But much evidence presented itself. The windows were completely shattered. The back window bore a massive, jagged hole in the center, spiderweb cracks covering those chunks of glass that remained around the edges.
As for the windshield, astonishingly, it was simply no more. Jagged shards of glass lay all over the front and back seats, forming only a slightly broken pattern where they lay, indicating a clean break as the thick windshield yielded to a radiated tremor of force that sliced the glass from the inside out. I picked up a triangular piece of glass. The edges were smooth, very sharp and nearly straight.
Anger suddenly boiled inside me. If they had gotten this much enjoyment out of wrecking my car, how much glee did they feel when they murdered Truck? Surely, they fed off his fear as much as they had his blood. Had I been human, they would have killed me with the same relish. With the same relish as when they had murdered their other victims.
But who were they?
And where had they gotten datura with which to dose that woman?
And what had they planned to do to her?
More recollections washed over me. There was that sorority girl who had disappeared. There was that trio Nicole and Maggie had identified as fraternity brothers, who had slapped the woman at the Cardinal Bar and dumped a pitcher of beer over her head.
“I will see that you receive the best of care,” I said to my car, as I attempted to brush the glass from the driver’s seat. Under close inspection, some of the shards were dappled with droplets of blood. The trio had not seemed to care; more blood would always be readily available, always there for the taking.
Having cleared the driver’s seat, I drove off, a hidden piece of glass stabbing my thigh. I did not care about spilling a little of my blood either, for there would be more for my taking.
A sharp breeze ripped through my car as I drove homeward. As expected, they had revealed themselves, and it would be a simple matter of sifting through the night’s call slips to find their address. Without that information, it was best to wait on the oncoming morrow to commence the hunt after seeing to repairs of my trusty Toyota . For the time being, there was nothing to do but tolerate the rushing air, this wind a beast of a thousand teeth, a thousand pairs of unsheathed fangs, a thousand hungry, merciless—
—vampires!
Not merely vampires, but sadistic, evil little trolls who also happened to be vampires, possessing all that raw power while totally lacking any sense of ethics and morals, let alone respect for the mortals who so kindly provide sustenance. And completely lacking responsibility toward their fellow vampires.
Much to my disgust, I could empathize, knowing full well what it was like to feel Earthbound and soulless, with all faith ripped away.
Through the smashed windshield, the moon glowed brightly above Lake Monona , plump, pregnant, almost full.
The moon would be full tomorrow night. And had not the woman from Dawn Stevens’s sorority said that Sigma Chi throws a party the weekend of each full moon?
More coincidences.
Had not Dawn Stevens disappeared shortly after attending a Sigma Chi full moon party? What was the address of that fraternity? Whatever the address, intuition said it would be the same as that on my call slip.
A hypothesis is like a bridge. It begins with a theory and a conclusion, but needs evidence to connect the two extremities. Indeed, a visit to the waybill office would be the next step, and once receiving confirmation of certain theories, I would attend that Sigma Chi party, even though no one had seen fit to send me an invitation.
As the Americans say, this party was a must go.
———
When the telephone rang at six the next evening, I had already arisen, was dressed and ready to report to work, two hours early. In fact, I had only just returned from the body shop where they had assured me that my Toyota would be “good as new” by Tuesday.
It was Maggie calling from the cab company, wanting me to come in early. She said they had a gross preponderance of time calls and needed some extra help. She also said she had received a cordial but somewhat distant post card from Nicole. Apparently, her friend was bored, but doing satisfactorily.
Little did she know that their need for drivers was consistent with my plans. I told her my vehicle was being repaired and asked her to send me a cab as quickly as possible.
———
By the time I had arrived at the cab office, there were twenty calls on the board, all downtown, thus allowing no opportunity to visit the waybill office, leaving no alternative but to get my cab ready for the night’s shift. When just about to leave the lot, Maggie came running out to my cab.
“Hey, Al! Wait!”
