Graveyard Shift

by Michael F. Haspil

  Alex’s attempt at a joke was poor, but he needed to do something. He could feel Marcus’s humors falling out of balance, spiraling into dangerous territory. That was the last thing either of them needed.

  “Of course,” Alex said, “the bleeders get something out of it, too. They say the bite exceeds anything in the human experience.”

  “That is not how I remember it. I struggled for my life with an emaciated creature ripping at me, his fetid stench blending with that of the mud-and shit-covered street, one dark night, in a forgotten province of the Imperium.”

  As feared, Marcus was already sour. The constant badgering of Aguirre and his penitents was enough to put anyone off his game. Alex had heard that the Romans had been known for their mercurial moods. That probably went quadruple for Roman vampires. Marcus was providing a stellar example of it, and it wasn’t even midnight yet. He needed to get him thinking about something else.

  “Did you not find it odd that Filip is suddenly choosing to sell meat?”

  “Certes. He had a good excuse for it, though he was wrong,” Marcus said.

  “That it didn’t camouflage the scent of the blood?”

  “It did not. As I told him. I also doubt that he should rid himself of it gratis.”

  “He wouldn’t dare sell it. I warned him.” Alex unconsciously put iron into his words.

  “Your words no longer carry the weight they once did, old friend.”

  Alex drove on in silence. His words scarcely had, even when he’d ruled. It was his secret shame.

  The traffic was beginning to open up again. His mind began following threads he might have missed earlier. The color of the meat was off, or was it just the lighting? If it didn’t conceal the scent of the blood products, then Filip would have known that. Filip should have known that. One didn’t stay in the blood trade long by making an error like that. Alex pursed his lips; he should have paid closer attention.

  “Put another way, have you ever known Filip to waste anything?” Marcus continued.

  Alex grudgingly shook his head.

  “I wonder how much profit he is able to garner from it?” Marcus didn’t direct the question toward Alex, but posed it rhetorically, pensively.

  “That would go well with your pedigree.” Alex laughed. “Marcus Scaevola, patrician noble, governor of Lower…”

  “Pannonia,” Marcus finished for him.

  “Lower Pannonia. Knight commander in the Order of Malta. Purveyor of meats of dubious origin.”

  He managed to get a crease of a smile from Marcus.

  “I could use the additional coin. The gods know Juno Moneta has not lent her grace to me of late. If I had half, no, one-third of the relics this fool government is keeping from me…”

  The Roman goddess of money wasn’t going to be much help to Marcus these days. Her time had passed. Marcus had frittered his substantial wealth into a long string of poor investments. First, the dot-com bubble burst; then he’d tried to double down with real estate before the bottom dropped out of that, too. By human standards, he could be considered wealthy, but by vampire reckoning, particularly Ancient standards, he was a pauper.

  “Try having your entire civilization plundered and scattered to the points of the compass by barbarians and thieves. Then having to buy back your original possessions in the world’s shadiest back alleys and black markets at triple the cost,” Alex said.

  “Concio ad clerum,” Marcus said. Preaching to the converted.

  “If you need some extra coin, you could probably part with a pint or two of your own rare vintage. Given your esteemed bloodline, and coming from an Ancient, you should be able to fetch, what…” Alex put on his best Laurence Olivier. “… one thousand golden sesterces, or some such, per pint.”

  “First, the plural is ‘sestertii.’ Second, they were silver. Third, I would hope to get much better than that. Finally, Romans are not British.”

  “Forgive me. I was misled.” Alex made his tone drip with mock contrition.

  “What of you? Do you not routinely summon armies of scarabs to undo your foes or guide sandstorms to follow your every whim?”

  “Ah. Poor maligned Imhotep. The subject of so many tales. In my day, he was revered as a god. Now, he’s but a petty villain in a children’s tale. There is a difference,” Alex answered.

  “How?”

  “I’ve never tried to summon sandstorms or armies of scarabs. For all I know, the tales might be right. In any case, Imhotep was a powerful sorcerer and I am but a simple deposed king, trying to account for the error of his ways.”

