A People's History of the Vampire Uprising_A Novel

by Raymond A. Villareal

  Nick looked to his right toward a darker area of the office—it was the third time he had looked in that direction. I wondered if it was a physical tic. “What I want to know is why you are the right man for this job,” he said.

  “What job is that? Getting you elected? I can get you elected. It’s what I do—I win tough races. My record speaks for itself.” In the hypercompetitive arena of politics, I found that extreme confidence worked more often than not with politicians who sought out challenges.

  “Damn, you talk a good game.” A different voice had suddenly sprung up. I nearly jumped out of my seat. “I’d almost welcome seeing you fall flat on your face,” the voice said. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen materialized next to the desk. Later, because real details about her would be hard to track down for years to come, I would hear her described as the type of woman nations go to war over. A real-life Helen of Troy.

  “I can only hope you execute your plan as well as you talk it.”

  I was speechless for more than a moment—I can only imagine how long—and my thoughts were difficult to gather in her presence. “I—I believe my—uh—background of successful races can be translated to any political race.” I wiped my mouth with the cuff of my jacket and I found my hand shaking.

  The woman glared at me with clear gray eyes. Her skin glistened like sand in the morning sun. She wore a black business suit and white shirt that gripped her toned body like a second skin. Nick flashed a quick crocodile smile, and even in my distraction, I made a mental note to fix that. He needed a far more approachable smile to win the electorate.

  “I’m Leslie Claremont,” the woman said, keeping her arms crossed at her chest. “The wife.”

  Early on, I decided we needed to keep this campaign under wraps until a surprise official announcement could be made at a public, outdoor venue with a lot of pomp and circumstance: the remodeling of the Santa Fe Opera House, a beautiful jewel of Santa Fe culture, bankrolled by the Claremont Corporation. It was soon to culminate in a large weekend celebration open to everyone, with a huge fireworks show at the ribbon cutting. Especially perfect for families—most of whose adult members were regular voters.

  But that was only two weeks away, so I would have to organize the event on my own—from the building of a main stage, to hanging flags and lighting, to writing the media invites, which needed to be intriguing but vague. Everything seemed to be proceeding relatively smoothly—I hadn’t even gone back to cigarettes and Scotch yet—when, a week before the announcement, a clusterfuck dropped in my lap.

  I received a call—actually a message—from Wade Ashley.

  Wade was an accomplished reporter for the Washington Post who split his time between the political beat and Gloaming issues. He had broken many important stories, including the attempted suicide of Senator Barnes during his candidacy for the Democratic nomination for the presidency, which Barnes then tried to cover up in order to continue to run in the primary. Wade also broke the story about the recent re-creation of several hedge fund billionaires and what that meant for the finance industry. Wade was smart. A message from him could only bring bad tidings. He must have caught a whisper or a piece out of place on his political chessboard and it jarred something in that inquisitive sense; he knew there was something underneath all the clouds and camouflaged trails. It wouldn’t do to brush him off, or try to con him with misinformation—he was too smart for that and it would only spur his curiosity. That left me with the only strategy to employ when dealing with an overrunning journalist: bargaining.

  After consulting with Nick and Leslie—who seemed willing to let me take the lead—I called Wade. He answered on the first ring. “Joseph, my man! How’s it going?” he asked in his ever-hyper cadence.

  It was unlike him to not get to the point immediately. “What can I do for you, Wade?”

  “Well…I’ve been hearing things and I’m putting two and two together and…I just want to run them by you.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  “Well,” Wade continued, “I was researching an article on the new crop of elite political strategists—of course I was considering your name. But you’ve been gone for a while. I finally traced you to New Mexico.”

  “Not much there,” I replied. “Actually pretty boring. I’m doing some corporate PR work for the Claremont Corporation.”

  “True that. But then I tried calling people to see if they knew what you were doing in New Mexico. Came up blank. So I did more digging. It’s what I do! And I found your name on the listing with the New Mexico Ethics Commission for a newly created political action committee.”

