by Oliver Atlas
"So they decided to try the pathogen on one of their vampire subjects, whom they called K. The result was doubly catastrophic. In monkeys and primates, the frontal lobes were almost immediately destroyed. But in K, higher reasoning appeared to fade more slowly. She raged at them—not with groans—but with language and threats. She was a zombie cursed with a horrific-if-dimming awareness of her single-minded hunger and rage. When the researchers thought she had finally succumbed to basic brain death, they stopped careful monitoring. Apparently, she had been waiting for that. Despite gruesome measures—she chewed a hand off—it took her under thirty seconds to tear herself out of her restraints. She then crawled to the nearest subject, H, and freed him. He killed her instantly and began freeing the others. By then, of course, safety measures were slamming down. Instead of incinerating the lab instantly, the researchers tried to contain and restrain the subjects. Unfortunately, they failed.”
“They failed?” I can’t help shaking my head. “How could they have failed? They must have been in some kind of CDC, Fort Knox facility.”
“They were. The problem was H. He had been the leader of a secret faction, a group of ancient vampires dedicated to preserving their kind. Once he was loose with other vampires to command . . . once we decided to try and capture them . . . it was already over.”
“We?”
“Oh. Shit. Right.” Yaverts pauses. He takes off his hat and chuckles darkly. “I was security assistant to Dr. Malcolm Schlozfield. He made the call to contain. I supported him.”
“You?” I raise a finger in disbelief. “You and Schlozfield?” The walls of the gondola grow wobbly. “But you’re not half Schlozfield’s age. How could you have been there at the start?”
Yaverts chuckles. “One of the secret perks of working in a secret lab. You get to volunteer for all kinds of unsavory pin jobs.”
I clamp my eyes shut, fighting not to laugh hysterically. “So let me get this straight. While you were volunteering for illegal experiments on the side, you were helping Schlozfield make the bad call that destroyed the world?”
Yaverts grins a dangerous grin. “Careful now, you self-righteous little prick. No, we didn’t destroy the world. We played with fire. We helped torture monkeys and criminals and vampires. No. It was H who destroyed the world. He had seen our work. He knew our experiments. Either he replicated them, or he took K’s blood with him when they escaped. It doesn’t matter. Within a month of his escape, the outbreak began.”
I’m suddenly up and pacing again. “H started the outbreak. For revenge?”
Yaverts sighs. “Who knows? Probably. And for protection. He effectively wiped human government off the map for four years. If there hadn’t been so many geeks out there who had already calculated the best tactics for coping with outbreaks, humanity wouldn’t have come back at all. But four years was enough time for H to act before the remainder of his old enemies regrouped. He infiltrated the new government and systematically killed off most of those who knew anything about vampires. Anyway, that’s how the Territory came to be. Basically, H lobbied for it. On paper, a place for concentrating and containing zombies. In reality, a safe haven for vampires.”
I stop pacing and fold my arms. “So Oregon is officially a Zombie Preserve and unofficially a vampire resort?”
The big man shrugs. “Pretty much.”
“And Zoe?”
Yaverts cocks his head. “Yeah . . . and Zoe. That’s a story in itself.”
“All right,” I say. “Give me the short of it.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t really understand Zoe’s part yet. We’ll have to wait for Malcolm. All you need to know for now is that Zoe makes Oregon work. She’s the centerpiece of H’s plan.”
That knowledge doesn’t strike me as very helpful. Actually, it only sets fire to the already churning tar pit that is my stomach. If Zoe is important to a conspiracy of vampires, the likelihood of getting away with our little heist seems improbable. The odds are about as good as me ever getting a wink of sleep again.
And then there is Jenny. The thought of having left her in Bentlam nearly makes me vomit. I’m not sure why, but it does. Something about the proximity to the Faction. Something about how much Zoe reminds me of her. I can feel the imprint of her hand in mine. I can see her trusting eyes looking up at me. I can hear her asking why she can’t come along to Portland. How could I have left her?
