by Jeff Seats
After viewing so many gruesome crime scenes these past few months, TC was almost starting to miss the mind-numbing stories that he had sought to be free of when he set out on this adventure. His favorite was neighborhood disputes regarding early morning garbage truck racket and their loud reverse beeping warning signals. Missing pets were also at the top of this list he ‘loved’ covering unless he got to write another ‘expose’ on why the monorail was a financial failure. But the keyword to that thought was almost. He wanted to go back to writing those boring stories much less than seeing the aftermath of another messy murder, although the first couple of corpses caused him to deposit his dinner in the nearby shrubbery. Besides, he felt he was onto a story that needed to be told—seeing some nasty stuff along the way was just a part of the process.
“Anyone from around here see anything?” TC asked?
The policeman nodded over to the Starbucks window. “Yeah. I think that woman looking this way was the one who called it in.”
“Thanks,” the reporter called over his shoulder as he walked across the street.
He had lost the killer’s trail after leaving Centralia, having followed this story from Seattle down to Tacoma, and Olympia with a side trip to Puyallup but for the most part following I-5 heading south. Since Centralia though, there were few communities with significant populations and if the murderer was still at work he could have been leaving bodies stacked like cordwood in the forests and fields between there and Portland and no one would have found them right away, if ever.
If his hunch was right, Portland was the next large metropolis along the interstate that would be a draw for the killer he sought. TC had spent over a week in Portland without so much as a peep of any murder, and this call he heard on the scanner finally sounded like confirmation of his theory. At least this was the first one that the police had been called about. He had no way of knowing just how many more had occurred that went unreported, but he felt comfortable supposing more than just this one kid had died since his arrival; their bloodless bodies left in the dark corners of the city or the depths of the river.
Stepping inside the coffee shop, TC approached the young woman.
“I’m with the press. You found the kid over there?”
“Yes.”
“Can I buy you another coffee?”
“Sure, thanks. Better make it decaf this time, I’ve already had more than enough stimulation for the morning.”
“Anything to eat?”
“Did you see the kid’s neck? No thanks. Won’t be eating again anytime soon.”
THE COOL LOAM he was lying on had done nothing to help Alexei sleep. Even secure inside the dark box that served as his bed he found his mind wandering, worrying, rehashing all that had happened over the last few months, second-guessing every action he had taken while contemplating his next moves. From an intellectual point of view, Alexei could understand what was keeping his request to join the CSC from being approved. After all, how could a vampire be trusted to work with humans while not also seeing them as a fine-dining experience? But it was urgent they find Vladimir before he could repopulate the race. With increased numbers, and him as their leader he could finally wreak his vengeance. Did the humans not see they were in peril?
It was a miracle he had not been locked him up as they considered his offer. Instead, he was allowed to carry on as “mayor” of Vamp Town pending their decision. He just hoped it wouldn’t take too much longer. However, the prospect of him staying pent up on this reservation was sending him in the same direction as his brother. And if he, the reasonable one—the Khan, the leader of all the remaining vampires, the one who signed the treaty with Theodore Roosevelt that placed his race within this tiny town—was thinking along these lines, how many of the others who chose to remain with him were thinking the same thing?
Several had already left, in ones and twos, since Vladimir made his escape with a handful of confederates. That intake of fresh blood had empowered him to make the bold move. Breaking the intrinsic system of leadership his race recognized. Since vampires were a pack species, dominance could be challenged, but rarely was. Alexei knew he had lost his commanding strength after years of consuming only the packaged blood the government provided. His brother’s vitality had surged after feasting on those unfortunate bus passengers. Vladimir’s renewed strength undermined Alexei’s authority, causing the ingrained fealty all immortals were compelled to respect, to be torn asunder, sending the immortals teetering on the brink of civil war.
If Alexei was going to stand a chance at stopping his brother, he had to find a way to consume some fresh blood, and not from the occasional animals the government also supplied. He needed human blood, not even the most recently harvested and bagged variety from a blood bank, would suffice. No, Alexei had to draw the fresh, warm elixir from the source himself. But his continued presence on the reservation seemed to preclude his ability to locate this much-needed ingredient. Something drastic was going to have to happen. Something the CSC and humanity would not look upon favorably.
It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that Alexei thought about kismet and how simple actions could lead to world-changing events. Had a bus driver not taken an alternative route? Had the bus traveled five more miles before running out of fuel? Had the lost passengers walked in the opposite direction? If not for ten lost humans stumbling upon a town full of vampires, life would have remained boringly the same. But Alexei knew the bus was just a catalyst that had ignited long steeping unrest into a revolt against the status quo. A sedition lead by his brother.
Alexei found himself caught between doing what would violate his word given to Theodore Roosevelt in 1890—ceasing the killing of humans—and the necessity to hunt so he could regain the strength needed to neutralize, if not destroy, his brother and protect humanity.
How could any mortal understand? Even Roosevelt wouldn’t comprehend the predicament Alexei found himself in.
