No thought, no doubt. I owed it to Nicole. To Anya. To all mortals who had shared their blood willingly, and unwillingly.
Inhale, exhale. Focus on the target, let the feelings—Nicole’s feelings—direct me to their source.
I opened my eyes and watched my vision dissolve. The darkness swirled, the street lights and traffic lights spread, dripped and dribbled all over the canvas of my sight before disappearing completely.
The weight of reality seemed lighter; the substance of my own clothing grew less significant until there seemed to be no more feeling against my skin, no itch of fabric, no prickle of humidity, no tickle of cool breeze.
Bridge, river, cliff, shore, ledge. The images beckoned, and I followed, using them as a beacon, imagining the jumble as bright, glowing pieces, forming a brilliant light, flashing on and off, the hum modulating with the light’s flashing rhythm. Fly toward the light!
The light dimmed ever so slightly. The flashing slowed, the humming quieted, a nearly imperceptible difference at first, almost unbelievable, a trick, a distortion of the warpage of this sensation as affected by pure spatial separation.
The light dimmed. The flashing slowed. The humming quieted.
The beacon seemed to move further away. How could that be? Impossible. Moving toward it. It seemed to move further away. Was it not a fixed spot? How could it move away as I moved toward it?
My grip was loosening. Fingers weakened, simply unable to hold much more. My consciousness had reached the apex of its capabilities and was coming crashing down as my entire being was indeed losing its cohesion.
Nicole? My mind struggled to even remember her name, to even remember what it was that was being attempted. To remember why. Struggling ceased. My individuality yielded to the all-encompassing air. No longer me. Just air. Just everything. Just euphoria.
A voice screamed.
Al!
Al. Keep it together. Dammit, you’re so close.
Keep
It
Together
Blinding light seared, flashing so rapidly as to be constantly light and dark. The hum grew louder and louder until it appeared as grains in front of my eyes, forming a tapestry, painting a pointelist portrait of forest, a bridge and sheer ledges above a rushing river. And twin beams of light.
Suddenly, the grinding filled my ears with sound. A yellow cab bore down upon me. Brakes squealed, and the cab came to a shaking stop, the bumper coming to rest mere inches from my shins.
Nicole jumped out of the cab and slammed the door shut with all the force she could muster. Kicking bits of gravel, she bounded toward me and slapped me hard across the face.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she shrieked.
I squelched a smile. “Just what I felt necessary.” That was my only reply; no other words seemed necessary.
Nicole slapped me again, then turned back toward the cab.
“Could you at least give me a ride back to town?”
She spun toward me. Even in the moonlight, her face was luridly red. “Fly back. You seemed to get here with little trouble.”
“Please, Nicole. This trip has pushed me to the absolute limits of my ability. I can scarcely stand, let alone attempt to return.”
She threw her arms up in the air and returned to her cab. The gesture seemed to indicate a resigned willingness to provide me transportation back to civilization.
No words were exchanged during the return trip. Nicole seemed too angry to speak, and I simply was content to let her be angry, to let her be angry at me. At least that way she would be safe from herself for the time being. Anger, though a powerful emotion, is relatively sane compared to the tangle of confused and contradictory emotions that had led her to this place.
“Well,” she spat when we had returned to my cab, “your stupid debt of honor is paid, so you can leave me the fuck alone.”
“I will comply with your wishes.” With that, I departed, fully satisfied to let her think whatever she wanted, whatever might help keep her alive, knowing full well that the debt had not been paid. Yes, I had saved her life, but at the same time, she had saved mine.
———
Two nights later, I found a sealed envelope outside my apartment door. It was a letter from Nicole.
Dear Al:
First, I just have to say, I’m sorry about how I treated you. You really are a special person, or whatever, and you deserved better than the kind of shit I gave you.
Second, I really have to say thanks. I’ve cooled off a bit, and I now realize that you saved my life, even if I didn’t want it saved. I’m sorry, but you just have to understand that I’m really kind of fucked in the head, and sometimes I do things to hurt myself. Unfortunately, sometimes good people like you and Maggie get caught in the crossfire.
I’m leaving town for awhile. I just need to get my head together. I have an aunt who lives in Vermont. It’s pretty boring at her place, but I think I’ve had a little too much excitement for awhile.
This is goodbye for now, but hey, who knows about the future? For what it’s worth, I’ll treasure the good times we had. I love you and won’t ever forget you.
Love,
Nicole
I gently replaced the letter within the envelope and tucked it into the back pocket of my blue denim trousers, then went to work because it was simply the thing to do. Bills had to be paid, money had to be saved, and, as the Americans say, that was that. Also a killer vampire had to be found; this had not been forgotten, and obviously a moving cab certainly seemed a useful tool in the search.
Co-op Cabbies, remember, we’re professionals with a job to do.
That is what Dexter had announced over the radio the night of Truck’s funeral. And it was those words that echoed inside my head after the completion of this affair. Despite all that had happened, despite my pain, there was a mission and a goal. There was indeed a job to do.
