Blood City: Book Two Of The Monster Keeper Series

by Jeff Seats

  He followed her into the next space which was the landing to a stairwell that only went one direction, down, into a subbasement. At the bottom of the two flights of stairs he stopped. This level was almost entirely black. Instinctively he brushed his hand against the wall looking for a light switch. But none existed, or, at least, in the dark, he couldn’t find one.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  He heard her call echoing to him. Where the hell is she? Then a match flared, and he could see her milk-white face as she lit a lantern which was hanging from the wall. She was standing in front of a heavy looking wood door at the end of a brick-lined hallway, or tunnel. The reporter shook his head. He had no idea of exactly where he was anymore and hoped that he would be able to remember how to get out of this rat’s maze later. But for now—Got-ya!

  He heard, rather than saw, her pull out a ring of keys, insert one into a lock which sounded like it needed oil, and opened the door behind her. She turned back to the reporter and waited long enough to see that he was still following and then took the lantern from the wall and walked through the opening, leaving the door ajar.

  He watched her, rather, he watched the only light in the space recede into yet another tunnel along with the woman leaving him in the dark. Now he pulled out his phone flashlight and directed it at the faint glow that showed through the opening. At the door, he saw more of the Chinese script painted on the surfaces surrounding the frame. He briefly wondered if these were words of welcome, or possibly a sign for business; an opium den from years ago? Maybe there was a warning hidden in those pictographs. He saw that the lantern had stopped its movement. Waiting? He needed to get moving. Before pocketing his phone, he took a picture of the writing—for later research—and made his move to catch up with the woman.

  The reporter stepped through the door and into another bricklined tunnel. He guessed that by now they had to be beyond the building’s foundation and under a street heading towards the next building’s basement, that is if that building still existed. Trying to mentally map of the area from when he had first entered this rabbit hole to now he found that he had lost track of the woman, briefly panicked, but saw that the lantern was still waiting for him. Good. In fact, it had stopped moving, and as he got closer, the light became brighter, almost blinding him from the intensity, as it hung from a hook on the wall. But the woman had vanished. He grabbed the lantern and swung it around trying to find her or see if there was another door to go through. Several paces further into the tunnel he came to its abrupt end where a pile of construction rubble filled the opening spilling out onto the cracked concrete floor.

  Stymied by the blockage, the reporter went back down the tunnel to where the lantern had been hanging. Only then did he notice that the floor directly under him was not the dirt caked concrete like the rest of the passage. He was standing on a wood planked square, and he thought he could see light leaking out from around the edges. Setting the lantern down and getting on his knees he found a finger-hold in the surface and lifted. A trap door. He looked down through the opening and saw another lit lamp. Then he heard the rodent noise again from behind and peered through the lantern light looking for the source. Had it followed him as he followed the woman? Looking back and into the fringes of the light, that gloomy boundary between illumination and shadow, he thought he saw the silhouette of a man —materialize? Shit, I must be really spooked. He returned his attention back to the trapdoor then felt something like the strings of a cobweb touch his face.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  There she was calling to him again. He looked down but didn’t see the woman, but she wasn’t too far away.

  He brushed the webbing aside then proceeded down the ladder to a lower layer of subterranean passages.

  What the hell is this place? He asked himself as he peered into yet another dark tunnel though he knew the answer. He had stumbled into the infamous Portland Shanghai Tunnels. Not the cellars that the tourists saw but the remnants of the mythical network of passageways that were reported to have crisscrossed the whole area. Ain’t this somethin’. He thought as he grabbed the lantern from the wall hook.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  A door opened in the black and an inviting, warm light streamed out from the room beyond framing the outline of the woman he had been following. As if his first view of her figure had not been seared into his mind. Now the golden light gave her body a radiance that was all but angelic.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Come to me TC.” She said; the words formed inside his head.

  Not able to control his muscles, the reporter felt himself moving towards the woman. He tried to resist but found that he couldn’t. He wanted to tell her to leave him alone but the words would not form. When he reached her, he stopped. Then with the most deliberate of actions, she lowered her face into his neck. His blood surged through his body; throat pulsed as his heart pumped hard to feed the brain. Then she took in a deep, languorous breath inhaling the intoxicating scent of his humanity.

