A People's History of the Vampire Uprising_A Novel

by Raymond A. Villareal

  We waited in the car, freezing our asses off with only the cigarette smoke to warm us, until about midnight, when a man in a dark overcoat walked outside the loft building as the snow began to fall heavier. “That’s him,” I said.

  The figure trudged through the piles of snow across the street and stopped at the side door nearest the alley at the Trade building. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  “That fucker has a key,” Ringo said, lighting up another cigarette with the butt of the old one.

  “Let’s go,” I ordered.

  We stepped out into the cold and sprinted to the side door. “I should have brought snowshoes,” Calvin complained.

  “California kid.” Ringo laughed.

  I reached the door and looked up at a camera. “Guarantee you that’s been disabled,” I said.

  “And no light either,” Calvin added.

  “And the door is locked,” I said with a frown.

  Ringo pushed me aside and pulled out his tension wrench and lockpick from his side coat pocket. An old-timer like him and it only took about five minutes with a heater hanging from his lip. Click!

  Ringo pulled the handle. “After you, gentlemen.”

  I pulled out my modified Glock 22 with the depleted uranium bullets and took the lead, stepping across the dark hallway, searching for the stairs that would take us to the basement. I found a door marked “Utilities” and looked over at Ringo. He only shrugged. Guess I was really in charge.

  I opened the door as Calvin pushed his gun and light inside the stairwell and switched places with me. He stepped forward and raised his hand to signal it was clear. We made our way down step by slow step. I switched positions with Calvin and we were making our way to the second flight of stairs when a figure flashed by in my light. I jumped forward and in front of me was a figure kneeling before a bag set against the stairs. He repeated a phrase over and over again: “Credo in Deo omnipotente. Credo in Deo omnipotente…”

  “Don’t fucking move,” I screamed.

  Calvin stepped around me and grabbed the man by the shoulder as I covered him. He pushed him down and cuffed him to the railing. “What’s your name?” The man was silent as Ringo pulled the wallet out of his pants.

  He stared at the driver’s license and grinned. “Looks like we found Scipio,” he said in a coat of smoke.

  I stepped in front of Scipio. “Tell me about Anoesis.” I could see a flicker of fear cross his eyes.

  “I don’t know…what that is,” he mumbled, casting his head down and muttering words I couldn’t hear.

  I pulled him up and pulled off his jacket. Next came the shirt. I pointed at Ringo. “You got that black light?” Ringo pulled it out and turned it on. Scipio’s arms and torso lit up with convex polyhedron–shaped tattoos with labeled intersections.

  “What the fuck?” Calvin said.

  “Ultraviolet tattoos,” I answered. “Can only see them under black light. And look at that.” I pointed at the large word tattooed across his chest: “Anoesis.”

  “You don’t know about it, huh?” Calvin laughed.

  “Please,” Scipio pleaded. “Don’t make me.”

  “What is Anoesis?” I asked again. “Tell us or we parade you up and down for the cameras as an informant.”

  “No!” Scipio cried. “I’m almost there. I need this.”

  I shook my head. “You think they’re really going to re-create a nobody like you? No. No. No. You’re only a servant. Not a chance.”

  Ringo kicked Scipio’s leg. “What is Anoesis? Spit it out.”

  Scipio coughed and put a hand over his face. “It’s a movement. A devotion to the concept of consciousness as sensation without the intrusion of thought. Nothing more and nothing less. Leader teaches us how to feel this way, every second of the night and day.”

  Calvin snorted. “What’s the goal? What’s the endgame?”

  “Solipsism syndrome,” Scipio muttered, almost a whisper.

  “Excuse me?” Calvin said.

  “Who’s the leader?” I asked.

  “I don’t know—I swear. He is behind a shroud.”

  Calvin opened the bag on the ground. “I should have known.” I looked over. Inside were vials of blood the size of wine bottles.

  “Where are you taking those?” I asked.

  Scipio stared at the ground.

