Vampires Don't Cry: The Collection

by Ian Hall

  “Superb, my boy. Superb. By our satellite imaging, it looks like only one got away.”

  I grinned and winced at the same time. “Bald Head?”

  “Yes, do you know him?”

  “Bald Eagle; we thought he was an Indian. When we had Alan McCartney at the end, he told me that Bald Eagle was the ‘big cheese’; a Tomas Lucescu. Romanian, three hundred years old. You best look him up. He’s the originator of the artwork we sent you.”

  “And all those wonderful ancient Romanian scripts. Ties in perfectly.”

  Mary-Christine snarled again, straining at her bonds.

  “I have to go, sir.”

  “Go for it.” He hung up.

  It was difficult to whisper sweet nothings when your girlfriend is raging like a demented zombie, but I tried. I think I failed, but I’ll never know.

  We went directly to the airport, and onto a private jet. Howard Weeks. The plane sat for a few minutes, then Roni Muscat came onboard. She was already up to her stress limits, but when she saw Mary-Christine’s condition, she collapsed completely. I put my arm round her and led her to a seat. I sat opposite, across a small wooden table.

  A lot of the airplane was open plan anyway, but when we’d strapped four ambulance gurneys to tables, I thought we were full.

  Wrong.

  One more patient was wheeled aboard. Chris McDonald, closely followed by a very tired looking Mandy.

  “What’s she doing here?” Roni hissed.

  “Cornerstone of the whole operation.” I said, as Mandy and I exchanged wry grins. “Without her, we’d never have done it.”

  “Captain speaking.” Came over the loudspeakers. “Please take seats and fasten seatbelts for immediate take-off.”

  Mandy came across, and pointed at the empty seat beside me. “Vacant?”

  I looked across at Roni, and almost asked her permission, then I gave myself an internal shake. I patted the seat beside me. Roni frowned as Mandy sat down.

  “I think there’s one thing you should know, Roni.” I reached over the table, and took her hand. “When the bullets were flying, and the rage gas was falling, Mary-Christine did a very stupid, but very brave thing. Reynolds was attacked by one of a pack of released dogs. Mary-Christine took off her own gas-mask to give him mouth-to-mouth. But she got hit by a gas canister, and enraged in seconds. I hit her with a coagulant dart. In the middle of the muck and bullets, Mandy lifted your daughter out of harm’s way. She probably saved her life.”

  I could see her struggling with the information I’d just given her.

  “We lost people, Roni. I counted at least five. Dead.”

  Her eyes were full, but she managed looking Mandy in the face. “Thank you.”

  Mandy, to her credit, didn’t exacerbate the situation. She just nodded.

  Roni laughed. Just a little, but she laughed. “I never thought I’d ever say anything to a vampire, never mind ‘thank you’.”

  “Times change.” I said, and braced myself for the sudden rush along the run-way.

  ~ ~ ~

  Weeks was calling it a victory. It was hard to look at it that way when the people closest in my life were laying on gurneys in various degrees of brokenness. At least Alan McCartney was now nothing more than a pile of dust on a barn floor.

  Okay- yeah; I’d call that a victory.

  I’d caught Lyman’s little lie but didn’t call him on it. He’d told the Muscat mom that he was the one that darted her daughter instead of me. I guess he figured she’d take it better, see it as the act of mercy it was if he’d done it. Whatever the old lady needed in order to cope was fine by me. It was becoming apparent that the Muscat women seemed to believe anything that happened in life happened strictly to them. Never mind the fact that people died today, people were crushed under a trampling horse, mauled by vicious dogs; poor Mama Muscat had to say “thank you” to a vampire.

  The plane ride was a slow, tedious one with the drone of the engines pressing against my ears and the smell of Helsings in close proximity. Man, I’d spent waaay too much time dealing with that sour stench over the last few days. I’d have given just about anything to escape it for a few minutes, breathe clear, vinegar-free air.

  It wasn’t to be. We landed at a private air strip and then the wounded were loaded into helicopters, two patients per, and life-flighted to the Helsing medical facility in Chicago.