  “My name is Stephanie. Welcome to our home.” The woman took the reporter’s hand and led him into the golden-lit room.

  From out of the shadowy recesses black filaments swirled around the reporter. The dark threads spun around him in a pirouette of an age-old dance as the strings merged into the shadow of a man sitting in a relic of an armchair in the center of the chamber.

  “My name is Vladimir.” He stood and walked towards TC. His smile revealed a pair of sharp fangs. “Please do not be afraid.”

  “You’re a . . . a . . . vampire!” The words came stammering through the reporter’s lips.

  “I prefer immortal.”

  THE TEAM MEMBERS who were headed to find Vlad—and what? Capture? Kill?—were gathered in the locker room/armory to gear up for the eventual encounter. Liz, Craig, and Terry stood at the end of a table closest to The Wall O’ Hurt.

  The arsenal was equipped with weapons ranging from contemporary to traditional to ancient. As in real life—human-onhuman—battle situations, the choice of tool was personal and based on the abilities and expertise of the user. Some preferred the size and weight of a 9mm Beretta, with a fifteen-round capacity, and its ease to quickly reload by slamming in a new magazine. Others liked the heft and stopping-power of a .44 Magnum, otherwise known as the ‘Dirty Harry’ around the Asylum. Of course, if stopping power and quick loading was desired, there were always a good selection of the trusted and revered 1911 ’45s.

  Several different military-grade rifles were standing ready for use—from M4s to Mk18s and HK416s. Most had variations and attachments specifically intended for use against any number of different monsters. Scatter guns of various sizes were lined up, mostly with pistol grips, as the shotgun was carried as a secondary weapon—strapped to the back for use in close quarters fighting.

  Of course, ammo for all the firearms had some amount of silver content, or sheathing.

  A favorite, when the possibility of confronting an amassed group of vampires or werewolves, was the Milkor Riot Gun. Initially designed as a grenade launcher, the Milkor had been adapted to fire gas canisters to disperse rowdy crowds. Since the idea was not to kill but subdue, rampaging monsters the CSC had adapted the canisters to distribute different repellents. For vampires, a mixture of garlic and holy water would aerosolize as the shell burst open after firing. The recipe for werewolves was similar, but the garlic was replaced with wolfsbane, an herbaceous flowering plant. The resultant effect was to stun, and thus overpower, the offenders. Everything would depend upon the initial encounter. If it looked as though the monsters seemed amenable to being brought into the reservation system then repellent was a soft use of force to help subdue and restrain them.

  Since catching monsters was more an art than a science, however, no one knew what the conditions in the field would be. And sometimes “subdue” meant to stick a stake in the bloodsucker’s heart!

  Also on the wall could be found a large variety of swords, which were particularly useful to cut off the head
of an uncooperative monster. The sheer beauty and elegance made the Japanese swords a favorite. All of the traditional samurai styles were represented. The shorter wakizashi was preferred for its ability to be drawn from a back-mounted scabbard, as the katanas (usually the main fighting tool of the samurai), was just too long to be able to pull off that gag, contrary to what the movies have shown. And the shortest, knife-sized, tanto, was often selected for use in close quarters fighting. Along this vein, there was a large selection of tactical knives—some with single edges, others double-edged, and still others with different serrations that had ‘nasty wound’ written all over them. Mean-looking machetes were in the mix, and that All-American favorite, Bowie knife, whose blade was large enough to be considered a short sword. As in the ammunition for the firearms, silver-alloyed blades were the preferred metal. The exact chemical composition of the alloy used in all the sharp-edged weapons remained the secret of the bladesmith, descendants of the legendary Japanese Masamune family of the thirteenth century.

  A small collection of bludgeon-style weapons, in the form of medieval maces, took up positions of prominence on the wall —more for the visual lethality they projected in the many ways a head could be squashed. Although there were more effective weapons, these really were kept in the armory because of the bad-assed nature of their appearance. A nod to methods used to hunt monsters of times past.