  “In a sort of exile to be sure.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject. We were speaking about you turning meat merchant for a few coppers. That’s what bothers me about this age. The people are lazy. They’ve so completely forgotten what a day’s honest sweat can bring, no less what it took to make brick for Pharaoh, or build a temple with their bare hands.”

  “Ah. Because you have a wealth of experience in such matters.”

  Traffic was opening up now and Alex let the SUV charge forward. “Hardly the point. My favorite of the work gangs,” Alex continued, “once moved three blocks up from the harbor and into position in a single day. These were granite blocks mind you, not limestone. I rewarded them with the finest of Hathor’s yrp wine and from that day forth they called themselves Menkaure’s Drunkards.”

  “Carried that moniker with pride, did they?”

  “They certainly did.” Alex smiled with the memory. The smile died with the bitterness of other memories, which rode through his mind on the coattails of the first. The death of his son and daughter. Knephren-Ka and the Battle of Inebu-Hedju. Neithikret, who lurked out there somewhere, doing Isfethotep’s mischief.

  Marcus interrupted his thoughts, “You should tell the people how it was done.”

  “What?”

  “You should tell them of your honest day’s work and how you built the pyramids.”

  “Eh. Why bother?” There wasn’t much of a trick to it. Water applied in the right places and the copious application of a massive workforce. Modern people overthought everything.

  Alex checked a street sign and turned the SUV in to the entrance of an industrial park. He drove past long rows of buildings with multiple loading docks. They all looked abandoned except for the security lights.

  “Besides,” he continued, “if they want to believe ancient aliens did it, why ruin their fun?”

  Alex killed the Explorer’s lights. Even though he could only see to the next streetlight, it would enable Marcus to see farther.

  “Keep going. Up ahead,” Marcus said.

  They passed what started as a spattering of parked cars along the side of the road. The spattering grew into an unbroken line parked bumper-to-bumper and overflowing into the lots of some of the industrial buildings.

  “Well, well, looks like someone is throwing a rave,” Marcus said.

  Alex killed the engine and Marcus rolled down his window. The two sat in silence for a moment.

  Alex spoke up. “I hear nothing. If Filip’s lying, I’ll let you do whatever you want to him.”

  “Shh. You do not hear that?”

  Marcus had his head cocked to one side and almost entirely out the window of the SUV. The Sangri was doing its work. His eyes had taken on the reddish bloodshot quality of a vampire just after feeding. His skin looked flushed, almost human.

  Alex strained his ears, trying to hear something, anything, that didn’t fit. For a long while, all he could hear were the muted sounds of I-95 behind them. Finally, he heard it, one sound that didn’t belong. A musical bass line pulsing beneath the noise of the city.

  “I’ve got it now. How do you want to play this?”

  Marcus thought for a moment.

  “You take a look about?”

  “I can do that.”

  Alex sat back in the seat, relaxed, and let his ka pull free of his body. There were no pretenses in the ether. The club ahead was swarming with go
lden souls and negative-image vampires. There were also the blue-white spirits, lost and confused, dozens. Then he saw more. More than he could count. How many were they murdering in there?

  Then he felt It. That presence of malevolent primeval corruption he had sensed earlier. It was here! It was in that club.

  Then, he felt something else.

  An otherworldly probe sliced across the ether from inside the club. It scanned the astral plane like a searchlight, and instinctively Menkaure knew it sought him.

  Simultaneously, the spirits swarmed in his direction. Their activity drew the attention of whatever was inside. He felt its malign gaze focus on him and he knew its power.

  Alex retreated into his body.

  “Shit, I think I just got made.” He was thinking not as a pharaoh anymore, but as a cop again, and subconsciously slipped back into his modern voice and accent.

  “What?” Marcus asked.

  “There’s something in there. Something old and unholy. It saw me.”

  “Aguirre’s Ancient?” Marcus’s voice took on a hint of concern.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never felt anything like it. The body count is in the hundreds. The spirits were attracted to my ka. Still want to go in there?”