  I almost threw my phone against the wall. Shit. I gripped the arm of my seat instead. In compliance with state ethics laws, I was required to file the requisite paperwork in order to legally spend funds to organize the announcement event. The good thing was that I would not be required to audit where the funds came from for another month—well after the announcement, when the secrecy wouldn’t matter. Unfortunately, I was required to place my name on the form as the temporary treasurer of the political action committee. I had hoped to keep this information undercover for at least another week, given that no one actually reads ethics filings. I guess the gamble didn’t work.

  “Well,” I replied, “I keep my fingers in many things.”

  “Uh-huh. And the Santa Fe Opera redesign, with Claremont Corporation funding, is coming up, and they’re inviting a lot of statewide media to the event. Maybe some national media? And I thought to myself, Why would big-time Joseph Barrera waste his time on some bullshit corporate gig in New Mexico? So I look into Nick Bindon Claremont and—”

  I had heard enough. He knew what was up. Time for damage control. “Okay—okay, Wade. You should fly down here and let’s see if we can work something out. Something exclusive.”

  Wade wanted that exclusive story, so I wasn’t too worried about the news getting out before the official announcement, but Nick and Leslie were not of the same opinion when I informed them of this new wrinkle. They were distressed, to say the least. In fact, they seemed truly angry, but I was used to extreme control freaks, Gloaming and human, and convinced them to let me play this out.

  I met Wade the next day at a run-down Mexican restaurant near the airport. I nibbled distractedly on a rubbery chalupa as Wade dove into a plate of red enchiladas and two beers. I wanted to get this over with but Wade preferred to ease into it after a full stomach and a light buzz. I suppose the life of a reporter wasn’t much different from that of a strategist, except for more beer and illicit drugs.

  “You know I burned out on the game and quit reporting for a while,” Wade said with his mouth open and full of beans.

  “Really? What did you do?”

  “I did what we used to do in college: waiter.”

  “No way,” I said with a surprised expression.

  “I used to love it, bro. The atmosphere of a kitchen and dining room. The drama. The crazy-ass love lives of the staff and bartenders. The infinite string of alcoholic and uncommunicative cooks and dishwashers that waft through the kitchen, the coke fiend bartenders that fuck a customer a night, the incompetent hostess, the trivial conflicts, the stolen tips—I could go on and on. If this is my misspent youth again then so be it.”

  “But?”

  Wade threw his hands in the air, as if trying to catch the wind. “I missed the grind of being a reporter. This means something, man. You used to want to do this shit too, when we were coming up.”

  “So you’d rather be back to hanging out with politicians? You realize they are the worst thing about living in DC. And I include the smog, homeless, traffic, and crime in that list.”

  Wade pursed his lips in a wry grin. “Well, I would include lawyers myself, but I guess we’re confining this to human beings.”

  There it was. “So, shall we get into it?” I said.

  Wade grinned and waved his empty bottle at the bored waitress leaning against the cash register. “Might
as well.”

  “Before we talk about anything of substance, let’s get this out of the way. I’ll get you exclusive but limited backstage access to the event in return for total secrecy until day of,” I offered, as the waitress slapped down another Miller Lite.

  “I want an interview.”

  I shook my head. “You’ll get a few comments backstage, but that’s it. You can write a great story with all your access. But no interview. Can’t happen. You know that has to be with a New Mexico media outlet.”

  “I got you,” Wade said.

  “And nothing for your editor, Wade. Not Ving Rhodes or Terry Phillips. Bezos can’t know about this before we announce.”

  He leaned forward. “So Claremont is really running—for governor, I’m assuming?”

  Though the room was mostly empty, I was thankful the jukebox was playing loudly. I nodded. “Yes.”

  Wade smacked the table with a crack. “Fuck. A Gloaming! Out of the shadows and running for office. This is going to be amazing! A guy who can’t be photographed. Or use a microphone.”

  “We know it’s not going to be easy,” I replied. Understatement of the year. “He’s prepared to rely on face-to-face contact.”

  “Human contact, huh?” Wade grinned.

  I ignored the joke. “It can be done, and he’s the man to do it.”