  Wooden stakes came in a wide variety. Most were fashioned into knives, with hilts and scabbards. While the edge of these knives could be made sharp enough to draw blood, their primary use was to be driven into the heart of a vamp if it ever got close enough. A weapon of last resort to be sure. All were made of various hardwoods, and some were a combination of woods laminated together, then worked into what some would call beautiful pieces of art. The multiple varieties of tree used had more to do with cultural tradition rather than what was most effective. Ash was customarily used due to its strength. Aspen was supposed to have been the type of wood used to make Christ’s cross. Blackthorn, Hawthorn, and Buckthorn were used as stakes in Croatia and Slovakia due to its visual similarity to Jesus’ crown of thorns.

  Curiously, there was one weapon that had no equivalent. It rested in a corner at the edge of the Wall O’ Hurt. There was only one of these. A wooden baseball bat. There was no indicator that this was something special. After being overwhelmed by the sheer volume of deadly weapons on display, it would have been understandable that such an innocuous item wasn’t even noticed. But there it was. A baseball bat. No one could remember the last time it had been taken into the field by anyone. It was generally assumed the bat was a joke, referencing the preferred weapon of choice in the entertainment world when it came to fighting off monsters—zombies in particular. The wood did have a bloodstained appearance as though it had been used for such a purpose, but everyone figured it was merely a prop, the notches indicating kills, and the stains just a bit of over-thetop theatrics.

  Terry was unclasping the third silver-mail neck guard he had tried and set it on the table top. “I think the second one was a better fit. Thanks.” He grabbed the previous one he had tried on and placed it in the open rucksack in front of him.

  “Now give these a try,” Liz said; handing him a pair of mail wrist guards.

  “Didn’t have anything like this during my stint here.” Terry examined one of the guards trying to figure out how to put it on. “I suppose the silver was considered too expensive. We used old-fashioned boiled leather.”

  “Nothing gives a vampire a better toothache than a mouthful of silver,” Liz said with a devilish smile.

  “Indeed. Yeah, these’ll do.” Now Terry turned to the weapons. “Wall O Hurt. Nice. We just had a bunch of metal lockers lined up across this space. No fancy-ass display and no name.”

  “A lot of the weapons aren’t in at the moment, with the action teams and other agents out dealing with the full moon and free radicals. But I think you’ll find a weapon or two that will serve you sufficiently,” Craig said.

  Stepping up to the Wall, Terry reached for a 9mm handgun with a flashlight mounted below the barrel. “This is nice,” he said as he worked the slide. “Still, there sure are a lot of toys left to choose from, and so little time.”

  “Don’t worry about not finding the right weapon,” Craig assured him. “The mobile unit we’ll be traveling in has its own smaller version of the Wall.”

  “Good to know.” Terry’s eyes scanned the weapons, marveling at the variety. “Again, way different than what we had . . . Hey! You still got Gibs,” Terry said as he reached for the bat.

  “Gibs?” asked Liz.

  “Yeah,” he responded; swinging it back and forth as if he were warming up to play ball.

  “You used this? For . . .,”

  “Vampire killin’ of course.”

  Craig looked up from packing his bag. “Never knew it had actually been used. Always thought that it was a joke. The story is that someone had used it back in the seventies to knock some hippies around during a war protest or something like that.”

  “Well, you’re looking at that guy.” Terry patted the fat end of the bat into his left palm. “We were sent to San Francisco to root out a few free rads. They were holed-up in an old Victorian. One of the few that didn’t come down in the quake or burn afterward. Anyway, the neighbors didn’t like the Hendrix blaring out in the middle of the night, and the sour aroma of death that hovered around the house kind of helped give them away. We got there and discovered a little tribe of bell-bottom-wearing, bead-dangling, pot-smokin’ vamps. There were only the two of us. Why we thought there were only three of four of them I’ll never understand.”

  “SNAFU,” Liz offered.

