A People's History of the Vampire Uprising_A Novel

by Raymond A. Villareal

  The few Gloaming Mormons that exist were all summarily considered by a disciplinary council and subsequently informed that they had been excommunicated from the church. However, if church doctrine were to change, they would thereafter be allowed to return to full fellowship at a later date.

  In Israel, the office of Chief Rabbi and the Moetzes Gedolei HaTorah (Council of [great] Torah Sages), the supreme rabbinical policy-making council, in stating that “G-d has commanded that certain species must be pure to their nature,” announced that under Torah law the Gloamings would be considered Unnatural in relation to non-Gloaming humankind in accordance with verse 2:7, which describes how Man was created through “the dust of the earth.” The Council prohibited the act of re-creation as defiling one’s G-d-given body given that the Gloaming is created by a transfer of infected blood. The second part of verse 2:7 describes the spiritual nature of Man (“He [G-d] blew the soul of life into his nostrils”). The Council thus objected to the fact that Gloamings were re-created by other Gloamings because only G-d could create another true being. However, the Council also prohibited the wanton killing of peaceful Gloamings due to the obligation to save and preserve life (pikuach nefesh) as decreed in Leviticus 18:5: “You shall keep My laws and My rules, by the pursuit of which man shall live: I am the Lord.”

  Many intellectual Buddhist monks wrote certain treatises that Gloamings possess Buddha nature and therefore the potential for enlightenment. In fact, on many occasions the Bodhisattva (the past-life Buddha) appeared as an animal. The first of the five precepts bans the taking of life, and thus this applies to the Gloamings as well. The Buddhist concept of compassion for all beings certainly led to their ready acceptance of the Gloamings.

  Professor van der Leeuw conducts a critical analysis and critique of each major religion and their views on the Gloamings and how they correspond with their religious texts and evolved issues, and how these views have impacted those of their followers and the cultural issues that ensued.

  Chapter 10

  July 5

  Twenty-Six Months After the NOBI Discovery

  Joseph Barrera

  Political Operative

  Do I blame myself? Did I have a hand in starting all this crap? Maybe. Who knows? The historians may tarnish my memory, but I have no desire to do so.

  So let’s go back. At the time I had been a political strategist, or I’d been employed by political and consulting firms, ever since graduating from the University of Pennsylvania. I ran my roommate’s campaign for class president. He was a drunk slacker who only wanted to win for his résumé. I made bumper stickers of just his name and posted them everywhere on campus—especially in the bathrooms. By the time the election came along, every student recognized his name. It was a landslide win. He was the laziest student body president ever and is now the Speaker of the Pennsylvania House of Representatives, biding his time until he can become a lobbyist.

  Over the years, I worked for various candidates running for local, state, and national office. I wasn’t above the occasional sleight of hand—though some might call it “dirty tricks.” You know: recruiting and paying filing fees for homeless people to run in various primaries to dilute the vote and ensure a runoff. Or publishing rumors that certain candidates were having affairs. Whispers of illegitimate children or serious mental health issues. Stuff like that.

  But it worked. I had great luck with unknown candidates in Democratic primary races, helping them leap to victory, especially against incumbent Republicans, some with multiple terms and decades behind them. I think this was because I loved a challenge. I also probably had more in line with progressive Democrats than with any other political affiliation. I always wanted to see how far you could push the line before it pushed back. Higher taxes, more regulation, more marijuana—how far could I go imposing my values on these beleaguered candidates who hired me?

  About five months after the latest victory—Lisa Manning, Salt Lake City—and after five months of clinical boredom taking meetings with prospective private business clients in Chicago, I received a phone call from a senior partner at one of the largest law firms in Illinois and California. Her name was Judy Green and we’d met at several fund-raisers, as her firm was a big contributor to both Republican and Democratic candidates. She didn’t want to discuss her proposal on the phone; she asked to meet in person, and quickly.

  We met the next day for lunch at a food truck caravan in Logan Square. There was a beautiful view of Lake Michigan. We sat at one of those refurbished picnic tables that looked like props from Game of Thrones—made of hollowed-out oak and then adorned inexplicably with old concert posters from the 1970s. I ordered a brisket sandwich with curly fries and Judy had the mixed greens salad. Two craft beers topped the meal for both of us.

  After small talk about our recent trips to Europe, Judy placed her fork down. “I suppose you’re dying with anticipation,” she said with a half grin.

  I answered with a mouthful of chopped brisket. “You wouldn’t be wrong.”

  Judy pointed her fork at me. “You don’t need me to tell you that you’ve had an incredible run of electoral success. I—and a lot of other, more knowledgeable people—would say you’re in the top five of campaign strategists in the country right now. But with an incumbent president running for reelection, it’s going to be a while before you can catch on with a presidential campaign that has a chance.”

  “True,” I replied. “But I’ll be fine. Some time left alone.”

  Judy leaned forward with a smile. “A competitive guy like you? If you keep lying this badly you’re going to give all political consultants a bad name.”

  She was right, but I hated to show my cards so early. I just shrugged.

