“Did you not think it irresponsible to give such power to such vain, arrogant, immature creatures? They were a danger to us all.”
His face pinched in disgust. “My children were glorious! True hunters in the way we were meant to be.”
“Murderers!”
“Hunters, not murderers,” the shopkeeper countered. “You, my good fellow, are pathetic. You’re decadent. Are you forgetting what you are? We are superior. The humans should worship us. Like the old days.”
“Humans have advanced far beyond that. They have evolved while we merely fight extinction.” Francois, after all, had predicted the Age of Reason centuries before it came to be and was correct to foresee that it would provide a better world than the ignorant, superstitious one left behind.
“You just don’t know what it’s like being worshipped. A hundred and fifty years ago, I was worshipped. You can’t know—”
Something within my mind clicked. “You’re Cornish, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “And you’re Hungarian, just like Bela Lugosi. Quite the cliché, aren’t you?”
A loud laugh exploded from deep within my gut. “The Cornish lead miners who settled Wisconsin , it was they who worshipped you, was it not? You are the original Bucky Badger. Were your ceremonial robes cardinal red?”
Anger seethed from his pores at the mention of the ridiculously anthropomorphized weasel who functions as mascot for the University of Wisconsin athletic teams and is the noted emblem for the entire state of Wisconsin .
“They feared me all right!” he roared, then calmed and shook his head condescendingly once again. “I can’t believe what a pathetic, poor excuse for a vampire you are.” He shook his head sadly in a badly contrived gesture. “Is this what the modern world has come to? Good God, man, you’ve got the noble blood of Isis and Osiris coursing through your body, yet you slink through the shadows, relying on rats and other vermin to satisfy your hunger. You’re a coward, that’s what you are. A coward!”
Why does my kind so often fall prey to the popular mythos of our origins? The truth is that not one of us has any idea how we came to be, though some like to invent such noble origins.
Without tensing or flinching, he raised his hands up to the counter, pushed down and leaped at me.
Bending my knees, I twisted away from his lunge and shoved the shopkeeper hard as he passed. He crashed into a wall. I spun and slammed the back of my fist against the man’s jaw. He kicked upward blindly, connecting squarely with my chest, staggering me. A breath brought a sliver of pain. The kick had caused a hairline fracture of my breastbone, which might split in two even pieces if he connected again before the bone repaired itself.
The shopkeeper leaped to his feet, feigned with an elbow to the head, then came underneath. A fist pounded my sternum. A foot struck the back of one of my heels. I toppled backward, pain slivers transformed to razor-sharp shards. The shopkeeper jumped on top of me, pressing against my torso with all his weight. An edge of my sternum pressed against my lungs. My mouth filled with the salty taste of my own blood.
Razor sharp fangs lowered toward my jugular, eyes glowing obsidian, surprisingly strong arms pinning my shoulders and arms to the floor.
A shock of realization washed over me. One thousand years of existence would end here because overwhelming pain obscured my ability to muster enough concentration to turn to mist and escape his grasp. Given just a short interim, the injury would heal enough for me to escape, but time was indeed a luxury; the shopkeeper lowered for the kill.
No! The mind can think. The mind can reason. The mind can sift for possibilities, even when none seem apparent. Despite the fire burning in my chest, despite the utterly hideous sensation of bone knitting back together, an idea came to mind. For a very short moment, I pushed futilely against his grasp with all my might, then relaxed, giving up any semblance of struggle.
With a harsh cough, a bubble of blood formed on my lips. I allowed my face to contort into a look of fear, conceding defeat, showing him resignation, hoping he would take the opportunity to savor his victory.
My attacker’s smile broadened. His descent stopped. Yes, he was enjoying my defeat, tasting my apparent fear, savoring this unique moment, obviously knowing that the longer he waited, the sweeter my blood would be.
Twin droplets of icy saliva struck my neck. A whimper passed my lips. I shut my eyes. From somewhere far away, he laughed.