“What is it, Maggie?”
“You’re in luck. We need you to run to Janesville , pick up a rail crew and bring them back to the Wisconsin Calumet Depot.”
This was in contradiction with my plans. Maggie managed to sense my silent consternation.
“Hey, you’ll be back in no time.” She patted me on the shoulder. “I know those rail guys never tip, but it’s easy money.”
I forced myself to smile at her. “Thank you very much for this bountiful call. I shall return quickly to help you service all those downtown calls.”
Maggie returned my smile, then left me to my bounty.
I lifted a spare tire into the trunk of my cab and tossed in a jack—both items required when we go out of town. Fortunately, this would be a short run. Likely, my prey had yet to rise, and they would most likely not commit any nefarious deeds until midnight, which these Americans were so fond of calling “the witching hour.” Besides, the fare would run about $75 for doing nothing more than driving 60 miles per hour away from the setting sun.
———
Upon returning to Madison, the calls were reduced to a mere trickle, affording the opportunity to drop off the tire and jack at the office. I went inside to wash the tire grime off my hands, then stepped into the dispatch office. Sharon, the dispatcher, was doodling on blank call slips. Maggie leaned back in her chair, smoking a cigarette, staring at a phone that just didn’t want to ring.
“It has gotten very quiet,” I said.
“Just the lull before the storm,” Sharon replied.
“What was all the excitement about?” I asked.
Maggie extinguished her cigarette. “Some frat party, I think.”
“Was it at Sigma Chi?” I asked.
“Beats me,” Sharon said.
“Whatever’s at two twenty-one Langdon,” Maggie said. “Had a bunch of U-Rides going there. Langdon Street , lakeshore dorms. All of ’em Buffys and Muffys.”
A quick scan of the phone book confirmed the address of Sigma Chi as 221 Langdon.
“Is saw the lights were on in the Waybill Office,” I said. “Is anybody up there?”
Sharon glanced up from her doodling. “Dale’s up there working on payroll. What’s up?”
“I just remembered something. I need to check out something from a waybill about a week or two ago. If it gets busy, I will be up in the waybill office.”
“Don’t get lost up there,” Sharon said. “Could get busy again soon.”
With Dale’s help, I first scanned the U-Ride call slips for my assignment from the previous night finding: U-Ride number 25. Origin, U-Square P.O. Destination, 221 Langdon.
I never had the opportunity to check on the woman. The nurses at the emergency room thanked me and said they would take care of her.
She appeared drunk, perhaps even suffering from alcohol poisoning. The fraternity boys acted drunk as well and acted stupid and ornery, just like normal college students—atypical on the surface, but somehow I knew better.
I began sifting through waybills, struggling to remember the exact date when Truck had told the story about throwing a U-Ride passenger out of his cab, his words echoing inside my skull as he told the tale of the ornery fellow accompanied by a woman he had described as “fucked up and glassy-eyed.”
Without the exact
date, the task proved difficult. It was time-consuming to find Truck’s waybill and then his call slips, but eventually there was enough cross-referenced information to allow me to find the proper call slip from the bundles of U-Ride slips.
I found confirmation. Destination, 221 Langdon.
The sorority girl had said that drunk frat boys could be jerks, especially “Smegma Boys,” even if they were good, decent people most of the rest of the time.
She said they could be “animals.”
Maybe they were.
———
As the Americans say, take the bull by the horns.
I drove uptown quickly, pulled up to the curb right in front of the fraternity house, then got out and walked up the front steps.
A UW football player stood blocking the door, an undersized Bucky Badger T-shirt stretched tightly across his bulging chest. He was built like a very old oak tree. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at me.
I smiled meekly. “Did someone here call for a cab?”
“I don’t know of nobody calling for no cab.” The gentleman flexed his ample biceps and frowned.
“Maybe someone inside called.” I took a step closer to the door.
“You ain’t invited, you ain’t going in.”