  “What’s going on down there?” I demanded. “Are you taking these down to the tunnels?”

  “Please, sir…”

  “We’re taking you down with us,” I said as Scipio twisted in my arms.

  “No!” he screamed. “You can’t go down there. It is expressly forbidden! You don’t realize what could happen. You cannot even begin to perceive what happens in there.”

  Ringo leaned against the wall to ponder our next move. Calvin moved next to me, with one eye on the prisoner. “You realize we can’t go down there,” he whispered. “It’s not the safe move. Who knows how many Gloamings are down there waiting for their blood—which could turn into our blood?”

  I thought about what he was saying even as I pretended to ignore it. Even with some meticulous preparation we had barely survived our last encounter with Cian Clery. This was even more sketchy. But we might not get another chance. I looked at Calvin and then Ringo. Ringo smiled his graveyard smile.

  “Why not?” He shrugged.

  Calvin shook his head and forced down a grin. “I knew the answer already. At least let me run up and call it in.”

  “Let’s do it,” I said with clapping hands as Calvin trotted up the stairs to make the call. And he was back down in less than five.

  “What are we waiting for?” Calvin said with a twinkle in his eye.

  We walked down the stairs until the door stood in front of us. Ringo pulled it open and Calvin moved first with his gun drawn. The tunnel was damp and dark save for a faint flickering light toward the east end, where it split into four other tunnel lines. We shuffled forward, close to the wall, and it became clear that the light was a controlled fire burning near where the tunnels split. The light flickered shadows on the walls and showed a group of at least ten people.

  A shout came from the group and we hit the ground. A shot hit the wall next to my leg and I scooted up. Calvin, Ringo, and I returned fire as we rose up and ran to the other side of the tunnel wall that branched out in a westward direction.

  A voice cried out, “Everyone stop shooting!” And I didn’t know if he was talking to us or them. It seemed like such an odd thing to say at a time like this. We exchanged more gunfire and from the left I could see the golden locks of Cian Clery fighting with another figure in a black cloak, pushing and pulling.

  From far behind I heard the thundering stampede of our backup rolling through the only door. With that, the group scattered, with footsteps echoing off the walls of the other four tunnels. I jumped up and ran toward the two fighting men. With a leap, I grabbed and pulled the mask off Cian. A large jagged scar ran down the side of his face, drooping that side like an avalanche. Like someone afflicted with Bell’s palsy. He stared at me for a second before wrapping his hands around my neck. My body lifted off the ground with the raising of his arms and I could feel my neck stretching as the gun fell from my hands with a thud. So much for making the most of my second chance…I saw sparklers like the Fourth of July bouncing off the inside of my head before the other man knocked Cian in the jaw, and I was dropped to the floor.

  From the ground I saw Cian dash down one of the tunnels as if he were never here. A group of agents tackled the Gloaming who saved my life and I stood up with shaking legs to hold up a hand. “Let him be for a moment.”

  They stood him up in front of me and I took a long hard look at the man I had never seen before. “Who are you?” I asked.

  The man stood there with his mouth open slightly and a confused expression on his face, as if he could believe neither that he had saved me or that he was caught. “My name is Father John Reilly.”

  Chapter 25


  July

  Thirty-Eight Months After the NOBI Discovery

  Sara Mesley

  The Order of Bruder Klaus

  A lot of people hate looking at themselves naked in the mirror. But for me, it’s how I count the months and years. Bullet scar on my left biceps? May. Knife wound, left calf? December. I am my own living—for now—diary. Ironically, I saw this dynamic a lot when I was a nurse at Johns Hopkins; when you’re battling cancer or recovering from major surgery, it’s hard to pay that much attention to what’s in the mirror.

  Once I heard a board member of the order lamenting the night sky and everything that came with it. Not me. Bring on the night. And on this moonless night, I was in Beijing, China, chasing the number one Gloaming on our list: the ten-year-old hermit Herjólfur Vilhjalmsson, who, according to our sources, had left the lava fields of Iceland for an unknown purpose. You would think it would be easy to find a white-haired child who “glowed” like the sun—witnesses were prone to grandiose exaggeration—but his handlers and believers seemed to be doing a masterful job of keeping him hidden.