But Yaverts wouldn’t rescue Zoe only to have me deliver another girl into danger. Milly wouldn’t encourage me to trust anyone who meant to do Jenny harm.
I sit and pace and sit, staring out at the rain and misty hills. I stare and fret for another hour until the meandering river below begins straightening and widening and city lights peek out between low-lying mountains.
Portland?
Could it be? Part of me expects to be elated, to feel what I always imagined I’d feel—a sense of romance, of place, a sense of fulfillment, of coming home. Instead, I simply feel tired. I feel afraid. I feel the weight of the brooding gray and stark green below me. Not long ago—maybe even a few hours ago—the fact that Portland existed cheered my heart. It was for me what America was for the pilgrims: a chance to escape the old world, a chance to finally know the world as it ought to be, a chance to outrun darkness.
Silly me.
I know better.
Deep down I know that wherever we go, there we are, still the children of a doom that can’t be escaped by way of running. I know this. I should know this. And yet it’s suddenly clear that I’ve been hiding a pet lie—an old, venerable, and nearly universal one:
I believe I’m the exception.
Deep down, I believe I can outrun the world’s brokenness. I believe I can outrun my own brokenness. I believe I’m the exception to human conceit. More than anything else, that proves me very conceited indeed.
Jon catches the pained, bemused look on my face and raises a questioning eyebrow.
“The idea of west strikes again,” I tell him.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Portland
When our gondola glides over the inner city’s walls and onto the west banks of the Willamette, the rain is a torrent and Portland is a maze of misty corridors. Pastor Jon greets the station master with a large tip and she returns to her booth, studiously ignoring us. All the same, when Moon rides Abe out of the lift with Zoe cradled before him, I can’t imagine how anyone could ignore the sight: the stallion’s enormous size; its mossy yellow glow; Moon’s own powerful presence; the little girl, shriveled and feral. Talk about conspicuous. Jon will have to ride ahead, tipping the whole city to look the other way.
Earlier, when I asked Yaverts why Moon hadn’t simply taken Zoe and done his teleporting vanishing act all the way to Portland, he said it was because some vampires could feel whenever Abe jumped. It was much safer to risk being spotted by gossips than felt by the Faction. Those who could feel such things, he said, were the most dangerous of our enemies by far. I felt a pit open in my stomach at the thought of vampires with horses like Abe, able to appear out of nowhere. But I let the matter drop. I had heard enough for the time being.
I suddenly want to hear more, though, because one second we’re all riding away from the lift, toward the city’s high-rises—toward Portland, at last—and the next second Moon, Abe, and Zoe are gone.
Poof.
Yaverts, Jon, and Clara ride on as if nothing has happened. But now that Abe has jumped, I’m left imagining these aforementioned enemies arriving in the same way Moon departed. I picture towering steeds with glowing eyes and cowled riders popping out of the mist. And these riders wouldn’t be dhampir. They would be the full deal. Diabolical fiends with blood, revenge, and torment on their minds.
“Relax,” says Yaverts. “The Faction can’t track him with any precision.”
“But I thought—”
“All they know now is that he’s in Portland. If he’d jumped near Bentlam, they could have put one and one together and tied him to the girl’s di
sappearance. But as it is,” he says, breaking into a grin, “they’ll be looking for you and me.”
Enemy whinnies, apparently reading my mind. “Great,” I say. “Why us?”
Yaverts yawns. “You awake, Prose? Because we were both seen. Because I managed to put a few slugs in East back at the church. Because I doubt I killed him. That means he’s probably already reported that we’re together. No doubt they’ll launch a manhunt. Most likely they’ll assume we’re headed for Union Powder. I have connections there, and ODOZ would take us in.”
That surprises me. “ODOZ?”
“Sure. The Faction and the feds are always playing tug of war. Even though ODOZ has always ignored the hype around the Nameless One, if I brought her in with a bunch of vigilantes on my tail, they’d check her blood. And then they’d shit themselves.”