I stepped back as the fellow flashed a draconian smile. A short, skinny fraternity fellow poked his head from behind the bouncer.
“Yeah, we didn’t invite you, so you can just fuck off.”
I smiled at the pair, then took a couple steps back, flared my nostrils, opened my senses, but felt nothing unusual. I turned and returned to the cab, planning another route of access into the house. Suddenly, a scream sliced through the inside of my skull. A blood curdling scream, not heard with my highly sensitive ears, but felt with my entire being, a genuine scream, full of real terror.
A blood-red swath obscured my sight. Then, I was mist, my consciousness following the resonating echo, the smell of blood, the hint of datura. I do not even remember parking in a cab stand two blocks away and hitting the 10-7 button.
I rematerialized in darkness, thumping music pounding like heartbeats above my head. Corridors sliced through sticky darkness, thick with spider webs and dust which choked my nostrils. A door appeared just ahead, the bitter stench of datura hanging thickly in the air.
The door was locked. But by the blisters of Satan, no lock, no barricade, not even all the guardians of Hades would keep me out. With a swift kick, the thick door flew open, revealing the sight of the three fraternity brothers standing in a circle above their prey, none seeming to move or react to the intrusion.
They stood naked before an immense pentagram of blood painted on the mildewed wall, their voices merged in a single chant. Between them, a naked woman lay spread-eagled on the floor, manacles biting into her wrists and ankles, scratches and slices covering her chest, stomach and hips, her blood splattered all over her flesh, all over their bodies. An oversized ceramic phallus stood between her legs, mottled with blood.
This was not Dawn Stevens, just another random victim, glazed eyes staring at the ceiling. Another senseless killing—
—The woman blinked. Pricking my ears, I heard a faint heartbeat. A roar filled the basement room, a roar which came from my mouth, originating deep within my being. Their oblivion finally broken, the fraternity brothers finally turned, shocked at the violation of their sanctity. But only for a moment.
The tall, slender fellow charged. The others followed.
Back arched, hands clenched, flexing razor sharp claws, I growled, standing my ground as they struck, hurling me into a concrete wall, the sound of a half-dozen cracking ribs filling my ears.
With an irritating tingling, the ribs knitted themselves almost instantly. Before their next salvo, I threw myself at the tall, slender fellow.
My momentum flung us against the wall on the other side, the other fellow absorbing most of the impact. Ribs crackled like kindling. He fell stunned to the floor. I turned and faced his two companions.
“Hey, he can’t fuck with us,” the plump one shouted. “Bobo! You said we have the Gift of the Magi. You said no one can fuck with the Gift of the Magi. You said that.”
Bobo responded not, but I did, leaping at the plump one. The scrawny gentleman stood paralyzed, unable to move as his brother got fucked with, as the Americans say, by some interloper who sank a grinning mouth into a jowly neck, jerked his head back and spat out half of a throat, letting the twitching body fall to the floor, blood squirting rhythmically from where the throat had been torn.
The short, scrawny fellow whimpered as he stumbled backward away from me. With relish, I matched each slow step, until something hit me from behind, sending me flying into the prey before me, the two of us crashing into a wall.
Icy droplets struck my neck. Twin pinpricks pressed against my throat. I reached back and blindly slapped at the space behind my head, boxing a pair of ears.
Bobo shrieked. I spun around and slashed his face, ripping off about half of one cheek. He yowled until a backhanded fist sent him spinning to the floor, silent for the moment.
I turned to find the scrawny one shaking his head, seeking to return to awareness. While he slapped weakly at my face and shoulders, I lifted him high in the air, slammed him to the floor next to Bobo, then took a high step and brought a heel down hard upon his neck.
The loud crackling of shattered vertebrae provoked a whimper from Bobo as he snapped back to awareness. Like a beached crustacean, he scuttled backward on his rear, until his back struck the opposite wall. Quickly, I dematerialized, then rematerialized, crouched on the floor, an arm wrapped tightly around his throat.