Shards dulled to splinters as fangs pressed against my throat. I took a deep breath, imagined myself standing straight and erect—
—and rematerialized standing above the shopkeeper who lay on his stomach kissing the floor. I kicked him square in the face, reached down, lifted him by the shoulders and flung him at the sales desk.
I watched the man crash, then lunged at him, grabbed his collar, lifted him to his feet and smashed his face against the counter-top. The thick glass cracked internally, spider-web fractures spreading instantly across the pane.
My fangs sank into the man’s throat. Almost immediately, I felt revitalized. I drank deeply of his hot, angry blood, stopping just before another gulp would completely drain him. I lifted him upward, then tossed him to the floor, smiling, savoring the rare taste of vampire blood; it provided extra sustenance for me, but the shopkeeper would be helpless without an immediate infusion of our special nectar. He lay motionless, staring up at me, glassy eyes full of fear.
I pointed toward the front windows. “Eastern exposure? The sunrise must be stunning through these windows.”
Sluggish eyes snapped wide open. I walked around to the back of the sales desk and shoved it until it toppled over him. Shards of broken glass spread across the floor. I raised the window shades, flipped the open/closed sign to closed, locked the front door and flicked off the lights.
“You know,” I said, “as vampires get older, they are better able to tolerate sunlight. But the dawn’s first light is always the most dangerous.”
The shopkeeper stared up at me, hopelessly pinned, too weak to even reply with word or thought. I walked back toward the rear of the store, then turned as if I had forgotten something.
“They say,” I added, almost as an afterthought, “that a vampire who survives the first two hundred years will probably live forever.”
———
The parade of spring flowers eventually ended. A canopy of emerald enveloped the city only to be replaced by crimson and umber as trees drooped from the weight of all their fruit, which finally fell to the ground, summoned by the gravity of eventuality.
The gravity of eventuality. I attempted to comfort myself with this notion of what will be, what will transpire. The humans have this queer notion of “normal,” but what is normal for me is certainly far from normal for humans. With great consideration, it seemed that perhaps the gravity of eventuality is a law of nature, meaning that normal events will happen to those who are normal, and abnormal events will thus happen to those who are not normal in the sense that normal people are normal. One must understand and accept this in order to find the inner peace necessary to be able to adapt and adjust to an ever-changing world.
Utterly simplistic, you say? Yes, but what else was there to do but seek solace in philosophy? To adapt and adjust may sound simple, but to do so is actually quite a difficult task.
And how did I adapt and adjust? Perhaps I did neither. Perhaps the greatest solace came as the Cab Gods looked out for me, providing enough bounty even during the summer to allow me to save at least $500 per month.
Shortly, the strange case of the Madison Mangler was closed. That last victim did indeed survive. Apparently, the tale she told the authorities of her abduction and rescue satisfied them enough for them to believe that the Madison Mangler would take no more victims, though the mystery as to who had come to her aid and killed her tormentors would remain. A week later, they found the body of Dawn Stevens, mutilated, drained of blood and dead for several weeks. After that, no more bodies were found, nor were there any more reports of missing persons t
hat would cause them to reopen the case.
Days later, the Sigma Chi house was burned to the ground.
My first anniversary at Co-op Cab approached. The leaves had once again been ripped from the trees by the angry November winds, puffed up in pride over their victory in the annual battle of climatic supremacy against summer. All life began that process of curling up and dying. Still, comfort and inspiration came to me at this time.
Amidst this urban forest of bare trees, there was this one young maple that somehow managed to keep its leaves. I first noticed it one night while feeling particularly maudlin, and continued to see it for two weeks. Perhaps it sounds silly, but I often thought of that tree, even one night while sitting at the Concourse stand, reading the Wall Street Journal, trying to decide upon a good mutual fund in which to invest my first full year’s patronage dividend check. At the same time, I reflected upon a call that had come up earlier at the U-Square PO. Immediately following my arrival at this point of origin, three men and a woman had approached the cab.
“Damn,” I said under my breath. This ironic déjà vu was certainly not lost upon me. They opened the doors and climbed inside.