“You’d never take her to the feds though,” adds Pastor Jon.
“Hell no,” snorts Yaverts. “I am a fed. I trust them less than the Faction.”
As we pass north from the industrial district into the manicured park lining the west side of the river, we’re quickly surrounded by joggers and frisbee players, street musicians and dog walkers. Food carts line the walk, confusing the air with cuisines from a dozen diverse traditions. The rain has lightened, but it still falls, and I’m surprised at how everyone around us ignores it. I even catch an elderly couple trying to puddle jump. It’s more like puddle sloshing, but it still makes me smile.
Our talk quickly shifts from nefarious intrigue to local directions. I’m after NW 9th and Glisan, where my brother ought to be brewing hot drinks and my sister-in-law ought to be crafting pastries. And then I want to know where to find Milly. And Skiss. Amidst the color and motion and rain, I can feel my sense of excitement about Portland returning. Only now it doesn’t have to do with a place so much as a people. Portland is just another town with tall walls to keep the zombies out. But it’s a place that happens to be full of people I love.
I watch the plaid sloshers and paisley joggers and realize it’s also a place full of strangers I already love. The people are frumpy and quirky and, well, delightfully soggy.
And maybe that’s it. The rain. I’ve been in town less than an hour and I can already sense an attitude in the air. A grit. A whimsy. An irony. A humility. An acceptance. A defiance. People here are learning to be human in a gray, soggy world. They’re not pretending they live in some medieval paradise, like in Bentlam. They’re not pretending the world is a ghoulish theme park, like in the border towns. They’re people trying to be honest about their individual quirks, their particular plot of earth, and their desire to be out in each others’ presence. So maybe place is important. It may not be magical, it may not be better than any other place, but maybe something about the northwest rain wakes people up to their sense of place. Maybe it’s that simple act of attention that matters. I’ve heard it said that we become what we behold. Maybe it’s also true that we only become as we behold. And if that’s true—if we’re made as beings of intertwined becoming and beholding—I suppose we can only ever become anything good if we learn to spot whatever good is actually before us, warts and rain and all.
Yaverts leaves me to Jon’s guidance, saying he’ll meet us later at the safe house. He insists I take his shotgun again, just in case the need for wooden bullets arises. “Shoot for the heart,” he says. A mother pushing a stroller past us picks up her pace. Yaverts roars with laughter, sending the woman into a jog.
When we hitch our horses in front of The Inscape Tea Shop, my heart is running rampant. I pull up my collar and push down my black hat.
“Ready?” smiles Pastor Jon, opening the shop’s door.
Inside is a small, two-storied loft with a serving bar in back, an open wooden staircase running up the left side of the room, eight small tables crammed into the lower level, and poster art covering the twenty-foot high brick walls. A thinning lunch crowd lounges around the messy tables. The happy buzz of conversation fills the room with bits and scraps of passion, amusement, scandal, theory, absurdity. I drink in the moment.
And then I catch my brother stepping in from the back door, packing a broom and dustpan. His face is gentler than mine, not as many angles, but still strong. His skin is a lighter olive, his thinning hair a lighter brown. His eyes are tired. From all the way across the room I can spot both his steady faithfulness and the focus that faithfulness requires of him. My chest swells with affection and admiration. At the same time, my mind freezes. I realize that I don’t even know if Kaite and the baby survived the sickness. With them in mind, I scan the tea shop. They’re nowhere to be seen.
My heart skips. Oh no.
In that instant, Casey spots me. In the next, I’m in his long arms. I can feel cold drops falling down my neck.
He’s crying.
Oh no.
After a long minute, he lets me go, wipes his eyes, looks me up and down, and says, “You made it.”
I laugh with sad delight.
“Yarely told us what you had to do.”
His words hurt too much. What I had to do? Did I really have to do what I did? Did I have to go off adventuring?
“Casey . . . the medicine?”
His face is unreadable. It’s a mixture of pain and fear and . . . could it be joy?