However, the job was becoming less pleasant as the weather warmed. Despite it only being mid-May, this night was hot and muggy, one of those nights where it actually feels more oppressive after the sun sets, even for one such as myself. Extreme temperatures do not cause us much discomfort, though heat is a tad less comfortable than cold. But the discomfort was greater in my weakened state, the effects of the long-distance teleport from two nights hence still felt. Still, the shift would not have been altogether unpleasant had I not been, as the Americans say, chasing my tail, circling block after block, racing for calls only to lose to another driver. My mood, already sour, only worsened as the night wore on, and the disposition of my passengers certainly did little to make life more pleasant. These things shall pass, yes, but there was no comfort in philosophy, not in the short term and certainly not on this particular night.
Finally, a call at the University Inn. Mine, but a traffic light kept me waiting, as thick, dripping haze froze the light forever red. The opposite light finally turned yellow, but a group of college students decided to make a run for it. They ambled ahead, slowed as if expended, then lumbered the rest of the way against the green. I turned the air conditioning up a notch, wanting my next passengers to be comfortable.
As soon as I arrived at the motel, a trio of businessmen jogged to the cab and hastily climbed in.
“Hello,” I said. “Where can I take you tonight?”
“Spectators,” one said.
A soft groan passed my lips. Why could they not walk a mere quarter mile? “Right away, sirs,” I said with a smile, hearing an annoying falsetto remind me, “All calls are good calls.”
“Jee-suz Chrawst!” one said. “How’d it get this danged hot. I thought I’d left the heat back in South Carolina .”
“It was that front that came in, sir,” I replied. “It pushed away the nice weather we had been having. They say it will be hot and humid for the next few days.”
“Well, that’s just fucking great,” the passenger said, his friends silent. “I didn’t come here for the heat.”
“No, you came here
for the poontang,” another passenger said.
Mercy made the ride short.
“That’ll be one-seventy-five.”
“Pay the man,” the passenger on the far left said, getting out of the cab. The man in the middle climbed out and turned to the third man who remained rooted to his seat.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“Naw. Think I’ll just stay in this nice, cool cab.”
“C’mon, Jasper.”
“I do have to get on with the rest of my evening, sir,” I gently added.
“Here,” Jasper said gruffly, as he finally slid out of the cab. “Keep the change.” The man slammed the door. A single crumpled, sweaty dollar bill and a dollar-off coupon lay in my palm.
“Lake and U,” Dexter’s voice crackled.
I quickly punched the bid button, shifted into gear and raced toward the only call on the board.
“It’s yours, Count,” Dexter informed moments later. “U-Ride voucher twenty-five. Mad Hatters for three to Langdon. Pick up on Lake Street at the U-Square pee-oh.”
Almost five minutes after arriving at the pick-up point, seconds before a two dollar no-load fee could have been charged to the university, three men, one tall and slender, another short and stocky, the third scrawny and of medium height, along with a petite Asian woman, turned the corner and strode toward the cab. The short, stocky one opened the front door on the passenger side.
“U-Ride?” he asked.
“Yes. You are going to Langdon Street ?”
“That’s us.” The short, stocky man slid into the front seat. The two other men climbed in the back. The woman sat between them.
“There are four of you.”
“You got a problem with that?” said a voice from the back.
“It violates the rules. Only parties of three or less may call for a U-Ride.”
“Hey, be a dude,” said the guy in front. “Just pretend there’s three.”
“I am sorry. I do not make up the rules. When you call for a U-Ride, you can at most be a party of three. However, if one or more wants to stay behind and call again, we can send another cab quickly.”
Silence. I glanced furtively at them, sensing something strange, but was not quite able to grasp it. The tall, slender passenger opened his door, yanked the woman’s arm, pulled her across his lap and flung her from the cab.
“I guess we’re three now,” the gentleman behind me said.
“Oh, man,” said the student in front. “What’d you do that for?”
“Hey, we’ll find another. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
I paused and glanced toward the woman, watching her crawl on the sidewalk, then slowly rise to her feet. She took a step, stumbled, steadied then stared at the cab. Her lips moved, but only the sounds of the remaining passengers were audible—their laughter, soon obscured by the sound of three hearts beating, pumping blood through three bodies, only to be covered by the loud, steady thump, thump of my own pounding heart.
“Enough!” I shouted. “I have had enough. You will all get out of my cab. Right now! This ride is over.”
“Hey, man,” the guy in front said. “We’re just kidding around. What’s the matter? Can’t take a joke?”
“This is U-Ride,” said the fellow behind me. “You’re just a fucking cab driver. You have to take us.”
I jumped out, quickly circled the cab, opening all the doors. “Out! Right now! All of you. Get out or I will call the police.”
One by one, the passengers climbed out of the cab, each slamming their doors loudly. Two walked away. The tall slender one remained by the cab and glared at me. “That was stupid,” he said, dropping his voice a couple octaves. “You might just regret something like this.”
They walked slowly to the corner where they stood staring at me, their pale flesh glowing brightly in the moonlight. Suspicion filled me. Did their flesh perhaps glow too brightly? Why would their flesh be so pale when these Americans prefer to sear their skin in the sun until cooked a golden brown?
