The Vampirists

by R. G. Nelson

  Leaning forward, I stretch my neck so that my gaze penetrates into Gladys’. “Thank you, Gladys. This goes back in its place. That is all.”

  “You’re welcome, Adam. It was so good to see you again after so long,” she responds automatically, mechanically.

  No, that won’t do.

  “Actually, Gladys, you know what? You never saw me. You haven’t seen me in years.”

  “You’re right, I never saw you,” I hear her echo robotically into the void behind me.

  But I’m already far gone.

  * * *

  I peek cautiously through the window on the door to the science lab. Dr. Metz didn’t return my numerous text messages last night, and in desperation, I’ve decided to risk a visit early tonight, hopefully before many others are up and about. Still, I go the long way around and cut through the holes to minimize the chance that I run into vampires. In the holes, I pass humans, though; God knows what they’re there for, but I’m sure it’s not good. I make it a point to flicker by in a blur to avoid contact.

  When I arrive at Metz’s, I breathe out a sigh of relief in a very human manner, for he is in there, surrounded by a few of his lab aides. But then my attention is instantly drawn away. What catches my eyes are the dozen vampires on gurneys, hooked up to a collection of tubes and machines. The deep crimson liquid flowing from suspended bags I know to be the precious, captured Elder blood. From the moribund complexion and stillness of the shapes, you would think these vampires to be on death’s door, yet I know this to be the opposite situation. It is the birth of an army.

  So Dr. Metz has been busy.

  I begin to re-think my decision to come here–to speak to him. To enlist his help. After all, he is doing Joseph’s bidding, creating his elite vampire guard for him. Who’s to say that when push comes to shove, he won’t betray me? He is a survivor after all–someone who has compromised his own values at every step of the way to date. I’m torn between staying and going and can’t decide one way or the other.

  But I realize that I can’t go. I can’t do this on my own, and I can’t not do anything. It’s too late for that now, especially with the news that came out over the course of the day. I knew that when people found out about kids being shot by the government there would be a backlash–but I’m somehow still shocked to hear about the bombings when I wake up at dusk. It’s all the media channels–and apparently the internet–are filled with. And sure, the pressure cooker bombs in Texas that killed two soldiers and the dry ice bombs in Seattle that wounded three very lightly could have been self-made by Movement wannabies there. Oh, and that pipe-bomb in Chicago that failed to explode in the garbage can on Michigan Ave.

  But the dual, synchronized suicide bombings (one in the city here and one in L.A.) bore the hallmark of having been a militia operation. Both the bombers have already been identified as humans–the West Coast one a vengeful boyfriend whose girlfriend died in his arms the night before after being shot during a protest. There was a viral video of that tragedy making its way through social networks and the blogosphere–in it, while holding her lifeless body, he promised through tears to get revenge on the authorities. He apparently didn’t wait very long. The bomber here was similar: He had lost a sister in the protests last night and was disowned and kicked out of the house by his family immediately after for having gotten her involved in the Movement in the first place. Poor guy: He essentially lost his whole family in one go. No wonder he must have felt hopeless.

  Both must have been easy pickings for the militia.

  It certainly wasn’t my cell running the operation on this side, but it had to be Vampirists. The targets were well chosen: in L.A., the boyfriend strapped on a vest packed with ball bearings underneath a National Guard uniform that he had obviously been supplied with. Then first thing in the morning, he simply used the confusion reigning everywhere to walk into a staging area of soldiers and detonated himself. Boom. 30 wounded, six dead and counting. Now more families with lost members and significant others suddenly other-less.

  And as if L.A. weren’t bad enough, here in the city the target was even worse in that civilians were caught up in the blast. Using fake credentials, the brother posed as a journalist and set himself off at an anti-Movement rally. Ironically, the mayor was having it to garner public support for the effort to crush the Movement, in spite of the recent bloodshed. In that tight press of bodies, 10 were killed and over 40 horribly injured. Perhaps to let everyone know that this was organized, both bombings happened at the same time, and at least the one here in full view of the cameras.

  The “public,” to the extent that such unaffiliated citizens still exist, is justifiably outraged by all this and by the shootings from the night before. But no one really knows what to make of it all and pundits toss blame around on the air, splashing all sides. The government, of course, seizes on these attacks for their latest emergency measures. So yeah, there will literally be tanks sent into the cities now. I’m sure that’s going to end well.

  It’s with all this in mind that I don’t walk away, but instead hold my position at Metz’s door until he sees me. Fortunately, he finally does. He comes to the door nonchalantly. I back up away from the window in case anyone looks over to see where he is headed. He comes out, looking ever the scientist with his be-spotted lab coat and notepad. He raises a questioning eyebrow by way of greeting.

  As softly as vampiricly possible, I whisper, “We need to talk.”

  He nods once, then scribbles on his pad and hands me the paper. It reads, “Not here. Sub-basement storage in 30. Destroy this.”

  Guess I’m taking the plunge.

