Dust, how she’d decided to come to Miami to continue his work, to refuse to give up on him and accept his disappearance. How she’d begun dancing with Michael, about his backflip, the drinks, the music. The hands on her hips. How good it’d felt. Maria Elena called her crazy again at that point, but it was true—that moment had been amazing. Then how she’d realized what was going on. The fear, the bathroom, the panic.

  Maria Elena insisted that she’d been at the door the whole night, but finally admitted to taking a fifteen-minute break to score some food. Selah continued on about the lounge, her Omni, her decision to record.

  When she finished, Maria Elena discarded her second cigarette and began to run her hands through her heavy mane of black hair. Lips pursed, she looked out at the ocean and shook her head. “I don’t know if you are the luckiest or unluckiest person I have ever met. Is it possible to be both?”

  “I don’t know,” said Selah. “Apparently.” They subsided into silence. Both stared at the ocean, and then, knowing that Maria Elena would make fun of her, she asked, “So, what do you know about Blood Dust? Can you tell me anything?”

  “Not too much. It’s new, yeah? And probably the one thing that’s illegal in Miami. I’ve heard that it’s big on the West Coast, and it makes people act crazy. If you get caught with it, you’re done. If you see people using or dealing, you got to report them.”

  “Damn,” said Selah. “I asked Michael if he knew where I could get some.”

  “You what?” Maria Elena just stared at her. “Girl, he must really have liked you. If he’d reported you? He’d earn a bunch of credits and you’d be done.”

  “I know, I know.” Selah looked away. “Trust me. I was kicking myself right after. I just don’t know how else to get information. There’s so much I don’t know. What about this Dragon? You know anything about him?”

  “Him? Like I said, he’s a big deal. He works directly for Sawiskera. You know who that is?”

  Of course she did. The leader of the vampires, the elusive king. He was as mysterious as he was fascinating, in large part because people knew so little about him. There was only one photograph of him online, taken in the nineteenth century, and it showed a man of medium height in rough, homespun clothing, a Native American with a dour, bronze face and eyes of such utter and compelling night that even on a computer screen, it had given Selah shivers. Sawiskera, said to be the most ancient of vampires, said to have walked the US since before the first white men arrived, a being of incredible power and potence.

  “Sure,” said Selah, “the main vampire guy.”

  “Right. So the Dragon works for him. He’s like his right-hand man, or something. What he says is the law. He’s not bad as far as vampires go. I’ve only seen him once or twice, though, so who knows.”

  “I see.” The feel of hands on her hips, how he had so easily matched her rhythm. Those dark eyes boring into her soul in that small room with the drain in its center.

  “And … the Resistance? You know anything about them?”

  Maria Elena shrugged, clearly not impressed. “No, not really. I know they’re a bunch of nerdy guys who hide in empty buildings and run around causing trouble. I don’t know what they think telling the world that there are vampires in here will accomplish. It’s not like people don’t know.”

  “Yeah,” said Selah, “but don’t you think what they’re doing is important? Fighting for freedom and stuff?”

  Her friend made a face. “I mean,
sure. If you think things are going to change. If you think the government is willing to start a whole new vampire war. Me? I don’t think that’s going to happen. All the good guys got turned into vampires. Now it’s just a pack of cowards running things in DC, and I don’t think anything this ‘Resistance’ puts out will really make a difference. Other than annoy the vamps and get people killed.”

  “I guess so,” said Selah.

  “I mean,” said Maria Elena, waving her arm expansively, “think about it. Maybe if they were killing important vampires and blowing shit up. But making movies? Writing speeches? That’s never going to do nothing.”

  Selah frowned and looked away from her new friend. It was hard to argue with her. The reality of what she’d seen here on the Beach seemed much more compelling. A society of sorts. People picking up their lives, somehow making do. Maybe she was right.

  “Look. Tomorrow I’ll take you downtown to get an ID. If you want one.”

  Selah considered it. “That would mean I’m part of this, right?” She gestured back at the beach. “This world?”

  “Yeah,” said Maria Elena. “You register, you get signed up, sure.”

  “I don’t know.” Selah looked down at her hands, then out over the ocean. It was so beautiful. She felt a sudden desire to swim out and float amongst the waves. Allow them to wash the dry sweat from her skin. “I don’t know if I want to be part of this. Part of this world you work in.”

  “Your call, chica. But you can’t earn credits if you don’t have an ID. And no ID means no protection if you ever get in trouble.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got to think about it.”

  “Sure thing. We’re neighbors now. You just let me know if you ever change your mind, OK?”

  “Sure,” said Selah, smiling. She touched her pocket reflexively for her Omni, felt a lurch when she realized it was gone. “Thanks.”

  “OK,” said Maria Elena. “Let’s get going. We don’t want to miss that ride, and trust me, I know for a fact that Angelo won’t wait. You ready?”

  “Yeah,” said Selah, getting up. She felt dizzy suddenly, and tripped on something. Maria Elena steadied her. “I’m good,” said Selah. “Just tired.”

  “No te preocupes. Let’s get you home. Come on.” So they walked back, Maria Elena’s arm around Selah’s waist, along the sidewalks, through the sparse crowds, back down Lincoln and then out to where the car was parked, and where it turned out that Angelo was waiting for them after all.

  Chapter Seven

  Selah and Maria Elena arrived back at the Palisades at around five in the morning, just as the eastern sky was beginning to lighten. The guys dropped them off, and Maria Elena led her to an abandoned shack where she always hid while she waited, checking it out with her gun drawn. When she decided it was clear, they sat down, heads resting against the wall and Maria Elena told Selah about a small place that had once stood just two blocks away that had sold the best cortaditos, or little Cuban coffees. The trick, Selah was told, was adding plenty of sugar. As Maria Elena spoke tiredly but with nostalgic enthusiasm for the croquetas and empanadas and the crotchety old men who’d sit on Calle Ocho playing dominoes, Selah sensed how her friend used to love this city. Perhaps loved it still.