  I wandered through the city for an hour to ensure I wasn’t being followed before I found myself in one of the older hutongs: Doujiao—“It’s the Chinese Williamsburg!” Google stated on my map—where our safe house apartment was located.

  Most Chinese, being atheist, did not consider Gloamings to be immoral or depraved, although there seemed to be a certain stigma attached to the few Chinese Gloamings, and they were viewed with caution. So most observers thought that the Chinese government would either treat them with indifference or welcome them as partners. However, for many of the elite in commerce and government, Gloamings were viewed as a threat to their interests. The Gloamings seemed to reciprocate the attitude.

  I was therefore pretty sure that Chinese intelligence agencies were looking for Herjólfur Vilhjalmsson as determinedly as I was at the time.

  When I entered our safe house, I saw a figure lying on the small cot, arms and legs open like a drunkard. The place looked like a frat house, with a mess of papers and old takeout boxes littering the floor and cabinets. I took a closer look and I recognized that face: Father Reilly. Good Lord, he looked like crap: tattered pants and a frayed dress shirt with a wool sport coat. He looked like he was going on his first job interview after a decade in prison. I kicked him in the leg, and he fell out of the cot and was up in seconds. I flicked on the light.

  He recognized me pretty quickly after I took off my wool hat.

  “Sara Mesley! Damn! You can’t be doing that!”

  “Why not?”

  “I could have shot you.”

  I smirked at him and I don’t think even he believed it. “With what?”

  Reilly shook his head and walked into the kitchen. He pulled out a coffeepot and filled it with water before placing it over a lit range. “What are you even doing here?”

  “I prefer my coffee pressed, by the way. I’m looking for Herjólfur Vilhjalmsson.”

  I could already tell he was in one of his depressive states about the current conflicts in New Mexico and abroad. And why we were so intent on finding this Gloaming child. Our conversations always seemed to bring up more questions than answers…

  “Why does the order spend so much time on this kid?” Reilly said. “You’re never going to find him. You’ll find Liza Sole before you find him. We should be in New Mexico.”

  “We know where to find Liza Sole. It’s simply a matter of getting inside. Anyway, this is the job—some missions are bigger, some are smaller. I’ll do what it takes.” I wondered how long it would take for that coffee to be in a cup—I could’ve used the caffeine.

  Reilly fixed a stern gaze on me. “And you’re not even religious. I can see Bernard and his gang—what they get out of it. But you…”

  I straightened up and stared at him. “Not religious? I grew up, on my dad’s side, with a family of Pentecostals from Maryland who spoke ‘in tongues’ for generations. Every week when I went to visit him, we would have to confess our sins in front of the congregation. It was mind-blowing.”

  “Oh my,” Father Reilly said.

  “Exactly!” I poked him in the chest. “That was enough religion for me. If I did that nowadays they would probably burn me at the stake. Even my father—devout as all get-out—refused to let me do the confessional after the one Sunday I confessed to the congregation about meeting a boy on a phone sex line—remember those?—and then hooking up with him after we went to his dealer’s house to score some meth. And then fucked all night. Needless to say, my confession days were over.”

  Father Reilly looked up at the ceiling. “Why did I ask…”

  “Well, there you go. You’re right: it’s not for religion. But I’d like to think I’m working for something good here. I’m not just bloodthirsty—pun intended. I do have my own ideas of what’s right and what’s wrong. And we’re probably not that far from each other when you think about it, Father.”

  “But it’s more important now,” Reilly said, “with everything going on with that facility in New Mexico. I don’t know where this is leading.”

