A People's History of the Vampire Uprising_A Novel

by Raymond A. Villareal

  A small team of agents and scientists followed us in silence as we took the enclosed stairs, with their soft lighting and off-white walls, to the basement headquarters.

  Lauren opened the door and I instinctively put my hand on my holstered gun, in spite of the governor’s insistence that the lab was safe and had been swept by security. I stepped inside and was shocked by the elaborate laboratory. It had to have been the size of a football field, all white granite and individual lighting. Interior design by way of Apple. File cabinets were open and computers were turned on although I could only imagine that any relevant information had been scrubbed clean before we arrived.

  Lauren sat down in front of the largest computer, with three terminals, and cracked her knuckles, which I assumed to be her talisman of entry to any difficult task. I had my own, which involved flicking the trigger of my gun with my thumb. I walked over to rifle through the mess of files that lined the walls.

  After two days of trolling through this crap, I’d had enough. This agent wasn’t made for the minutiae of parsing words and files in computers. I was meant for shaking down suspects and staring into faces to find out what I needed to know.

  Every few hours I would interrupt Lauren to inquire about her progress and she would wave me off. “Almost there…” That was all she would say. I started to think we might be here for weeks or months.

  I found Lauren splayed on a cleared-off table like a bird that had just bounced off a window.

  “Well?” I asked. “Had enough?”

  She let out a deep sigh that sounded like a gust of wind through the trees. “We’re always on the verge.”

  “Pssht! Of what?”

  “Something really, really important,” she replied as she sat up and shook an empty coffee cup. “But that day is not here yet.”

  “What did you find?” I couldn’t wait.

  She finally looked over at me. “He was trying to make more money.”

  “Come again?” I leaned forward as if I couldn’t hear so well.

  Lauren waved her arms. “This whole operation. It was built for him to capitalize on Gloamings. To make money off the backs of his people.”

  “Are you fucking serious?” I felt like this information would put me back months. “What about the white paper and human enslavement—”

  Lauren shook her head and sat up. “Nothing about that was in here. But that’s not to say we didn’t find anything interesting.”

  “Tell me what you found here.”

  Lauren clicked on the computer and an outline popped up. “They’re not as far along as I am in research of their blood, although they have made some interesting discoveries. From what I could gather they were trying to find a happy medium between the long life span and enhanced physical state versus being able to live in the sunlight. They want it all.”

  “What’s their angle on it?” I asked.

  Lauren clicked on the mouse and the screen popped up with an image. “This is a 3-D computer model of the NOBI RNA—the ribonucleic acid—which acts as the messenger carrying instructions and genetic information for the virus, in its pore and funnel design with linked residues, double helix infinite strands joined together in movement. Beautiful, huh? It’s like any other blood disease, such as Ebola or the Marburg virus. Those diseases were formed in jungles, and one day they jumped that barrier from animals to humans. From monkeys to humans, from bats to humans. How long do you think that took? Hundreds, thousands, millions of years? They want to accomplish the same thing in a year or so.”

  “Can you determine how far along they are in their research?” I asked, knowing that any success could lead to even more power for the Gloamings.

  Lauren turned her chair to face me. “They have come close, but their attempts ended up causing a modified hemorrhagic fever virus that killed many of the Gloaming test subjects. I see what they were getting at. Some coagulate modification that could alter the DNA or RNA.”

  “But they didn’t get that far?”

  Lauren shook her head as she grabbed for a couple of empty coffee cups. “Nope. But they did succeed in inactivating certain portions of the NOBI virus through extreme cold and then extreme heat temperatures without resorting to sunlight. They sequenced that RNA and found that afterwards, ten percent of the sequences were disparate from the others. Which gave an altered series of antibodies. Five of these dormant proteins remained attached to the core complex.”

  I could only nod my head as the words began to run together…

  Lauren grabbed my arm as if to make me focus on her words. “They’re attempting to find the quintuple complex where the hidden proteins are located. It’s like a start-stop sign for the virus. If they can stop the replication they would be much closer to their goal.”

  “What does it all mean in the end?” I asked. “All these tests and experiments—what does it get them in the end? What do they want?”

  Lauren stared at me for a long moment. “They want to be like us…”

  1 Everyone was arguing over the Rio Grande Institute situation. The attorney general of New Mexico, the office of Governor Nick Bindon Claremont, the FBI, the Gloaming Council, and every local and national media outlet had a not so thinly veiled opinion about this unprecedented refusal to obey a lawful court order. Sometimes, though, real change happens thanks to a bunch of kids.

  In this case, a group of about thirty high school students from different religious backgrounds in the area—they called themselves “interfaith students”—traveled to the Rio Grande Institute to protest the experiments conducted there. They left early on a Saturday morning and by noon they were at the institute gates. The kids had packed picnic lunches and held signs advocating for peace and tolerance.

  They piled out of the converted school bus and found an area next to the barbed wire fence. The National Guard troops were still in position, in case the Feds decided to show up and make a move. Many of the people in attendance that day spoke of palpable tension in the air.