“I am sorry,” I said, “but U-Rides are allowed only for parties of three or less. Some of you may ride. Those who remain are welcome to call U-Ride for another cab, but I cannot take all four of you at once.”
There was a moment of silence. Finally, the men climbed out of the cab.
“Hey, that’s okay,” one said. “Take her home. We’ll just walk.”
“You sure that’s okay?” the woman said.
“No problem,” another man said. “You take the ride. We can walk.”
The men began walking away from the cab. One broke from the group and approached me.
“You make sure she gets home safe,” he said through the open window.
“That is what we do,” I replied with a smile. The man smiled back. A cool breeze gusted through the cab. The wind felt gentle, yet it would herald the harsh winter that would come all too soon, bringing a bounty to us all. All seemed right with the world, for this bizarre experience of déjà vu brought me comfort, proving that reality can actually be as it should, as opposed to bringing to fruition one’s greatest nightmare. Putting down my newspaper, I thought of that brave little tree and smiled, knowing that I was able to bend in the wind too, adjusting and adapting to this ever-changing world. With this American holiday of Thanksgiving approaching, I gave my own thanks, grateful that the bountiful Cab Gods were there to watch over me.
Later that night, the soft breezes turned angry, seeking vengeance wherever available. Yet, despite the severity of these gales, I fully believed that my brave little maple would survive. Feeling rather confident of this, even feeling a bit giddy, I drove to visit my leafy friend only to find a pathetic little stump, its branches and leaves blown into oblivion.
Suddenly, the images rushed before my sight, and the vanity of my philosophical rationalizations came crashing down upon me. Before my eyes: three naked, blood spattered corpses, one with the neck horribly twisted, one with the neck partially torn out and the third with the head completely ripped from its shoulders; two corpses, one an adult male with his neck grotesquely twisted, the other a mere child, naked, smooth skin ripped and torn, chocolate brown flesh turned gray; and one corpse, merely a collection of charred bones.
I had done this!
A wave of nausea passed through me. One can hide in distractions, but the consequences of one’s deeds will always be. A great vista of carnage opened before me, and I suddenly realized that were Francois here, he would have been quite ashamed and very angry.
“Seventy,” Dexter’s voice crackled, interrupting my contemplation. “There’s a telegram waiting for you at your office. Just arrived.”
“A telegram?” I answered, wondering who might send me a telegram. “Do you know from whom this telegram is?”
“Yeah,” Dexter replied. “Some guy named Bob Johnson.”
That could mean only one thing. In his last letter, my former aide-de-camp had said he had actually found some promising leads regarding the whereabouts of a certain Jenkins fellow. The previous image immediately faded, replaced by images of restored fortunes and sweet, sweet revenge.
Chapter 18
Full Circle
Jenkins found. See the Bruja, Catemaco, Mexico.
The terse message quickly obscured all other concerns, etching its way into my memory, the telegram read and read again until the paper, through excessive handling, grew to resemble parchment.
Suddenly, the sparseness of my drab abode became all too apparent. No longer could the shortcomings be obscured through a conscious lapse of attention to these details.
But no longer!
My bed would be the most exquisite of carved mahogany, the mattress like clouds, the sheets the finest Chinese silk money can buy. The splendor of my new abode would be such to even dazzle the most jaded of aristocrats.
After departing work, I returned to this temporary home, listened to a scratchy recording of Rossini and studied the atlas, closing my eyes, imagining where next I would call home.
I would have my revenge. After retrieving my fortune, Jenkins would watch in horror as slowly his skin was peeled off his quivering skeleton, the chest ever so slowly torn open, his heart ripped from his chest, his life blood squeezed into my mouth from a heart beating its last.
Catemaco was found in my atlas as the Italian maestro reached a stunning crescendo. Yes, this tiny pueblo on the Gulf of Mexico, just south of Vera Cruz, seemed perhaps a good place to lose oneself; Jenkins would never suspect the visitor he was about to entertain.