At the same time, he was also concerned his ward, Cindra, was not coping with her transition. The unfortunate girl had been traveling with her parents when their bus broke down outside of Vamp Town. Upon seeing her, two of Vladimir’s precious, long-time followers, desired Cindra to become the replacement for their daughter, whom they had lost to cholera in 1851 and had mourned long before joining the ranks of the immortals. The two feasted on her parents, Marion and Wilson O’Neil, as she watched. Then they bit into her pristine neck, stealing her innocence, and precipitating the process of turning her into a vampire, making her theirs. It would have fallen to them to escort her through the change had they not been killed by CSC operatives, which had come to rescue her and the others. Instead of putting her down, as humans did after one of theirs became infected, Alexei took it upon himself to be her guide on the path to a life with no end.
Such a foolish, noble idea.
It was always complicated turning children towards an immortal existence, which was why he had discouraged such things in the years he had been Khan. In an attempt to ease her transition from human to vampire, he had chosen to guide her through the transition process gradually—as the monk had with him and his brother when he had selected them as mere boys.
He could have turned her faster, almost immediately, in fact. But then she would stay as a child in appearance for the remainder of her very long life, even as her intellect matured beyond her physical form. The mind of an adult in the body of a child. More than one immortal had been driven mad by this combination. The insane ones proved to be the most devastating to the human population. Even the most aggressive of vampires (and Vladimir fell into this category), found no pleasure in seeing the aftermath of these crazed attacks. The terror generated by the act was the reward, nourishment a byproduct. For those thus afflicted, feeding became synonymous with mutilation.
You could see in her eyes the girl was disoriented—lost. She constantly asked for her mother and refused to consume the blood from his wrists, which she had to consume to stay alive. A
s a result, Alexei had taken on the chore of force-feeding her. He would reach into her mind and force her to open her mouth directing her to bite into his wrist. But he could see she swallowed little. Most of it would drain out of her mouth and down her chin when he released her mind. Cindra had a strong will. And the process left him frustrated. He often wondered how human parents could manage such willfulness in their children.
Now she was growing weak. At this rate, she would die. It didn’t help her fading condition when she had gotten into the stash of human food in the back room of the bar—the Bucket of Blood—food placed there when the town was built, ostensibly, to study radiation contamination from early A-Bomb testing. Not surprisingly, it made her sick. Most actual human food would make a vampire violently ill, and in some cases, consumption could lead to death. An expired can of army rations must be tempting to a hungry little girl even if no soldier in his right mind would touch the stuff, and that was when it had been first produced for the second world war.
Alexei slid the top of his box (he preferred “box” to casket or coffin—terms invented by hysterical authors trying to scare silly humans), off to one side. It was still too early for him to walk outside. Fingers of the setting sun were still sneaking their way around the edges of the closed door and window coverings, though he was confident that the intensity of the diminished light would have little discernible effect on him. But there was no need to push the issue. So he made his way down the hall to check on his ward instead.
He brooded again on the course of events leading to this moment. If only he stayed in town the night the bus passengers arrived instead of going out to watch the stars rise in the evening sky, circumstances would have been different. But he had become nostalgic in the two-hundred some odd years since he had been turned, and missed the simple things humans took for granted, such as the sun rising in the east. The early morning light gave a sumptuous, warm softness to the colors. What photographers called the golden hour. The golden hour also could bookend the day as the sun started to set—a beauty of nature that he could not fully appreciate at either end of the day. Wide-screen HD TVs only could show so much, but was not the same as experiencing the feel of warmth on the skin and the light glowing even through closed eyelids. Someday, perhaps sooner than later, the VR headset technology would give a lifelike feel. Then who knew? Maybe there might be a chemical breakthrough and a stronger SPF sunscreen might be created just for vampires. Ha! He could imagine the commercials for that product.
Pausing at Cindra’s door, he chuckled again at the thought of the family of vampires with the overprotective mother applying an extra thick coating of the cream on her child before going out to play with friends—with its food. You don’t live as a bloodsucking creature without a certain morbid sense of humor.
He turned the handle and entered. Her bed was empty. The room was small, but he searched it anyway. The girl was gone. Now he did indeed need to go into the setting sun. He rushed out of City Hall and down the stairs.
He knew where to begin the search—the Bucket of Blood where the food she craved was. Or at least she held onto a memory of craving human food. What she actually wanted— needed—was the feeling of having eaten, but her mind was still equating food with roast beef and peanut butter and apples. Not the earthy, coppery taste of blood. As he rounded the corner heading west, he could feel the sun weakly trying to bake the life out of him, but its intensity was such that it couldn’t give him even the slightest of burns. Certainly not deliver the death blow it would have at high noon. Nevertheless, he shielded his eyes from the last of the rays. Those headaches could be debilitating.
The bar was empty. Not surprising for this time of day. The locals usually didn’t arrive until after sundown. However, since Sean died siding with Vladimir, the place never had the same jois de vevre. No matter his political bent, he was one entertaining fellow. Obviously, someone had cleaned up the mess from the death that occurred here. The CSC must have come in during the day and cleaned the dried viscera of the human; though from the size of the mess it had to have to have taken several days.