  After about an hour, the interfaith students rose up and started to sing. People could hear the songs from far down the hill, carried by the warm New Mexico winds. Even today no one is certain who began the action or why they moved. But at some point the students began to walk onto the road directly in front of the institute’s gated entrance.

  The National Guard troops moved in front to restrict access.

  The students continued to sing.

  The troops stood in their formation, weapons drawn, but the students still sang, with smiles on their faces.

  There were no local police on the scene that day for crowd control. That would have been preferable, as local police generally have more experience in handling such matters. Certainly more than state National Guard troops.

  The students, young and immature, began to act silly. They danced in front of the troops. A few attempted to hand the troops some flowers picked from the nearby hill. The troops did not acknowledge the students or accept the flowers—until one student decided to approach the guard station at the gate.

  Years later, when the House and Senate Select Committee investigated the event, some witnesses stated that one of the students reached into her purse. Other witnesses maintained that all the students simply held flowers in their hands.

  However, the fact remained that none of the students were armed with weapons. They only carried flowers and bottled water.

  Later, another guard would claim to have been looking out over the sky, losing concentration, when he heard a sound and saw one of the students reach into her backpack, causing him to involuntarily discharge his rifle. Then the other guards acted in concert, following with gunfire as well.

  In the moment, as the student veered toward the enclosed guard station, one of the guards stumbled forward.

  A gun discharged.

  Two other soldiers opened fire on the students.

  The Sun (United Kingdom)1: September 25—Bloody Good Times!

  While their mates are in America tr
ying to construct their own Republic, a group of Gloamings decided to take a bite out of the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain. “Bollocks,” you say. “It’s during the day!” Ah, but these cheeky Gloamings paid the municipal government in Pamplona to allow a night run. And run they did. Dressed in the traditional white pants, white shirt with a red scarf round the waist, and a red handkerchief round the neck, these Gloamings had the time of their long lives. Then on to Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany. No indication that they donned the lederhosen—oh, that would have been a sight to behold!

  1 UK Sunday edition, Living section.

  Chapter 23

  October 21

  Forty-One Months After the NOBI Discovery

  Joseph Barrera

  Political Operative

  I couldn’t believe I was back in DC. I really should have had my head examined for coming back to this town. I always thought that when I came back it would be akin to a Roman general returning to collect his agnomen from the adoring crowds. I would be celebrated by politics and press as a genius consultant with a stringy white beard to stroke and throw over my shoulder with every profound word, like a grandmaster of political thought.

  I hadn’t lived here since I graduated from college and didn’t really think I would be back here unless I was the chief of staff for an incoming president. But financial necessity brought me back to purgatory. After electing Claremont governor, I had been basically exiled from any other campaign—neither Republicans nor Democrats would touch me. A toxic force enveloped me—the result of too many unsavory rumors about that campaign and my hand in it. I hadn’t expected all of this. It was all so abrupt. There’s a dialogue in The Sun Also Rises where Bill asks Mike, “How did you go bankrupt?” He answers, “Two ways. Gradually and then suddenly.” I couldn’t remember how it happened, how fast or how long it took, but before the grains were sowed and the fodder crops planted, I was broke and alone, with prospects diminished.

  I came back to work on Capitol Hill as part of a senator’s staff. Not even the chief of staff—only a communications adviser. I wanted to change my name but the word was already out. Hey, we all need a paycheck and health care, right? I wanted to meet some new people so I put myself back into the bars and clubs of Georgetown, Columbia Heights, and H Street. Man, how things had changed. Where were all the normal people? So many hipster scene freaks. I hung out and dated the type crawling all over Williamsburg and Silverlake, all trying to outquirk each other. It was exhausting and I didn’t fit in, although in truth the problem probably begins and ends with me.

  The only other thing I could do was dive into my work, which was less than exciting unless you enjoy writing press releases to local news media throughout the state of Georgia. Those long days on the phone made me wonder if some people choose to selectively demonstrate their intelligence—or if they are just really stupid. I began to have hazy thoughts that perhaps I was just an underachiever and likely this would be my lot in life.

  Three months after my return, I was walking back to my apartment on a cold autumn night after a rousing trivia happy hour at the Angry Donkey when I felt a presence from behind. Something made me feel like I was not alone. It was the middle of the night and I saw that the street was deserted as I glanced back every few steps. I almost felt like I had PTSD from my time in New Mexico, and I had thoughts of never leaving the house at night again. One more glance back and I saw a figure dart behind a car. Maybe. I ran back home…

  About a week after that incident, an old acquaintance of mine called me up, saying she was in town and wanted to meet up for lunch. Her name was Becky Owens, and I had met her on an unusual congressional campaign that had received a lot of press. A former president’s daughter was running for office, and what would have been another bland congressional race became a national event, with crowded press events and buses filled with journalists following the candidate. Becky had worked for the Washington Post and Bloomberg before moving on to the staff of Facebook’s recent—although somewhat tentative—incursion into journalism, called Scoop.