  They had an hour to kill, and Maria Elena spoke fondly of the illegal bonfire parties she’d once gone to on the beaches of Key Biscayne, of friends long gone, people Selah should’ve met, would’ve loved. She even spoke of the old corruption with a certain wry fondness, recounting outrageous stories of graft and money laundering, vote robbery, and outright bribery. An old, bad, wonderful Miami that she’d known and understood. A city of human excess and vanity that’d made sense to her, that’d been hers and that she’d been a part of.

  The sun rose slowly, and Maria Elena began to ask her about the outside world. What life was like in New York, what people thought of Miami, what high school was like. Explaining to Maria Elena about her old life, Selah found that her new friend already knew it all from watching old movies and going online—it was just that she didn’t seem to quite believe it was real. That everybody owned their own car, went to restaurants, or that electricity was readily available everywhere.

  Not that life had ever returned to normal after the War; it had simply changed, adjusted. People tended to avoid going out alone at night, even though it was now safe. Everybody was fascinated with the vampires, and the media constantly focused on them. President Lynnfield had extended Martial Law and refused to allow Congress and the Senate to convene. There were a lot of civil protests, but they always resulted in mass arrests and the riot police moving in.

  Maria Elena didn’t care about the politics, the big picture. She was greedy for descriptions of football games, of what it was like to hang out in the food court, go shopping for clothes. Selah indulged her, laughing as her friend tried to imagine what it was like to sit bored in class or take a hot shower every morning.

  Eventually they dozed, and Selah came in and out of consciousness. There was a great palm tree on the street corner, and it was infested with birds that twittered and cried out to each other with great vigor and stridency. Parrots, Maria Elena informed her. Selah looked up at the mess of fronds through the window from where she sat, marveling, trying to see a colored feather, but failed to make out a single bird.

  The darkness lifted by gradual degrees, dawn stealing across the streets as lightly as the finest Brooklyn cat burglar. Restless, Selah stood and moved to the empty window. She watched as ruined cars slowly changed from shadowy hulks into defined objects with shattered windows, faded paint and flat tires. Past a chain-link fence that ran along the far side of the train tracks, tucked behind a two-story warehouse. A huge mural had been painted on it with surprising talent, depicting a man from the waist up, his hands raised as if in supplication to the heavens, face tilted, pain and fervor in his eyes. An ocean of gray Hebrew letters swam behind him as if painted on the surface of the ocean, swelling and pinching in size so that the whole effect was mesmerizing.

  They stood when they heard the steel door to the Palisades begin to grate and rattle. Maria Elena climbed tiredly to her feet, and hauled Selah up after her. They don’t like what I do, she had said on the drive home, but I’m one of them. I grew up in the area. They won’t kick me out, no matter what they say.

  And she was right. Yawning, rubbing her eyes like a child, Selah filed in after her new friend under the disapproving glare of an unknown watchman and into the small marble lobby where only a solitary lantern illuminated a face-down novel. They passed through and into the courtyard, and Selah was surprised to see people already at work. A dozen men and women crouched amongst the rows of vegetables, which filled most of the courtyard, tending and weeding. Apparently, the irrigation system was malfunctioning, and two guys were standing at the base of a pipe that fed down from the courtyard’s ceiling into a water tank in the corner. A third man was up on the sixth floor, leaning out and shaking the pipe, trying to get it aligned correctly with the gutter feed.

  Maria Elena ignored all this and said a sleepy goodbye, giving Selah a tight hug and then wandering off toward a far stairwell. Selah thought of following her, crashing with her for the day, but that would be cowardice. She stood for a while, watching the people work, repressing yawns and standing with her arms crossed against the wall. A couple of kids fed the goats while an old man milked one of them, squirting fresh blasts into a shiny metal pail.

  Selah went upstairs. Up that staircase, past the spot where she’d cried and hid the night before. Down the hall toward Mama B’s room. Their room, perhaps. People nodded warily to her as she passed them. Up to the door, and saw that it was cracked open. She stared at that. The only door in the whole hall that wasn’t either wide open, residents already downstairs, or completely closed.

  Selah studied the grain of the door’s wood. Frowned at nothing, chin lowered to her chest. She thought of the wild girl who had fled this room but eight hours ago, burning with wounded pride and anger,
determined to prove her grandmother wrong. To show her that she could take care of herself, could pursue her wild investigation and uncover crucial clues that would lead to her father’s liberation. That girl felt like a different person. She hadn’t yet walked through that strange night world of IDs and forced gaiety. Hadn’t danced with a vampire, or faced probable death in a terrifying little room with a drain for blood in its center.

  She entered just as a kettle began to shriek. Mama B was up. She could hear her in the kitchen, humming a tune, the clink of porcelain, and then the kettle’s shriek was suddenly cut off. Selah walked across the living room and stood in the kitchen door. Bundles of herbs hung from hooks over the stove, small copper pots beside them. Built-in shelving in the corner held a display of plates, cups, mugs, spices. A bundle of garlic in a bowl, a portrait of Jesus against one wall. The walls of the kitchen were painted a beautiful, soft Tuscan yellow, and in what little dawn light came through the chinks in the hurricane shutters, it seemed a gentle, comforting place. Mama B was bending down to turn a valve of a small gas tank that was tubed up to the stove, and with a grunt, she straightened and took up the cherry red kettle and poured water into a mug. The smell of instant coffee filled the room.