  Wade drained his beer. “If you can pull this off…” He took a deep breath and pointed at me. “I need to hit the can.” He rose and walked to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he walked over to the window near the front door before returning to the table. His face was creased with worry lines. “You’re going to think I’m fucking crazy—”

  “That ship sailed long ago…”

  “I’m serious. And it’s not the alcohol, but since I left DC I think I’ve been followed. I saw another Escalade following my cab. And it’s still out there in the parking lot.”

  I wondered if all the rumored drug abuse had finally gone to his head. I shrugged. “I think you’re seeing things.”

  Wade sat down and looked around the restaurant a few times while tapping his fingers on the table. “I hate this kind of shit. These Gloamings, man—fuck it. They’re bad news. Do you have much contact with them?”

  “I’ve had some,” I replied. “I mean, it’s only been a week or so. Mr. Claremont and his wife prefer emails or texts.”

  “Oh, I bet,” Wade said as he waved for a new beer. “That’s how they are, my man. Listen to me: they will do anything to avoid us, unless it’s to steal our blood. They just stay within their own groups and clubs doing DXM all the time—”

  “Wait. What? DXM?”

  “Holy shit—you don’t know about DXM? It’s an over-the-counter cough suppressant, like Robitussin. People have used it to get high for years. It’s the dextromethorphan that gives you the high, and for the Gloamings it’s like LSD. You hit plateaus depending on how much you trip on. You see inside your mind and go traveling through your subconscious and other consciousness. You get visions and memories from the past and the future. It alters the thought processes, inducing visions, emotions, euphoria—a detachment from our present reality.”

  “I would think they’re above that kind of thing.”

  “They’re trying to find their origins. Where they came from. How to proceed in the future. They believe that if they can reach back into their own consciousness and unlock whatever is inside, they can—I don’t know—multiply their powers. Mind control shit. God control shit.” Wade’s hands were going wild now. “Immortality, my brother!”

  “That’s crazy,” I replied. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Fucking positive. They have plans for the future of their species. They’re trying to take over and all this might be the start of it. And you—” Now he jabbed me in the chest. “You, my man. You’re helping.”

  “Cut that shit out, Wade.” I grabbed his arm to keep him from taking another drink. He seemed truly unhinged. “You’re starting to make me wonder if I made the right decision with you. I want a great article, with this access I’m giving you. None of this conspiracy crap.”

  Wade nodded. “Don’t worry. I know how the game works. You’ll get a nice sweet piece to kick off the campaign. But don’t come crying to me when you’re a fucking Gloaming slave after they take this bitch over.”

  I gave him a big smile. The smile of a winner. “Well, don’t blame me when I’m dancing on election night. I’m going to make Nick Bindon Claremont the next governor of New Mexico.”

  The announcement went off even better than I expected.1 The flags flying in the gentle wind, the band playing on point, the fireworks spectacular in the lovely weather. The crowd was entranced—perhaps because they were seeing a Gloaming in the flesh for the first time. Regardless, it made for great stories and photos that set the Internet on fire. We even got the advanced bioshield capsule microphone—something scientists had been working on with uneven success—to work by splicing it with a human voice in the background, supplementing Nick’s speech, and it sounded better than expected.

  The crowd loved it.

  I watched the festivities backstage, with Claremont’s main enforcer, Toshi Machita, at my side. Toshi—technically Nick’s personal assistant—was not a Gloaming, but it was only a matter of time. He started as an attorney for the Claremont Corporation, though details were murky as to how he ended up working for the couple on a personal basis. The rumor was he came from a legendary yakuza family in Japan before his parents moved to the United States. The most infamous Toshi story I heard was when Nick—pre re-creation—took some junior staffers to a bar for a few late-night drinks, where they encountered some rowdy bikers. Nick attempted to intervene, the bikers tried to take Nick’s head off, and next thing you knew, Toshi was beating down four bikers by himself, putting two of them in the hospital, until the police arrived to shut the party down. Even then, Toshi’s smooth talking kept the cops from arresting the lot of them.