“Kaite’s fine, Blake. She got the medicine in time.”
“Thank God,” I breathe. “And the baby?”
My brother’s bright brown eyes turn wet. He wipes them with his blue shirt sleeve, shaking his head no. “We have a room ready for you,” he says, trying hard to smile. “It’s right upstairs, a flew flights above the shop. Kaite’s worked on it more than her baking. It’s been good for her—really good for her to think about making a home for you here.” He bursts out in relieved laughter. “I think she has about half the single ladies in a ten mile radius vetted to join her as a Mrs. Prose. If you value your bachelorhood, you might want to think about skipping town.”
With that, I take my brother to the back of his shop and introduce Pastor Jon. I try giving him the five minute version of my crazy story and crazier predicament, but that won’t do. He hands out placatory gift certificates to all of the customers with thanks and apologies and gives them the boot, closing the shop. I then sit down and tell him most of the adventure, letting Jon cut in whenever I start treading near information that might be dangerous for him to know. After a few hours, the story is told. I stand up and ask to see Kaite.
“Sorry, Blake,” says Casey, obviously pained. “Don’t get me wrong, brother, but if you’re in as hot of water as it seems, I don’t want Kaite to see you yet. I don’t want her to hold you and then have to let you go, worrying you’ll never come back. She’s already suffered a lot. She’s still on the edge.” Casey lowers his eyes. “Can you respect my gut on this one?”
I grab him in an embrace.
“Promise me you’ll check back soon,” he whispers.
It breaks my heart to make a promise I want to keep more than anything when I have little confidence I’ll really be able to, but Casey refuses to let me leave the shop otherwise. Only when I’ve muttered a doubtful vow does my brother finally release me and I exit without looking back.
I’m thankful for the resurgent rain and the dark skies. They hide my tears. After years spent dreaming about this day, its arrival is a bittersweet reality. I’m where I wanted to be. But I don’t know if I am who I was. I’m near my family at last. But my family has now expanded to include folks I barely know.
Folks like Pastor Jon. Even someone like Yaverts.
My heart’s idea of family had been one of diction and definition. But now . . . now those dimensions have been joined by the dimensions of direction and desire. A man like Yaverts may not be my brother in temperament and morality, but how can I deny that he is a brother in many of my deepest desires? I can’t deny it. I shouldn’t deny it. After all, I would have never made it this far alone. And what if I had? My desires are such that I could never arrive in t
hem alone. They must be made together with those who also hold their flickers and flames, that we might arrive one day in their realization, when our journey has formed us into kindred spirits and intimate allies.
Jon can tell I’m mulling deep feelings. He gives me and Enemy space, leading south along the clean, bustling sidewalks. Before long we arrive at a bookstore that covers an entire city block.
Powell’s.
Jon must know I love books. And I know he must love books. And while I’m certainly hankering for distraction, this feels like an odd stop, a strange time for bookish meandering. After all, Yaverts is waiting. Milly and Skiss are waiting. Zoe is waiting. But, Jon must have his reasons, so I hitch Enemy out front, tip the horsekeeper, and follow the theologizer into the store. We’re soon weaving through a labyrinth of shelved rooms and crowds of perusing Portlanders.
If we’ve come for distraction, Jon isn’t acting like it. He strides down the aisles, on a mission. We pass books on every subject imaginable and I wish we had time to stop and browse. One thing I’ve never experienced is a good bookstore. Books had become rare even before the outbreak. Afterwards—after all the fires and bombings and turmoil—they were treasures. As we cross a vaulted room full of stacks, I overhear one lady raving to a friend about her favorite classic memoir, On Earth As It Is In Portland. I catch a pack of teenage boys rifling through an illuminated coffee table book with a bright cover that reads Where the Spirit. I hear a man joking with his date that if she doesn’t like the graphic novel, Nomad, she can take the bus home. I wish I could stop and meet all these kindred spirits and their literary friends. But Jon’s pace says we can’t. We have somewhere to be.