  “It’s leading to where it is now: war. I’ve been to New Mexico. Nobody knows what’s going on there—the public doesn’t know. They’re stronger than we thought. And the politicians aren’t prepared to sacrifice more of their own people over this. So they’re trying the ‘peaceful solution.’ But the Gloamings don’t think in those terms—”

  “Some of them want peace also, Sara,” Reilly said. “I can’t believe I’m even saying this”—he looked pained—“but it’s something that should be at least attempted.”

  “No. No, no. We tried that. Look where it got us. Now all the countries are making concessions and the Gloamings are taking them. The Basques and the Bavarians have been trying for a separate homeland for hundreds of years and the Gloamings get it in less than five? Denmark is even floating a proposal to give the Gloamings the Faroe Islands! If they contribute meaningfully to the country!”

  “That’s why New Mexico is more important.” Reilly actually looked ready to cry. If I had known then where he would end up—what would become of him, who he’d become—I might have paid more attention. I might have saved him from himself.

  “I’ll weep for the dead before I’ll celebrate a land of Gloamings. Even if it means peace.”

  Around we went. A cluttered rest was all I could hope for this night.

  The next day brought me more of a purpose. I was happy to be out on these streets, with just the air and noise around me. Our informants had told us about Herjólfur’s recent addiction to cupping, some weird alternative medicine where suction is created on the skin with special cups—it’s supposed to help with blood flow and ailments—made from a rare Chinese bamboo. I just knew he wouldn’t miss an opportunity to engage in this therapy while he was here, if he was indeed in this country.

  My inquiries brought me to an old cupping therapist, who had mastered this art, in an ancient part of the old capital. After searching these streets for hours, I found myself down a dark, crowded alley when I saw a flicker of light amid the darkness. White hair flapping in the wind, body partially covered by a blanket and coat, walking in the middle of a phalanx of large guards.

  There. I could smell him. Bring on the night.

  By the time events began to move in one direction, I was all in. I felt my own existence tied into the goals of the order. The news came in swiftly: Pope Victor II announced that the prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Cardinal Alexander Naro, had been re-created.

  Established in 1542, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith was the oldest of the congregations of the Roman Curia—the administrative entity of the Vatican. The mission of the office was to “spread sound Catholic doctrine and defend those points of Christian tradition which seem in danger because of new and unacceptable doctrines.” It was simply the most powerful and influential office at the Vatican, and well known for establishing poli
cy for the Pope in almost all areas. Cardinal Naro was a force of nature on his own: he was conspicuous in his presence and frequently known on various forms of media, in addition to being extremely well traveled.

  I felt the anger from my fellow guerrillas, although I didn’t have the visceral awareness that they were experiencing. They didn’t know if it was from relief that it wasn’t the Pope who had been re-created or from despair that Cardinal Naro had. His explanation left them hollow: he wanted to minister to the new species as he did with humans; he wanted to welcome them into the church; he wanted to show that we were all the same species; he wanted to foster an openness among all peoples; he wanted to have many more years to complete his goals for the church…

  After a period of mourning came confusion and then rage. This cardinal was much too close to the Pope. The level of influence he had on the church was unrivaled. This is exactly what the third letter had warned the church about, but they did not pay heed. Thus began the era dubbed by Vatican historians as vulgaris aerae.

  Our biggest concern and opportunity would be the College of Cardinals. The College of Cardinals consisted of the entire group of cardinals in the Catholic Church. Their duties encompassed advising the Pope and, most importantly, choosing a new pope in the event of death or resignation. They were the senior leaders of the church and carried significant respect within the congregations of the Catholic Church. Of course, I never thought that I would be immersing myself in the inner workings of an established church—struggling with my faith, whatever that was—on a daily basis. Some days I would be accosted by an event or some natural beauty and think, There must be a Creator who conceived of all of this. And other days there’d be a similar event and my thoughts would become, Everything has been a farce; let me just ride it out in my own way. To quote a wise man: “Oh well. Whatever. Never mind…”

  Regardless, it was imperative that we determine the mood of the college regarding the re-creation of Naro.