  “More like FUBAR. We go in around noon. The windows were painted over, and all covered with tie-dyed sheets, and there they are sitting cross-legged in some sort of Kumbaya moment. The smell of grass and incense was strong in the air. Patchouli oil almost masked the stink of death.”

  “How many more than three were there?” asked Craig.

  “I could see seven in the prayer circle. We counted up to fifteen total.”

  “Two against fifteen? Holy shit!” Liz said in amazement.

  “And the bat?” asked Craig.

  “You both seem like people who may have found themselves in a do-or-die moment. So you’ll understand I really can’t remember all that much. One moment we pull the macho ‘surrender now and all will be good’ thing and the next all hell is breaking loose. Guns are firing. Vamps are flying around. Blood is everywhere. And somehow, when all was said and done, my partner and I are standing in a room full of imploding vampire husks. He with a couple of chair legs and me with this baseball bat.” Terry shook his head still not believing his own story. “Still don’t know where that came from. Must have been in the room already ‘cause I didn’t bring it with me.”

  “And Gibs. The name of the bat?” Liz asked.

  “Yeah, I named it in honor of Josh Gibson, the Babe Ruth of the Negro Leagues. Some say the best home run hitter of them all.”

  “Sounds like a crock of shit to me Master Sergeant,” Craig said as he turned back to his packing.

  “And to me as well agent,” Terry said; smiling and swinging Gibs one more time.

  “You mean that story you just told was . . .,” Liz felt that she had been set up.

  “Like I said. I don’t remember,” Terry replied still smiling.

  “Fucking A,” Liz said; unbelieving and reached for the bat. The brown stains did look like dried blood that had soaked into the surface. “There are hash marks.” She counted them. “Fifteen like he said.”

  “Still could have been staged.” Craig tossed out as an aside. “What happened to your partner? Where’s he now?”

  Terry’s face lost the smile. “Turns out all the blood we had covering ourselves wasn’t all vampire blood. Ken got himself slightly bit in the melee. Didn’t catch it until we had hosed off. We were on the long ride back here when he told me about the
wound. He asked to pull the car over so he could take a pee. I didn’t see he had his sidearm with him when he walked into the trees.”

  Everyone returned to their work of getting ready to go to Portland. The silence spoke volumes about what they all had experienced and might very well experience again.

  ««« ‡ »»» CRAIG SHOVED ANOTHER bag towards the rear of the new command vehicle from the side sliding door. Having to drive seven hours to Portland before they could even get their bearings and try to zero in on Vlad’s exact location seemed a bit much. They all had the same unasked question floating around the backs of the minds—why couldn’t they just hop an air-force transport and arrive six hours earlier? So much for any form of a surprise attack on the bastard.

  As long as he was asking unanswerable questions, Craig let his thoughts drift. If they only had known all this a day earlier, he would have just stayed in Portland, forgone the flight to Boise, and waited for the command unit to get to town. But no, he had to get back to Mountain Home and attend that meeting, be assigned the master sergeant, load up the van, and turn right around to go back west. Of course, he understood they needed this command center on wheels. The CSC wasn’t like the F.B.I., with field offices in almost every city in the country. They had to take the field office with them. Actually, it was a field office, command center, armory, and fast food delivery vehicle—and sometimes motel—all rolled into one.

  This mobile unit was a first for the CSC, delivered just before the current budget issues that plagued the agency and threatened its very existence. The van was a prototype. Starting with a Mercedes Benz Sprinter, it was designed to carry a team of four (though in a pinch up to six bodies could be accommodated— the term “pinch” being the operational word). The layout included independent seating for a driver and a passenger riding shotgun with two more seats directly behind; all comfortably designed and could rotate to face in any direction. Behind the rear two seats was the Command Room function with a wall of computers above a working desktop. Somehow, they’d even found a way to shoehorn in a tiny sink and one of those podstyle coffee makers. Hiding below the deck was a refrigerated compartment for food accessed through a trap door located between the front row of seating and the rear. At the rear of the van was the arsenal—a miniature Wall O’ Hurt.