  I followed Chris’ gurney to his chopper; it didn’t escape my notice that he was being taken separately, apart from the Helsing patients. A large man in scrubs stepped in front of me. I didn’t know him, but somehow he knew me.

  “Sorry, Miss Cross,” he said, “Only the wounded; you’ll have to ride on the ground with the others.”

  He pointed to a small fleet of some white mini-van-looking things.

  With the blades whipping overhead, I had to shout my protest, “All the others have already been loaded… there’s room for one more person here!”

  “Sorry, Miss Cross. No exceptions.”

  The man in the scrubs pulled himself in to the copter and it lifted up in a straight line above me. I crouched, head shielded in my arms, and watched the giant metal bird shrink off into the distance.

  “C’mon!” Lyman called out, waving me over to the van.

  I was biting my lip and clenching my jaws the whole ride over. Despite the fact that I’d just marched into battle on their side, delivered the death blow to Alan McCartney with my own hands and whatever else I may have done- I’d never put it past those Helsings to pull a fast one and conveniently “dispose” of Chris as soon as I had my back turned.

  Once at the facility, Lyman and me went our separate directions; him and Mrs. Muscat were all about Mary-Christine. Naturally.

  I watched every gurney as it wheeled past me. Mary-Christine, cursing and thrashing. Frank Reynolds, eyes staring up blankly to the ceiling. Good old Hideo, diagnosed with a crushed pelvis. And ten more Helsings I couldn’t name. Just as I’d expected, Chris was nowhere to be found.

  “Miss Cross,” I spun to find Howard Weeks behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders, smiling broadly, “We are forever in your debt for your actions today, Miss Cross. How could I ever begin to thank you?”

  “You can start by telling me where they’ve brought Chris McDonald.”

  My words came out harsher than intended. I could tell Weeks was taken aback, our bonding moment ruined. I knew if I wanted his cooperation, I was going to have to make a quick amends.

  “I’m sorry,” those words tasted like bile, “He’s a very good friend of mine; I’m just worried about him. Could you please take me to wherever he is?”

  To Week’s credit, he recovered aplomb immediately, “I’m afraid I don’t know right at the moment, Miss Cross. Unfortunately, we suffered greater casualties than anticipated; I think we’re all caught a bit off guard. I’m sure once the initial commotion subsides, we’ll be able to locate your friend.”

  No further ado. Weeks took off down the hall in Lyman’s direction.

  I didn’t set still for a second. Poking my head up to every window of every room, I jogged each hall of the medical center. No Chris. NO CHRIS.

  A hurricane of a tantrum was brewing inside me. With nowhere to direct the energy, and unable to relax, I refocused my search from Chris to Frank Reynolds. Mary-Christine was covered and nobody would miss me there anyway. Reynolds, made a chew toy for some rage-pumped hound, was fighting his fight all alone. I went to him.

  Without bothering to pander for permission, I let myself into his room but I stayed a respectable distance so as not to interfere with the medical team. There were three of them. One delivering general anesthetic through a mask, a female setting instruments on a tray- supposedly the nurse. She was sporting a tight, black pony tail.

  The third, another woman and most likely the doctor, was scrubbing up at a sink. Nobody had yet noticed me when the doctor turned around and stopped short with a small gasp. A pair of thickly painted eyes stared up at me from beh
ind a surgical mask.

  “Miranda.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Of all the places to Find Mandy Cross, a corner table in the Unicorps cafeteria at 3am was not it. She looked withdrawn, tired and totally unresponsive. “Seat taken?” I asked. She blinked a few times on raising her head. She’d been miles away. Or asleep, or something.

  “You find Chris yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “We’ll find him. I just gotta eat something.” Her condition was causing me some concern. “How about you? You fed lately?”

  She shook her head.

  With one of my chicken salad sandwiches in my hand, I set off in the direction of the medical centre. It took two questions, and one request, and I was back at the table in five minutes with a bag of blood.

  Mandy drank slowly. Not like her. “Not my favorite brand.”

  “Yeah, like you know the difference.”