He took in a breath, the faint sweetish smell of disinfectant was still obvious to the nose. Closing the door, he stopped. Didn’t there use to be a bell? He turned and looked up to the spot at the top of the door where it should have been. The screw holes were there, but the bell removed. He surmised the constant ringing was not appreciated as the cleanup crew entered and exited the building. Too bad, he liked the tinkling of “hello” or “goodbye” every time the door opened.
He proceeded directly back behind the counter and through the dirty curtains hanging in the doorway separating the bar and the unnecessary kitchen. This room was where he had discovered a violently ill Cindra surrounded by empty cans of food the first time. Having little personal experience with the aftereffects of a vampire eating mortal food, he had to consult with one of his people, a rather prominent doctor in his day, a Russian Jew who had to flee one of the Tzar’s pogroms. Alexei had turned the man who most assuredly would have been killed by the Cossacks. He practically begged for the chance to become immortal so he could avenge his people. Alexei wasn’t sure about the vengeance part, but he did recognize a valuable addition to his family.
The doctor knew right away the treatment for the ailing Cindra was to ingest copious amounts of blood to flush her system of the poison she had eaten. The violent nature of her illness was not a pleasant thing to witness and administering the treatment a monumental feat considering her disdain for blood, but eventually, he nursed her through the worst of it. Since then she had appeared to be on a more solid path towards an eventual and complete transition, or so he thought.
After such a violent reaction he hoped Cindra had learned a valuable lesson and shaken the craving for human food, even the horrid stuff in those surplus military cans. Maybe she had even turned the corner in her acceptance of her new situation. Entering the kitchen, he saw what he had feared. Why didn’t I remove all this temptation? Or at the very least, the opener?
Slumped on the floor in a corner was Cindra not moving. Eyes shut tight. Open cans around her on the floor. The one in her hand was labeled pound cake. There was a piece of it in her other hand with a bite taken from it. She didn’t even look up apologetically as a child would when caught red-handed disobeying. She no longer was the little girl he had come to know. Her body was bloated; skin stretched tight and red from the strain of trying to burst.
Instead of imploding as a fully realized vampire would at death, her body had expanded then slowly began to discharge smoldering gelatinous fluid out of mouth and nose. At this rate, her remains would boil and seep out well into the night.
The girl was dead. He had failed to help her.
If vampires could cry, he would be on his knees in anguish. Instead, he merely watched her organs dissolve and burble out of the husk of a useless body and onto the floor.
THE SMALL HOUSE wasn’t in a shambles, but there were years of use written across its surface. The once-bright-white trim was now a dirty gray. The siding had not received a fresh coat of paint in a long time. Only spots on the clapboard that had bubbled, threatening to expose raw wood, had received attention with liberal amounts of new paint being slathered over them, connecting successive layers of latex to one another in a never-ending stop-gap to maintain the plastic skin keeping the elements out of the interior. And there were many such spots. The resulting patchwork quilt effect gave the tired house the appearance of an old pieced together circus tent. The latest patches being a darker hue than earlier ones as ultraviolet light from the sun-bleached them all towards a shade closer to a light pink rather than the original rose color first selected in the sixties.
At first glance, the roof looked intact, but the undulating waves of the composite shingles suggested that there were at least one too many overlays. This last one showed its age; edges curling and moss growing between the seams. Hopefully, the joists would be able to handle another layer, but safety pro
bably demanded a complete tear off.
The same held true with the garden. The lawn had long ago lost its battle with the moss, which always trespassed in the grass and beds in this part of the country. But at least you didn’t have to mow the moss and when all the other yards turned yellow and brown in the summer due to lack of watering, the moss still maintained a green hue without any further work.
The plants were well-established. One Doug fir towered over the yard, rising out of the ground at almost thirty feet. Several large rhododendrons and azaleas lined both sides of the property and partially obscured the two windows in front of the house on either side of the door. The azaleas were in their earliest stages of bloom, revealing hints of the colors they would display. The rhoddies were holding back, though, not quite ready to blossom, but when they did, the tropical looking flowers would turn this modest home into a visual Garden of Eden, distracting the eye from any of the flaws otherwise present.
Craig Wright placed both of his hands on the steering wheel and took in a deep, long, slow calming breath. He closed his eyes and pictured the yard full of kids’ toys: bikes, Tonka Trucks, bats and balls. He remembered how his dad didn’t take down the Christmas lights until about this same time of year. “I think they’re pretty,” he’d always say as an excuse. Translation: he had fun decorating the house, but when the holidays were over, he had no desire to get rained on while removing the over-thetop decor, which got more elaborate each year trying to outdo himself from the year before. “Besides, who wrote the law saying we shouldn’t decorate the house for Valentine’s Day? Or Easter? Huh?”
The memories of his dad and this yard were very tangible. His dad was a yard guy, and despite his desire to dodge the chore of taking down the lights, he took great pride in how green and lush his lawn was. He used to manicure the shrubs with the artistic attention of a Bonsai master; trimming branches and pinching off new shoots to maintain the right shape of the plant, sculpting each one from season to season. He would spend hours clipping the Japanese maple that used to be to the left of where the front walk intersected with the sidewalk.