  “I know you have only worked with Democratic candidates,” she said while watching the birds pick over crumbs on the ground.

  “Because I am a Democrat,” I said, probably a little louder than I wanted to. Now I was really wondering where all this was headed. Did she want to sign me up with a corporate gig? “Tell me what you’re looking for, Judy.”

  Judy took a deep breath. “Okay. I am not in a position to give too many details, if any. But I do want to gauge your interest in running a political campaign. You would be paid more than you ever have been before. Let’s get that out of the way immediately. I can tell you the candidate is a wealthy businessman. He’s a political newcomer, so you will certainly have a greater impact not only on strategy but on policy. And you’d have all the money you need to run a top-of-the-line campaign.”

  I took another gulp of IPA. I specialized in challenging campaigns, but never with someone who had not held public office before. “I don’t need the money. I live beyond my means, only in the sense of bars, hookers, strippers, and recreational drugs.”

  Judy scrunched up her face with a slight smile.

  “I assume there’s a catch,” I continued.

  Judy shrugged her thin shoulders. “A few catches, actually. First, he’s a Republican.”

  I placed my beer down with a bang. “Come on, Judy. I’m a true believer. You know that.”

  Judy grabbed my arm. “I know, Joseph,” she said. “But this race is going to be historic. I—This candidate is not your typical Republican.”

  “You need a better reason than that.”

  Judy rose and walked over to the beer trailer to pick out a new import. I glanced around at the dwindling lunch crowd. Long lunches were becoming the norm and that wasn’t a good thing for me. I needed the juice of competition and drama and stress—and not many things fit that bill more than a political campaign.

  Judy returned with a new bottle. “Think of the reaction if you ran the winning campaign for a Republican after doing it with Democrats. You would be a legend. And if you got him a high percentage of Democratic voters, you could argue you ran a true bipartisan campaign. Then comes a book deal. And your pick of other candidates and campaigns.”

  Judy paused, picking at her salad in silence. I watched
pigeons poking at stray chunks of bread, bobbing their heads. I tried to quickly run through a possible Rolodex of outrageously wealthy businessmen who were rumored to have ambitions for public office, but I came up with nothing. Half the states in the union were going to have upcoming gubernatorial elections, so that didn’t narrow it down much.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m officially interested. But that’s not a yes. I don’t know who the candidate is and I don’t know what state this race will happen in and that’s pretty important—”

  “You will,” Judy replied. “I only need to know that we can move on to the next stage.”

  “Which is?”

  “A meeting.” Judy smiled again and wiped her mouth with a napkin. She seemed inordinately happy. “Just a meeting.”

  By the end of the week, I was restless. Judy finally called on Friday. She apologized profusely for all the intrigue, but it was per her client’s instructions—“You’ll understand completely once you meet him, I promise.” I would be picked up by a hired car and taken to O’Hare, where a private jet would be awaiting my arrival. My phone would be confiscated. I would not be informed of my destination until we were in the air.

  In the cabin of an extremely luxurious Bombardier BD-700 personal jet, I was waited on by the accommodating crew. The plane had an Xbox One X and a few books, but I kept myself busy with doodles and note-taking in my binder. Definitely no Internet access. One of the pilots came out from the cockpit and leaned over with a smile. “We’ll be landing in Las Cruces, New Mexico, in about an hour,” he said. He returned to the cockpit. I was left to ponder that destination: New Mexico.

  I mulled over the many issues that a businessman or businesswoman would encounter in a run for governor or senator or Congress—although most businesspeople I knew would never begin a political career at a lesser office. It’s senator or governor—of that much I was certain. But money can only resolve so many issues.

  It was well into nightfall when the plane finally touched the ground. I didn’t notice another plane in the sky or on the ground—we had flown near the airport and circled for an extra hour until the sun went down. Was I going to be put up in a hotel for an early morning meeting? On the runway, I was led into a limousine where Judy Green waited for me, in her smart business suit and with a bright iPad.

  I must have looked surprised. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

  “I’m not so sure you do.”

  She laughed. “You’re thinking, Why didn’t she come with me on the plane?”

  “That’s not even in the top ten,” I replied. “But yes, it would have made the trip a lot less boring.”

  “I completely understand, but I had a lot of arrangements to make for your visit. We’re going to a bar in Las Cruces called the Lonely Armadillo. It’s pretty much a dive bar, but we’re trying to keep this as discreet as possible.”

  I stared out the window at the deserted road and star-filled sky. “No way this can get any weirder.”

  Judy looked away. “Don’t be too sure.”

  When the limousine pulled into a gravel parking lot, I saw that Judy had not been kidding: this was a true shit dive bar, like something out of a bad movie where the main character walks in and the music stops as everyone in the bar turns around to stare.

  Judy and I walked inside to the smell of cigarettes and the sound of “London Homesick Blues” on the jukebox. It was an old Calloway jukebox like my dad used to own. He’d bought ours at a run-down junkyard in Chicago from an old Mexican with a glass eye. Used to walk up and down the block with an old cane hollowed out and filled with Johnnie Red and a cork stopper. Fucking dude was crazed.