It seemed an easy task, thanks to the typically excellent and thorough job by my former aide-de-camp, Bob Johnson. Simply travel to this quaint little pueblo and seek out the local witch doctor who would direct me to my quarry. Travel expenses would eat up much of my savings, but this seemed quite the clever investment. Quite clever indeed.
———
I have been too long away from the tropics, too long exiled in the deadly silent, lifeless wasteland called Wisconsin. Strolling through the jungle surrounding Catemaco, jolts of electricity coursed through my body, the sweet scent of mammoth flowers wafting into my nostrils, along with the musk of all that hidden life. A jaguar screeched, monkeys shrieked, macaws squawked, toads croaked and a thousand insects clicked, chirped and whistled. This symphony of life filled me with the indescribable vitality of all that impending essence out there just for the taking.
With my first step inside Catemaco, my boot sank into the mud of what was considered a street, a waterlogged quagmire in a place that apparently possessed no knowledge of cement, asphalt or even gravel. Six blocks was the mere extent of the village. Above, a lone electrical cable snaked from one end of the pueblo to the other, satisfying Catemaco’s modest desires for power, a strong contrast to the insatiable hunger back in the United States . There, high tension wires connect the vast gulfs separating communities, mounted upon those ubiquitous steel structures so much like the persona of those poor souls crucified in ancient Rome . This procession leading from community to community has always reminded me of the accounts of how the Romans had lined the entire Appian Way with crucified Spartans. Indeed, all roads did in fact lead to Rome !
Darkness had descended prior to my arrival. Most of the inhabitants seemed to have retreated into their modest casas, built from sun-hardened mud or sod, roofed with tin or palm thatching, the occasional corrugated steel abode a sign of wealth and status.
A loud crash drew my attention to a nearby cantina. Silence, then a shouted exchange: one low, gravelly voice, “Pindejo!” and a high-pitched reply, “Chinga tu madre,” then a cacophony of smashing furniture and broken glass, leading undoubtedly to the spilling of blood.
Blood would be spilled tonight, but not that of these peasants, fighting over insignificant insults that would surely be forgotten on the morrow. Blood would be spilled because of th
is insult to me: that someone in my employ could take my fortune, rob me of my livelihood and force me to serve others like a common mortal.
The sounds of the fight inside the cantina faded from my hearing as I focused on the sounds from the jungle creatures rising in the night, fighting their ongoing battle to survive, killing merely because it is what they do.
Ahead stood the Catemaco’s only church, its spire majestically piercing the blackness of night. The Catholic church was my marker, for so often the Bruja lives next to the church, being a religious as well as a medical leader in any given community.
Without seeing the church, the bitter scent of datura, along with the smell of garlic and a dozen powerful herbs, said the lovely hacienda next to the church was the place I sought. An immense shrub bearing several brilliant white-trumpeted flowers of datura sat before the abode. I smiled ironically at how beautiful the flowers were, yet how badly the drug had been misused by those unfortunate miscreants. Surely, they would exist today had they been instructed by this, or any, Bruja instead of that dangerously deluded vampire whom they had called father.
This was not a rich person’s hacienda, but with its stucco sides, corrugated steel roof and the shiny propane stove in front, it looked like the home of one well-off.
The town Bruja would be well off. Her skills would be well appreciated by the community. Her wisdom would bring gifts of gratitude. I carried a pocketful of coins, which hopefully would be sufficient compensation for the information she would provide.
I walked through the open doorway and crossed the threshold of her home as the pleasing aroma of all those herbs entered my nostrils. I looked up at the ceiling and was amazed by the collection: cloves of garlic, fresh cinnamon, parsley, basil, oleander, more datura, sacks of rice, sacks of beans and large bunches of bananas.
The room was dark, except for a lone kerosene lamp and three candles. I took a few steps toward a figure sitting motionless in a tall wicker chair in the deepest corner of the room, but was intercepted by a plump woman, wearing a lovely embroidered dress, her long black hair tied in a rather effete bun, bright red lipstick and blue mascara clearly visible in the flickering candlelight.
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