The woman fell again and was scrabbling on hands and knees. Damn these fellows! This woman needed help, and that was my top priority. Paying the students no further mind, I opened the front door and helped her inside. “Come. We must get out of here. I will take you wherever you want to go.” I punched the accelerator and squealed the tires, driving without destination, simply trying to put as much distance possible between the cab and the three students. I did not even turn on the meter.
After a few blocks, I slowed to a stop. “Is there someplace I can take you?”
“Huh?” she said quietly. The woman stared straight ahead. I flared my nostrils and let her aroma wash over me: sweat, a trace of soap, that trendy perfume popular with the sorority girls that smells like insect repellant. And something else, something very faint, so faint only a vampire would notice. Sweet like lilies, but with a slight bitterness. Something I had not smelled in a long time.
“Datura,” I said aloud. Known as Jimson Weed in North America and found in various forms all over the world. And sometimes used during unsavory religious rituals.
I flicked on the dome light and studied my passenger. Her skin was pale, she was perspiring and her breathing was labored. Turning the light off and on revealed the woman’s pupils to be dilated. The dosage was substantial and fairly concentrated. She needed prompt medical attention. Fortunately, the Madison General Hospital emergency room was very close.
“Stop the cab,” the woman said. “I’m gonna be sick.”
I stopped, and the woman jumped out just in time.
“Oh, god,” she said, crying, holding her stomach. “I don’t feel so good. Can you get me to a hospital.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
———
On the way home from the office following shift’s end, the faintest hint of flickering light caught my attention. In the rear view mirror, a quarter-mile behind, a pair of headlights pulled from the curb.
The car followed my turn onto East Washington, then followed my zig-zag to John Nolan Drive . Though the speed limit was 35, I let up on the accelerator and slowed to 25. The other car maintained its quarter-mile following distance.
A right turn, another right, then an immediate left. After the third turn, I glanced at the rear view mirror.
Twin, white dots glowed in the mirror.
Chapter 17
Retribution
Right turn, left turn, left turn, right turn. With each respective turn, the headlights reappeared in the rear-view mirror, the distance constant, yet discreet.
My mind quickly sifted through recollections and possibilities as my foot pressed against the gas pedal, maintaining a velocity of exactly five miles-per-hour below the speed limit.
Merely a few hours ago, three men had threatened me when it was they who had been in violation of the rules; their companion had been dosed with datura, a most exotic drug indeed; though they themselves possessed arrogance like many of these affluent college students, their threats had indeed seemed real; though the opportunity had not been there for full scrutiny, their appearance did seem strange—they were pale! Yes, quite pale when compared with all these students, who upon returning from their Florida vacations at the conclusion of spring break bore bronzed skin, their flesh intentionally charred by the sub-tropical sun—
—This is U-Ride. You have to take us. You’re just a fucking cab driver.
Truck had been murdered by something not human, and he had had a similar encounter with a college student who belligerently refused to obey U-Ride regulations. Hypothesis: Truck had been murdered by vampires because he had offended their sense of arrogance, and now the same vampires wanted their vengeance over me for exactly the same reason.
It was time to test this hypothesis. I accelerated, parked at the far end of the block, willed myself into discorporation and rematerialized, straddled over a high branch of a densely leafed oak tree across the street.
It was time to be a hunter once agai
n.
The white sedan squealed to a stop alongside my Toyota . A trio of young men got out, leaving the motor running, serenading the block with the engine’s soft, muscular purr. One fellow was tall and lithe, another scrawny, the third a bit stout.
No doubt remained; they were indeed the same trio as before.
This is U-Ride. You have to take us. You’re just a fucking cab driver.
One reached for the driver’s door, only to find it locked, only to find the car empty. He kicked a tire, then threw a single punch at the driver’s side window. A muffled crash broke through the silence of night.
The other two leaped atop the car, one on the trunk, the other on the hood, both jumping up and down, causing my poor Toyota to rock violently. The first fellow ran to the passenger side, threw two quick punches at the quaking vehicle. Two more crashes echoed up and down the block.
The gentleman jumping on the hood leaped high in the air and landed on the edge, causing the fellow on the trunk to fly upward. As the fellow in the rear descended, he thrust his leg and smashed the back window, then leaped to the pavement.
The gentleman on the hood spun upward, jumped hard onto the center of the hood, then spun again, kicking hard at the windshield, which shattered like freshly frozen ice. With a backflip and a full, backwards summersault, he joined his comrades who surveyed the damage, their laughter an obvious indicator that they had enjoyed this vandalism and were impressed with their ability to cause this much destruction.
They made no attempt to scan the nearby terrain for any sign of their apparently-human prey, not even making use of their enhanced senses. Doubled over with laughter, the trio returned to their car and disappeared into the night. After a bit, I dropped from the tree to survey the damage done to my trusty steed.
“I am so very sorry, my sweet mount,” I said, stroking the steel skin of my Toyota ’s roof, momentarily disappointed that such a reliable car had to be sacrificed to gather intelligence about these brigands.
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