Full circle, a symmetry of existence. A thousand years ago, the fraternity brother was me, and I was Francois, staring with contempt as an immature vampire begged for his life.
“Please,” he whimpered.
“Monster!” I spat. My voice sounded low and gravelly, but as deeply buried as my consciousness was at that very moment, I knew that Francois had chosen to let me live because he knew most creatures are not inherently good or evil. Through instruction, the more primal urges can be sufficiently tempered.
“Why should I not destroy you?”
His eyes opened wide. “Money! I can get you money. Lots of money! My father’s filthy rich! He can send you a check tomorrow. You’re that cab driver. Say the word, and you won’t have to drive a cab ever again.”
Without a word, I pressed both hands against the sides of his head and slowly twisted, ignoring his screams, kneeling hard against his abdomen to keep his body still, twisting until bones crackled, snapped and flesh tore. The body slipped to the floor with a muffled thud, agitating dust into the air. A severed head sat in my hands, its lifeless eyes staring at me blankly, accusingly.
Three dead bodies littered the floor. Three more people dead at my hands. A shriek passed my lips as the events of the past few months passed kaleidoscope-like before my eyes.
Because death courses through my body, must death follow me everywhere I travel? Must these hands take life when they could just as easily create rather than destroy?
The woman moaned, interrupting my musing. Quickly, I rushed to her side, finding her jugular with my fingers, searching for a pulse. Her heart continued to beat, weak but steady. Had she enough blood to live?
A single drop of blood struck my hand, falling from a small cut where Bobo had tried to rip open my neck. Blood. Life for the living. Life of a different variety, but life nonetheless. If I so chose, her existence could continue.
I made quick study of the woman, ripping open the manacles on her wrists and ankles. She reacted not. Dilated eyes stared at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, her breathing shallow.
Her blood-spattered flesh was pale, but her wounds were all superficial; no arteries were severed, and the punctures had all knit with coagulation.
They had tasted her, but had not yet taken her life’s blood. She would live, but needed immediate medical attention.
Before departing to notify the authorities, I surveyed the carnage left behind. Perhaps, Francois would have chosen this course of action. Or perhaps not. Perhaps, the opportunity might someday present itself where I can ask Francois what he would have done.
However, these concerns were quickly supplanted by some unfinished business. One question remained: Where does one buy powdered essence of datura?
———
You are indeed correct; the plump fellow had made reference to the “Gifts of the Magi,” and yes, there was a store by that name a mere two blocks from my abode. The irony of this situation was hauntingly apparent, that I had scoured the entire city for vampires, only to find the source just under my nose at the Gifts of the Magi Occult Shoppe. Suddenly, it no longer seemed odd that the store was never open during the daylight—at least according to the sign in the front window.
At exactly Midnight the next night, I paid a visit to the store, though circumventing the front door, instead materializing in the rear, the stench of mildew nearly making me sneeze. I studied the books as I moved toward the front counter. They were mostly hardcovers with Latin titles whose translations were far more ominous than the books were actually dangerous.
The man at the sales desk looked up only when I stood in front of him. He was short and slight with long, thin, scraggly hair, a patchy beard and little round glasses. An ankh hung over his chest. The man looked about forty, but certainly this was untrue.
“I want to buy some powdered essence of datura,” I spat, staring malevolently at the shopkeeper.
He smiled, showing me the sharp points of his fangs; there was no need for deception at this point. “So, you’re the one who murdered my children,” he said, his accent British, specifically Cornish. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Murder, you say? I think not. It is certainly not murder to destroy rabid beasts.”
“And I suppose you’ve come to destroy me as well?” He laughed heartily. “Perhaps, you might find me a bit more formidable.”
“I came to talk. To talk about responsibility—”
“I think you mean slavery. Responsibility? To who? Humans?”
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