  * * *

  As I have time to kill, I decide to show my face again a bit in some of the common areas. Visibly avoiding everyone will raise too many questions. I cautiously peek inside the lounge to verify that Vera is nowhere to be seen. She isn’t. That suits me well. I’m still trying to be mad at her. And also, more practically, she’d certainly be able to tell that something is up with me, and I can’t be sure that she wouldn’t alert others. Unfortunately, though, I know that I won’t be able to avoid her forever. People have started to notice, casting questioning glances our way. I’ve been ignoring them. For now.

  Taking a position on the worn brown sofa, I nod at some of the others and turn my attention back to the news. Guess what stories are still being covered? Only this time, one of Meng’s crew is in here as well; he’s chatting with some non-bloodshirts. I pick up on their conversation easily and realize with disgust that he is boasting about the attack. With horror, I hear him confirm my suspicions: Bloodshirts set it up. I suppose that I knew that before, but of course, it is worse to hear the admission–to inescapably know. Laughing, he lets slip that they didn’t even have to enthrall the guys much. Abruptly, that comment freezes me to my bones–I hadn’t thought of that angle before. Jesus, how many suicide bombers could a vampire with the power to enthrall create? Unlimited. My God.

  I feel something approaching what I remember nausea feeling like as I wrap my head around a near future in which vampires abuse their powers to create waves of human weapons that send this vicious spiral ever deeper into bloody chaos. And why wouldn’t they? Humans mean nothing to them: girlfriends, sons, sisters–mothers. I don’t think I can stay in here without attracting unwanted attention, so I quickly beat an escape out of the lounge.

  With nothing else to do and desperately wanting to avoid bumping into other vampires right now, I head down early. I’m not quite sure how I would react if I happened upon Jesús or Hamad. Good thing the missions have mostly dried up recently with the VG about to come on the scene–we haven’t had many reasons to seek each other out. I can’t imagine what I would have done had I been expected to work with Hamad and Jesús to run that bombing.

  And t
hen there’s always Vera. I know that I’ll need to talk to her eventually, but I haven’t quite figured out exactly what I’ll say and how. And honestly, I realize that there is a part of me that is afraid to confirm what I already suspect. In all our conversations about the Vampirists, she’s made it pretty clear where her loyalties lie. Even though I feel that I would give my undead life for her, I don’t really know if she feels the same way back. How can I force her to choose between me and the decades she has spent with the militia?

  I try to push these somber thoughts from my mind. I look around at the scene surrounding me. Just a few nights ago, this place was a horror show. Now it is back to being a decrepit and forgotten underground storage area–the perfect place to meet, considering how hard it is to slip off base. Only the soggy piles of ash and freshly broken shelves betray the chaos and violence that recently penetrated the quiet here.

  I hope that I’m not being set up–that I’ll be able to leave here intact and not stain the floor with another dust pile soaking up the creeping dampness. Just to be safe, I crouch between two rows of shelves, out of sight from anyone lingering on the gangway above. I focus my wandering mind on listening for anyone else present, anyone that could betray me and the conversation that I’m hopefully about to have.

  When I finally do hear someone, I’m relieved to note that it’s Metz. I stick my head out warily. He sees me below, smiles at my caution, but then leaps down to join me.

  “I'm glad you came to me,” he begins. But then he pauses before tentatively pressing, “But why now, if I may ask?”

  I suppose this isn’t a situation where you dip your toe in. I either trust him, or I don’t. “Well, there’s everything that is going on outside. It’s horrible. And someone has to stop it.” He nods, agreeing, but I can tell that he knows that I’m holding something back. So I continue, “But also, I’ve … I’ve recently come into new information. I know now that Vampirists killed my mother.”

  His expression softens into concern, and then hardens soon after. “Ah, I see. I’m sorry, Adam. I really am. I guess we are more alike than even I first thought.”

  “So now what?” I ask. I realize that I don’t really have a plan beyond speaking to him. That’s as far as I got.

  “With what?” he responds frustratingly.

  “I don’t know. You seemed to always be watching me–I thought you wanted me to come to you so that we could help each other?”

  “I have been. And I do,” he asserts. Then he quickly clarifies, “Want us to help each other.” He pauses and then shrugs. I guess he has his own internal debates that are being waged.

  “Well, I’m here now,” I prompt.

  He nods to himself for a moment before starting. “Good. I’ve waited a long time to make my move. You probably can’t really conceive just how long. But I knew the timing had to be perfect. Still, now that time is running out. I’ve watched you and seen you struggle with being a vampire–much as I do every day. I know that I’m taking a risk trusting you. Yet, I imagine that you are doing the same by trusting me.”

  “I know,” I say. He’s cut right to the heart of it. “But if we don’t take this risk now, there will be no time left. I think Joseph and Lukos are making their move soon. I see all the pieces falling into place–soon, Lukos will be firmly in power over the humans, and Joseph will have an army here that we won’t be able to stand against. So this is it. The last chance,” I conclude.