  We met for a late dinner at a new hip fusion restaurant in Dupont Circle. Pretty much all ambient and accent lighting by candles hung by pendant sconces. I almost tripped a few times. I had no idea it was Italian-Asian fusion until I opened the menu and cringed. I experienced the same emotions when Taco Bell debuted the waffle taco. But hey, the drinks were amazing. After dinner, we sat back and Becky finally got to the point. I knew from her call that she had an agenda in mind with this dinner, but I wanted her to make the first move.

  “So what’s up?” I asked. She knew what I meant and grinned at the question.

  “Well, let’s get to the point, then,” she answered with a mischievous look on her face. “I’m writing a book and I’d like some help from you.”

  “Really?” I said, not expecting that response. This seemed kind of normal. “I’ll help all I can. What’s the book about?”

  Becky leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’m writing the definitive account of Nick Bindon Claremont’s election.”

  I leaned away from her with a surprised look on my face. Okay, maybe not so normal. “Robin Fields wrote the book about the election last year. What are you going to do differently?”

  A smile played across Becky’s face as she tapped her fork on the table. “Get you on record with the real truth.”

  I could feel my bottom lip quivering. “I gave Robin an interview and told her my perspective.” I tried to act casual with a shrug of my shoulders but I couldn’t even fool myself.

  “I know you want to tell the real story,” Becky said with a determined look. “That stuff you gave for Robin’s book was crap. Fiction. I want the real scene. I want the rumors confirmed.”

  We stared at each other in silence for a minute or two. I stirred my sidecar and licked the drops before they fell. “I don’t know what to tell you,” I said. “The story has been told before.”

  I walked home later that evening thinking about what she had asked of me. We didn’t leave on bad terms—I knew this was just the beginning of a process where she hoped to wear me down. I had doubts as to whether I could actually hold up my end of this unspoken bargain I had made with these Gloamings and particularly Leslie Claremont. I had to be careful and think about what I was going to do.

  I opened my front door and I felt that someone was inside, but before I could back out, a hand grabbed me around the collar. I yelled but a voice interrupted me.

  “Relax, Joseph,” the man said.

  “Who are you?” I asked as the hand led me over to the couch and pushed me down. My eyes focused on a figure sitting on one of the barstools near the kitchen. I could smell that sweet scent of Gloaming and my heart beat faster.

  “I need to talk to you, Joseph,” another voice on the barstool said, and I recognized it from somewhere. Before I could scroll through the hard drive in my brain, the light flicked on and I saw a face that made me feel like a panic attack was on its way: Toshi Machita. Nick Bindon Claremont’s former goon.

  I swallowed hard. “Hi, Toshi. I hope you’ve been well. I see you have been re-created. Congratulations.” I never thought it would happen. Toshi always seemed more like the help than like the top of the food chain at the Claremont Corporation.

  “I have,” he replied. “But what I really want to talk about is your meeting with reporters who want to write books about an election in New Mexico.”

  I jumped up before a hand pushed me back down. “I didn’t say a damn thing to her! You can’t put that on me. She came to me! You’ve got nothing to worry about. I told you people that a long time ago!”

  “I wasn’t finished,” Toshi said with a hard edge to his voice. “Actually, what does worry me is the journal you have hidden in a fake folder on your Dropbox drive.”

  My body became cold. “It’s not—I do it for—I have anxiety and my therapist told me to keep a journal but not to show it to anyone.”

  “Your therapist?” Toshi said. “We
ll, that’s a new one. What things do you confess to this therapist?”

  “N-nothing,” I said with a loud stutter. “When I was in high school my mom made me go see a therapist, so that started the whole thing. I’m still very resentful of her to this day! I’ve said nothing about New Mexico.”

  Toshi sighed, and there was silence. I began to shake before he spoke again. “Stop whining. You’re like a paean to emasculation. You have to come with us.”

  “Look!” I yelled. “I won’t say anything to—”

  “Let me finish,” Toshi said as he rose and walked over to me. “I want you to meet someone. We have some work for you to do. You do like money, correct?”

  “I do. Yes. Let’s go.”

  “You must—you must really keep your eyes to yourself. And I can’t emphasize this enough: there shall be no talking unless it is initiated. And even in those cases, please approach only myself if there is a need.”

  The old man stammered and placed his thin gray hands on the table. “She cannot have these tempta—distractions. If you need something, you shall write it on the clipboard I have provided in the hallway. Which will then be read and your request shall be provided to you. If there is a question, your contact shall write it in a note to you to which you will respond on the clipboard if appropriate. Is that something we can agree on?”

  The girl in the nurse’s uniform nodded but her shaking hands belied any confidence suggested by that nod.

  A woman lay on the hospital bed but she was wrapped in a purple velvet blanket that made the scene almost unreal. Three computer monitors were connected to her by wires and tubes, and the screen was lit with the scrolling of vital signs.

  The woman opened her eyes and the nurse jumped back a few steps.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the woman said. “Come closer.”

  The nurse did not move.

  “Come.”

  The nurse took a halting step toward the bed. One more step, and then she leaned against the rail. The woman pulled her hand out from under the blanket and placed it over the nurse’s hand. “You know who I am?”