  Alex knew the answer just by looking at Marcus. All signs of melancholy had vanished. Next to blood, there was nothing a vampire liked more than the prospect of a territorial fight.

  “More than I did before. I shall play the gate crasher, you be the cavalry.”

  “Cavalry implies rescue. Let’s keep it to recon for now, okay? No heroics.”

  Marcus gave him a look. “Don’t get your bandages in a bunch. I promise just to look around.”

  “Remember, we don’t know what we’re dealing with and we’re not prepared.”

  “I will try not to forget. Maybe it is just a truly excellent party. If so, I might be a few hours. You know what they say about good vampire parties?”

  “What’s that?”

  “They haven’t really started till several dozen people have died. Judging from what you’ve seen, there hasn’t been a party like this in centuries. Do not wait up.” Marcus smiled.

  “You know I don’t sleep. Don’t make a vacation out of it. Filip isn’t the only guy we need to talk to tonight.” Alex tried to be casual, but he didn’t like it. He couldn’t tell if Marcus was trying to lighten the mood or not. Vampire humor often eluded him.

  “Well, I shall endeavor to try, but the nubile young women make better company than you, even if I do have to pay for it.”

  Alex smiled. “Can’t argue with that. We’re burning moonlight. Get going.”

  Marcus stepped out of the Explorer and wove his way through the line of parked cars. He strode confidently in the direction of the bass line. Alex saw him as he entered the light pools thrown by the streetlights, but soon he was lost from view.

  * * *

  Marcus saw something—two somethings, actually: two vampires, young, large, and inexperienced, posted as guards. They were trying to hide in the shadows but were doing a poor job of it. Both of them were dressed in black slacks, black shirts, and black sports jackets. He pretended he didn’t see them.

  He kept walking toward the loud throbbing of the bass line. One of the guards said something into a radio, probably announcing his approach. The man’s jacket moved awkwardly. The concealed weapon was too large to be a mere pistol. In all probability, it was some sort of personal-defense light machine gun. That kind of hardware would be overkill to keep the unwanted from entering a rave.

  Marcus kept moving up the sidewalk. The building the sound came from loomed ahead, an industrial warehouse, nondescript. On one side of the building there appeared to be an opening sunk into the ground. As he got nearer, it resolved into the entrance to an underground parking garage.

  He started down the ramp, trying to keep his gaze casual. He was certain they were watching him, but he didn’t see any security cameras. Temporary velvet ropes had been set up on the parking level just as they would be outside a normal club. Only here they were arranged to form a switchbacked line, as at an amusement park. There was no one waiting there now. A garish neon signed spelled out the name ABZU. Marcus reached the parking level and began to wend his way through the velvet ropes.

  Along the edges of the walls, he could see lines of dust and dirt at regular intervals. The marks left him puzzled. A bit farther, in an area of the garage the lights didn’t reach, he saw their cause. Large pallets had been stacked in blocks and set against the wall. The dirt and dust marks were the traces of other pallets.

  As he got closer, he saw that the pallets were of bottles, but from this distance, he couldn’t see what kind. They were probably blood products of some kind. It would fit with the description Filip had given them, and if they had this much supply on hand, then they surely were a threat to Filip’s little enterprise. Marcus wanted to get a closer look. But to do so, he would have to break free of the velvet rope maze. He wouldn’t be able to get a better look at the pallets without arousing suspicion. He would have to go with his best guess.

  He walked the maze of velvet ropes until he came to a concrete wall that jutted from the main wall at a hard right angle. He stepped around it and followed a smaller wall that turned back in on itself. It formed a short hallway, a natural choke point that kept anyone from directly attacking the door. Marcus looked at the formidable door. It had a tiny shuttered window set in it. It looked like it slid sideways when opened, like something out of a 1920s speakeasy—but not a real one, only the kind you saw in films. Next to the door was a small button.