  Metz seems a little surprised that I see the whole picture, but he presses on. “You’re right, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve, too. I swore long ago to get revenge for my family and spent decades earning Joseph's trust so that I could be in a position to do just that. But now I realize, as I think you do, too, that this has become bigger than just our personal grievances.” Here he pauses for emphasis, I guess just in case I hadn’t fully grasped that previously. “I need you; I am not a fighter as you have shown yourself to be. That was never my strength or calling as a human, and it hasn’t changed for me, even as a vampire. But I can help you to fight–I just need more time,” he admits.

  “How much?” I query anxiously. I don’t know how much longer I can keep avoiding everyone. And I don’t know how much longer we have before it’s too late.

  “I need until midnight tomorrow. Before then, I’m tied up with things for Joseph, as you saw. Even now, I’m only officially away to update Joseph in person. I have just a minute more here,” he confirms, checking his watch. “The President is due to visit the day after tomorrow and will stay for a few days; they will make their move sometime during that time. Lukos himself will be arriving late tomorrow night.”

  “Okay, but if the timing is this close, should we really be helping Joseph put the final touches on his plan? I mean, why are you making his army for him?”

  “You let me worry about the Vampirist Guard. But by tomorrow, they’ll be stronger than you, so just stay clear of them–and everyone else–for the time being.”

  “So what can I do in the meantime?” I don’t like the thought of being idle. Not with so much at stake.

  “We need to warn the President’s security team somehow. Maybe it can buy us more time.”

  I instantly think of a certain Special Agent that I owe a few apologies to. “Actually, I might know someone who can help,” I say.

  “Good, then come to my lab tomorrow night at twelve sharp. I will make sure that we are alone.”

  I nod my head in agreement and then think of how disappointed and hurt Vera will be. But there is nothing to be done.

  Dr. Metz reads me like an open book. “Vera?”

  I would be surprised, but the whole militia knows about us. With the way Metz has kept tabs on me, he probably knows our whole angst-filled saga.

  “That one has her heart in the right place. She may surprise you yet … given a push,” he offers.

  That catches me off-guard; I expected him to tell me to keep this to myself. “So you think I should try to bring her in on this?” I ask.

  “I don’t dare to make that call. That’s for you to decide. You know how important this is–we cannot afford any mistakes or leaks.” He pauses for effect. “But we also need all the help that we can get.”

  Of course. It was probably too much to hope that he could help me figure out my Vera situation in addition to helping me take on the militia. Some things you just gotta do yourself.

  28)

  I need to call my dad urgently. He must know how to get in touch with Agent Taylor. He has to. Unfortunately, while I feel this underground room is secure enough for a phone call like that, there are zero bars of reception on my little phone. I need to find another place to hole up and have a chat with my dad.

  Twenty-some minutes later, I’m staked out in a cozy little nook in which I’m pretty sure I’m alone. It took me a while of exploring the factory’s warren of rooms and passage ways before I finally got this idea. I had located a winding staircase that I’ve never noticed before and ascended up its steps, odd in its division into groupings of three, five and seven. I found a room in the corner of the top floor and still felt a little insecure–though for some reason I also had the vibe that no one else at the base had been up here in a while, possibly since we first moved in. But I knew that caution in this case was not a bad thing, especially with most of the bloodshirts hanging around and not out on missions. And then it came to me.

  Since going down didn’t work for making phone calls, I decided to go up. The room had a skylight–and though we had made sure to tape it up with cardboard to block out the sunlight, that didn’t stop me from climbing up and slipping through. I pulled the cardboard back up behind me; it was perfect for covering the area where I had to push out a large pane of glass. No one would ever notice it
was gone except for from the roof, and from the look of it I’m the only one who’s been up here. It’s a good feeling to have this route in and out, given how vigilant security has been on the normal access points.

  I’ve settled down into a cranny between three walls, hoping the angles will further help to reduce any sound that may carry down toward vampire’s ears. Actually, I kind of find this place comforting. It reminds me of my own rooftop somewhere out there across the city. Maybe one day when this is all over, I can go back there and reclaim it for myself. If I’m still undead. And while I’m daydreaming (so to speak), maybe Vera will be there with me, watching me paint, just the way she used to before I died as a human.

  But first things first: I have to deal with the situation at hand. I pull out my phone and brace for what I know will be a tough conversation.

  “Hello?” he answers quickly, much quicker than I expected. It’s almost as if he were waiting for this call. Expecting it. Or maybe just hoping for it. “Adam? That you?”

  “Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”

  “Adam, I’m glad … glad you called back. I didn’t like how we left it the other night. And I wanted to call you, but your number came in blocked.” Of course it did. Can’t have my Dad, or anyone for that matter, calling me when I’m on base on a phone that I’m not supposed to have. “I almost thought about calling the department–see if they could somehow trace your location.”

  Wow, that could have been very bad. I’m not even sure police have that capability, but I didn’t think my father, who spends most of his nights in a stupor on the couch, would be up to such tricks. Mental note to take the SIM out or something. That seems to work in the movies. “Don’t you think that would have been a bit extreme, Dad?”