  “Type AB, and it’s old.” She made a ‘told-you-so’ face at me.

  “Whatever.” I took another large bite. “What’s up Mandy? This isn’t just about Chris. You’re fermenting something else in there; I can tell.”

  “Don’t presume to know me, Lyman Bracks.” She at last looked animated. “You don’t know me.”

  She was putting up her normal tough exterior.

  “Jackson Cole knew you.” I said, hoping for some reaction. Anything.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Things have been a bit hectic lately.” She turned to face me, the tube of blood, just an inch from her lips. “What made you think of Jackson?”

  Glad to have her attention, I leant forward on the white Formica table. “I’ve been thinking of him a lot lately. Especially when we were training.”

  “Up on the farm.”

  “Yeah.”

  She leant forward. Our heads were now close; we were in deep conspiracy mode. “Up where he was buried.”

  “What?” I was surprised.

  “I buried Jackson Cole about three miles from that farmhouse where we trained.”

  I was confused. I mean, how was that even possible? “How did you get him there?” I was thinking; Wal-Mart sacks, anything like that.

  It was her turn to look perplexed. “I carried him. Why?”

  “Eh, Jackson Cole was turned in the late fifties, right?”

  She nodded. “Late fifties, early sixties. Something like that.”

  “So how did his body not turn to dust when he died?”

  Mandy stopped with her mouth half-open. “I don’t know.”

  “The Forrester Effect. Why did it not kick in for Jackson?”

  We sat for a moment in silence.

  “She’s here, Lyman.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

  I turned. “Who?”

  “The bitch that tortured me in Atlanta.”

  I waited for her to mention the stripping of her nails, the removal of her teeth, but nothing else came.

  “Mandy, you can’t touch her here.” I looked up and around the room. The cafeteria was quiet, only five people, and none near us. I looked closer for cameras. Nothing. “We’re under scrutiny twenty-four seven.”

  “Revenge. Served cold.”

  “Yeah, very fucking cold, Mandy.” I was kinda mad at her, I mean, okay, she’d had her nails torn out, and her canines ripped from her mouth, but we had moved on so much. “You try anything here, you’ll never get Chris back.”

  Mandy sat back in her chair, arms folded. “How’s Mary-Christine?” she asked after a while.

  “Way too soon to tell.”

  “Mama Muscat?”

  I gave a grin. “By her bed.”

  So we sat in the corner and finished our food; a couple of uniformed Helsings in a building of white. Then I got an idea.

  “Fancy a spot of shopping?”

  That made her take notice. “What?”

  “I’m pretty tired of these clothes. It’s a military uniform, and I never really signed up.” I stood, all animated, hoping to elicit some response.

  “What you got in mind?”

  “Hell, we requisition some company vehicle, take our company credit cards and get some new duds. Have a long hot shower, and change into them. I’m not a fucking soldier, Mandy.”

  “What you going to find open at three in the morning?”

  “It’s Chicago, for goodness sake. There’ll be something open.”

  She put both hands on the table and pushed herself upright. When she raised her head, she was smiling broadly. “Count me in.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Miranda had stared at me for far too long to have not known who I was. But, she chose to play it off, adopting an authoritative air while keeping a notable distance.

  “You can’t be in here,” she’d clipped, “medical staff only. You’ll have to wait outside like everyone else.”

  I left. For Reynolds’ sake, not for the Helsing doctor’s. I wanted him patched, healed and nursed back to health. Since he wasn’t vampire I had no doubt Miranda and Black Ponytail would look after him. So, they bought themselves a little time; nothing more.

  After that fun exchange, I then had the pleasure of Lyman staring me down like some retarded child he was trying to teach trigonometry to.

  “The Forrester Effect. Why did it not kick in for Jackson?”

  How the hell was I supposed to know? Back at the time I’d whisked my foster brother’s body up to the mountains, I hadn’t yet fallen in with the Helsings, had never heard of the Forrester Effect and had no clue old vampires were supposed to turn to dust. So-no, Mr. Know-It-All Lyman Bracks- it didn’t really strike me as strange when Jackson Cole’s body didn’t disintegrate right before my eyes. In fact, it seemed perfectly normal.