  A few patrons sat around nursing beers and not talking. Judy led me to an office in the back. Strangely enough, the old Marlboro man bartender barely looked up.

  I noticed that a multitude of cameras lined the ceiling, with more concentrated above the door to the office. I heard the familiar whoosh of a remote electronic lock opening the door as Judy stood in front of it. I had seen and heard these particular types of locks in secure buildings on Capitol Hill, when I served on staff for the various intelligence committees. Definitely top-of-the-line security measures. Where the hell was I?

  Inside, four mountainous men in black suits—obviously private bodyguards—stood by an elevator door at the back of the office.

  “Seriously?” I said, glancing at Judy.

  “Oh, it gets better,” she replied as the elevator door opened without the push of a button. We got in, and soon enough we were headed down what seemed like two or three floors. The door slid open to a short, well-lit hallway. More cameras, watching every square inch. Judy walked to the door at the end of the hallway.

  We stood in front of the door for a moment, presumably to be scanned by some camera, before the door opened electronically and we stepped into an impossibly enormous, opulent office with shelves lined with books. All the furnishings were aged leather and oak, although the room was so poorly lit I could barely see what was in front of me. I could feel my adrenaline maxing out, only matched by my blood pressure. As we approached the desk, a man stood up from behind it. His face was vaguely familiar, but I caught my breath and stepped back when I realized this was the person I had been brought all this way to meet.

  This man was a Gloaming.

  I had only had scant interactions with the Gloamings before then. I had encountered some at certain political functions and fund-raisers and art openings, but they were few and far between. Their presence or aura—in addition to their physical appearance—unnerved me.

  The man stuck his hand out. My first thought was of the long-standing rumor that Gloamings did not enjoy shaking hands with non-Gloamings. But he gripped my hand in what felt like a loose pocket of warm velvet. It was so soft and…bizarre. Neglecting to shake Judy’s hand, he pointed at the chair in front of the desk.

  “Please,” he said. Then he glanced at Judy. “Thank you, Judy.”

  She winked at me and left. Strangely enough, it hit me only then that this man was the candidate running for political office. As I sat, I was struck by how enormous this news would be: the biggest story of the year, and in a year of life-changing stories, no less. I continued to process this information as the man watched me. He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk.

  “This is a nondisclosure agreement,” he said. “It’s pretty standard.”

  I signed the form without even reading it. I pushed the paper back and leaned into my chair.

  “I am Nick Bindon Claremont.”

  I knew the name. Nick Bindon Claremont, early fifties, wealthy industrialist who made his fortune in the fuel sector: fracking, coal, refineries, and even nuclear power plants. He was a billionaire several times over. I remembered some controversy when he disappeared and the rumors came heavy that he had re-created, until his press office issued a statement confirming that he had re-created but that the core businesses that encompassed the Claremont Corporation would not be affected. From that point on he maintained a low profile. He’d ignored all interview requests. I wasn’t aware that he was a resident of New Mexico.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said as he placed the nondisclosure in an accordion envelope on the desk.

  “I’d like to be the next governor of New Mexico,” he said. He let it sink in. “What do you think about that, Joseph?”

  I released a deep sigh and spoke. “Well, from what I remember, currently the sitting governor of New Mexico is term-limited from running again. And she’s a Democrat, so people may be looking for a change. The climate might be right for a nonpolitician candidate from another party. But…”

  “The elephant in the room,” he said in his vibrating baritone voice. “That I am a Gloaming.”

  “That you are a Gloaming,” I repeated. “I mean, people are just now coming to terms with having Gloamings in society. But look.” I felt adrenaline kicking in, my mind buzzing. “You start off with so many more advantages. The novelty and publicity of this
election. The amount of money you can invest into your race. All that helps, obviously.”

  “But the disadvantages?”

  “Well…you are limited to campaigning during nighttime hours. There is a prevalent natural distrust many voters have of Gloamings and their goals. And what really hurts you is the inability to have your face in commercials or pictures or any other print media. I mean, we can’t even record your true voice in advertisements.”

  “So how do we solve these—”

  “Well, off the top of my head, because a campaign is an organic process that you adapt and attempt to mold to your benefit during changing circumstances, such as falling poll numbers and adverse publicity, I’m of the opinion that in situations such as yours, your campaign must include a heavy amount of individual campaigning. Meeting voters face-to-face. Lots of hand-shaking. It’s the only way to make up for the lack of individual presence in conventional media.”

  Claremont leaned back to consider this. His gaze extended beyond me. I heard his breath move like a brush of wind. “You make it all sound so simple,” he said. “Like a good salesman.”

  “It’s not—it’s not going to be easy,” I protested. “But you do have some inherent advantages. The wealth. Your age. You look like a damn governor—aristocratic face and perfect gray hair. It certainly won’t be easy, but if you’re willing to take the hits, then you have—I think—better-than-even odds of being elected. And you’ll make history either way.”