  As Marcus pushed the button, he reflected on what he’d seen. None of the other buildings had parking garages, or even subterranean storage. This building was different. The door certainly seemed more like a prop than something functional. He thought of how many people it would take to construct a place like this. How many bribes it would take to keep them quiet. No, not bribes. Something else. Fear.

  A gruff voice spoke as the shuttered window slid to the side in the door.

  “What do you want?”

  Marcus was so taken aback, he laughed. This couldn’t be for real; it had to be some kind of themed establishment.

  “Joe sent me,” he chuckled, using an old password from his days as a vagabond in the “wet” districts of New York.

  “Get lost. You know the rules. One time in and one time out. You missed the opening, you’re out.”

  Marcus protested, “But I didn’t know the rules. When can I get in?”

  Even as he spoke, the peephole slid closed with a snap of finality. At the same time, Marcus heard movement behind him. Someone trying to be quiet, but in actuality crude and clumsy. It wasn’t quite loud enough to be a human, so it was most likely a vampire. Judging from the amount of noise, there were probably two of them, doubtless the pair of guards he’d spotted. He stood there for a moment trying to decide how to play it. He decided to stay in character as someone just trying to get into a party. That wasn’t entirely false in any case.

  He turned over what he knew while he waited for the guards to get closer. He wanted them to think they were in control. So, this club was some kind of lock-in facility—an excellent security measure. This way they could easily control the flow of the patrons, keep any unwanted out, and minimize the personnel needed to monitor the entrances. Well, entrance, singular, Marcus corrected himself. Places like this only ever had one way in. There might be a bolt-hole or sally port or two, but these things wouldn’t see regular use and were there just to let the proprietors escape. They wouldn’t be there for the benefit of the patrons.

  Marcus heard the guards moving through the velvet rope maze now. He decided to meet them there. He turned and moved out from between the door and the tight cinderblock entrance. Playing stupid was one thing—being stupid, quite another.

  Just as he rounded the corner, he nearly bumped into the lead guard, exactly as he had planned it. He gave a startled little gasp an
d decided to play this as the vampire playboy out for a good time and just a little ashamed of his habit.

  The lead guard oozed false authority. “Sir, you’re going to have to leave now.”

  “Ah yes, well, it’s just that I, erm … I do not know when to come back. Your doorman mentioned there was a specific time…”

  “You’d know if we wanted you to know. This club is by invitation only.”

  The other guard was trying to move out of Marcus’s peripheral vision and get slightly behind him as the lead guard lifted the velvet ropes out of the way and gestured for Marcus to walk beneath them.

  Marcus decided to try another tack. “I’ve brought lots of money. Come on, can you not make a small exception?”

  “No.”

  Then Marcus caught a new scent. Fear. They were afraid of something. Him? He needed to test this theory.

  As he stepped underneath the velvet rope he suddenly stutter-stepped. To the unsuspicious, it would look as if he had tripped over his own feet and caught his balance. If they were frightened of him, it might look as if he were going to try something. He turned his head as he did this to get a better look at the guard who had been trying to get out of his field of vision. He saw the youngblood jerk his hand toward whatever weapon he had under his jacket.

  Marcus caught his balance and let forth a little chuckle, as if ashamed of his own clumsiness. The two guards were definitely afraid of him. If they suspected he was associated with the police, it might make them nervous, but it would not make them afraid.

  No, they would only be afraid if they suspected who he really was. And that meant that between the time they’d seen him approach the building and the time he reached the door, someone inside had recognized him. If they hadn’t wanted him to go in, why let him come all the way down here? Both guards had seen him and allowed him to make his path to the door.

  Marcus chided himself, Menkaure might be right.

  Then again, the way Menkaure had been behaving lately, maybe he had just wanted to go home. As much as Marcus liked him, Menkaure hadn’t been a model detective recently. To be honest, he did not share the same connection to the world Marcus did. As Menkaure had once put it, there might be vampires killing humans, and vice versa, until the stars burned out; he wasn’t going to make a dent, and he wasn’t going to waste his time worrying about it anymore. Menkaure, rightly or wrongly, believed he had a higher purpose.