  Lyman made up for his jerk-moment though. A little retail therapy on the Helsing dime was always a treat. Of course the only place you can go at three o’clock in the morning to buy clothes is Walmart. You’d be surprised how many vampires hang out there in the wee hours; or maybe you wouldn’t come to think of it.

  They eyed me and I them. This one dude with bristly hair and a collage of tattoos covering arms and chest took particular interest in me. But, nobody seemed in a mood to start anything. I didn’t get that wicked Blanche vibe too much; just some low-key undead out to kill a few hours before sun up. Had to wonder just how prevalent the vampire community was in a town the size of Chicago.

  We got back to the medical center and Lyman took off toward Mary-Christine, me to find Reynolds. I pit stopped at the nurse’s station and was greeted with the customary Helsing distain for my existence. A portly woman with a pile of bleach-blonde curls pinned haphazardly around her head looked me over with utter disgust on her face.

  I didn’t give her the satisfaction of pissing me off. Letting my mother’s years of “kill them with kindness” training finally kick in, I addressed the rancid hag with all the courtesy I could muster.

  “I’m looking for Frank Reynolds.” Sweet smile.

  “Only blood relatives are allowed in recovery.” She quipped back.

  Bigger, sweeter smile: “I’d think whoever could spill your blood might be more relative. So… would you mind telling me where I can find my friend?”

  Before the nurse could hoist her bulk from the chair, a hand grabbed me by the elbow and shuffled me off to a quiet corner by some elevators. Howard Weeks. It wasn’t even six a.m. and the guy was already back at work; or maybe he’d never left. Hard to say- he always appeared to be wearing the same gray suit.

  “You can’t go around threatening the staff, Miss Cross. That’s not going to grant you any favors around here.”

  His full, aging face was bright red. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or embarrassed. I put myself in check, unwilling to lose Howard Weeks as an ally; for whatever that was worth.

  “I’m sorry,” it was my second apology to the man in less than twenty-four hours, “but your staff is pretty uncooperative; I keep asking for information and getting shut out.”

  Weeks finally let go of his ho
ld on my elbow, “I’m sorry for that, Miss Weeks- truly. These are Helsings- people taught to abhor vampires since birth. You’ve got to cut them some slack while they’re adapting to this… unique…arrangement.”

  Okay. They don’t seem to have any problem adapting to me putting my ass on the line for them. But, I didn’t say that to Weeks.

  “All I want,” I said instead, keeping my tone calm and measured, “is to see Frank Reynolds; if he’s not as good as family to me then nobody on earth is.”

  “Understood, Miss Cross. I’ll make it happen.”

  Then I pushed my luck a little further.

  “I’d also like to know what happened to Chris- the guy I asked you about earlier.”

  His response was cryptic at best, guarded at worst, “That situation is still being looked into; once I have an answer you’ll be brought into the loop.”

  As much as I wanted to storm through the medical center and tear it down to the foundation, I maintained my cool. No amount of hissy fit was gonna get me to Chris any faster; for the moment I was at the Helsing’s mercy. And so was Chris.

  At least Weeks was good on his word about Reynolds. Five minutes later, Nurse Fat Ass was personally escorting me to his room.

  He looked terrible. Face drawn, complexion ashen. Tubes and wires everywhere. The patch covering his shoulder wound was sunken in; a hunk of muscle was obviously missing. Wondered if Dr. Miranda wasn’t nearly as skilled at putting patients back together as she was at taking them apart.

  “Has he woken up at all?” I asked.

  The nurse sighed as if the obligation to speak to me was more than she could tolerate, “It’s a persistent comatose state; chances are he’ll remain like this for a prolonged period.”

  “Good ol’ Helsing medicine strikes again.”

  She stomped out in a huff. Good.

  Alone at last, I cupped my hand over Reynolds’.

  “Don’t listen to that bitch,” I told him, “If they can’t save you- I will.”

  End.

  Blood Red Roses (Vampires Don’t Cry: Book 4)

  By Ian Hall & April L. Miller