  In the weeks after our announcement, no other Republican challenged Nick for the nomination. In hindsight I suppose I was rather naive about this advantage. I told myself it was the unusual nature of his campaign: no one wanted to run against a Gloaming who was also a billionaire. Unfortunately, I did not know until much later that this was due to Toshi bribing, threatening, and blackmailing the other individuals considering a run for governor on the Republican ticket. In this way, it wasn’t that Nick Bindon Claremont was a Gloaming, but rather that he was already like other politicians or their financial backers: they used their wealth and power to move obstacles out of their way.

  Our first goal was to consolidate Republican support so that these voters would not stay home on Election Day because of some dissatisfaction with the nominee. The campaign began a voter registration drive using analytics to identify college students and other young voters who might be receptive or more open-minded toward a Gloaming candidate with Libertarian leanings. Even then there was a feeling that younger voters would be a key constituency.

  It always helps to have someone from one’s own community support a candidate, as opposed to having an outsider promote him. So I decided to recruit “campaign captains” in each county of New Mexico who—funded by Nick’s millions—hosted parties, barbecues, and cookouts to raise interest within the community. I thought having all the events at night might require an adjustment period, but there was little to no negative feedback.

  Our Democratic opponent in the general election would be Duncan Caplin, the current New Mexico attorney general—a dry and charisma-challenged longtime officeholder. Gray-haired and lean, Caplin occupied the somewhat dour persona of an accountant or bill collector. He had been elected to various state offices, from state auditor to state treasurer, and then to attorney general. As impressive as this trajectory was, his problem was that even after a quarter century as a state official, Caplin was still unknown to the electorate. In other words: he was the perfect candidate to run against.

  Sometimes I don’t h
ave a good track record when leaning on my instincts with regard to toxic people. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when Wade Ashley’s gratitude proved to be short-lived. Wade began to obsess over the failure of any challenger to appear in Nick’s path to the Republican nomination. The two potential Republican candidates that had been preparing to run before Nick announced his intentions were John Sawyer, a state senator, and Amanda Allen, a well-respected attorney who served as state treasurer. Sawyer dropped out of the race in perfunctory fashion. But Amanda Allen’s situation was, admittedly even to me, a bit stranger. Youthful in her appearance and demeanor, Amanda had for years held consistent press conferences to promote her agenda as state treasurer. She was not demure or camera-shy about her ambitions. So, two weeks after Nick announced his campaign, when Amanda released a written statement that she would not be running for governor—declining all interview requests—there was a considerable amount of speculation around her decision. The speculation lasted about a week, when the state media lost interest and soon latched on to all things Nick Bindon Claremont. Just as I had hoped.

  But not Wade Ashley. He could smell something out of the ordinary and made it his mission to find out the real story of why Amanda Allen had dropped out of the race.

  He’d never before shied from illegal or unscrupulous means to find his path to a story. This was no different. He hired a hacker to go into her computer and scan her account statements and email to determine where she was located. He concluded that she was probably based at the home of a wealthy friend in Albuquerque—and that is where he went, not caring that a front door was slammed in his face every day for two weeks in a row. He finally left Albuquerque empty-handed.

  After one meeting at Nick and Leslie’s house in Santa Fe, Leslie asked to speak to me alone. The house was located about ten miles from downtown Santa Fe, near a small mountain range. The home looked like it was used to house modernist art. Granite covered the floor like a white sheet of fine rice paper that, halfway across the room, shifted into a gray limestone. By the room’s center was a silver table fashioned from one mold without a cut. Not a sliver of glass to be seen, nor any flower or plant. They even dispensed with the fiction of a kitchen: many other Gloamings kept a kitchen to advance the illusion that they were similar to humans in their eating habits, although if one looked closely enough, one would see a modified refrigerator for storing blood at the requisite temperatures and maybe a few polyolefin plastic bags for storage. Light-bronze anodized aluminum covered the walls without any decoration save for an original painting of Judith beheading Holofernes by Caravaggio. It seemed to compete with the Gloamings in dominating the large living room.