by M. Lorrox
So, everyone, if you enjoyed this book, tip your hat or head to Lily!
Ashley Elizabeth continues to edit the shit out of my books—in more ways than one. I feel like I’m getting better with grammar and punctuation, but every time I get a file back from Ashley, I’m humbled. I swear that someday I’ll figure out how to appropriately use semicolons, but until then, I’m so grateful for Ashley’s help!
I also want to give a shout out to John Gibson, yet again, for making these stories look gorgeous. He’s on the west coast, and I’m on the east coast, so here’s a coast-to-coast, text-based high-five: -WHAP!-
Wow. You all just witnessed that. Wasn’t it something?
(It was.)
There’s one more person I really must thank… Of all the people I talked to at the Pentagon, the Pentagon Force Protection Agency, various area airports, the Washington Metro Area Transit Authority, the National Museum of Natural history, the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center, and the Smithsonian Institution, one person in particular was most helpful: Mr. Richard Stamm (and his book, The Castle). This story is so much richer thanks to the details I gained from his and my discussions, and from his book.
Okay. It’s here… It’s STORY TIME!
I used to live in DC. More accurately, from 2008 – 2016, I lived in Vienna, Fairfax, Alexandria, Arlington, and Bailey’s Crossroads in Virginia; Tacoma Park in Maryland; and I squatted in DC for about six months.
In summary, I know the area. I was still living there when I started writing MAELSTROM, so I had fun scoping locations and learning about the wonderful Smithsonian Institution and its museums. If you can, check them out, because they’re really amazing… Just make sure you follow the rules, stick to the areas you’re allowed to access, and whatever you do, don’t start any fires with improvised incendiary devices.
I left the DC area in April of 2016, and I moved to the sunny and progressive city, Durham, NC. Although I miss aspects of DC, there are some things I’m fine without:
HOV violation tickets. Apparently, I failed to understand that the entirety of Route 66 inside the beltway is HOV-only during specific times of the day, when travelling in specific directions. I learned the hard way after a pricey ticket.
Rock Creek Parkway and its schedule. Four times a day, this road switches from two-way traffic, to one-way traffic into DC, to two-way-traffic, to one-way traffic out of DC… I finally figured it all out, including the alternate routes, when I left…
Road construction debris on the Virginia section of 495. The radiator on the motorcycle I rode in DC was behind the front tire, and it was getting destroyed. I cut and added a piece of tin to the front to protect it—I installed a reflector dish, if you will.
Rush hour traffic. Seriously, sometimes it was faster to walk across the bridge into, or out of, DC!
The inability to park near my favorite pizza places in DC… I’m seeing a trend here.
Okay, so it seems that these complaints are about commuting and driving in the DC area. There are, however, a ton of great things there, too. Besides the Smithsonian, the wonderful Kennedy Center, and the scores of beautiful monuments, the people around DC can be great, as well.
If it wasn’t for DC, I might not have even got into writing... I wouldn’t have met Lily, I wouldn’t have been put in touch with Ashley, and I wouldn’t have had the hours and hours of time to myself while driving to visit family—who lived hundreds of miles away from DC—to think about all things Infinite Vampire.
I guess that in a weird way, me having bounced all around DC for almost a decade is responsible for this whole series taking the form it has… So if you think Infinite Vampire sucks (hehehe), you know who to blame!
-M.
PS. If you visit DC, take the metro, and hit up the Smithsonians. Of the eighteen FREE museums in the area, my top three favorites are the National Portrait Gallery, the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, and the National Air and Space Museum.
I’m an emerging American author. My story is like any good novel; it’s full of mystery, suspense, drama, and comedy. Hopefully my story turns into a fine wine—instead of a stinky cheese. In any case, while I’m writing that book (as slowly as possible), here are some highlights so far:
I was raised in a barn in rural, upstate New York. It was cold. We had a wood-burning furnace that never worked well. I gained an early appreciation for sweaters.
In junior high, I tried…and failed, to publish a book about dragon science. I still have the manuscript, and I’ll publish it someday.
In college, I made up some BS, then earned a MFA in story-telling. I learned Northern Shaolin Kung Fu and taught it for a while.
After college, I discovered I had problems with authority… And conformity… And bigotry… And misogyny… And etc., etc., etc. I tried to make small changes while still fitting in, then I gave up on fitting in altogether, and I started flipping tables like no tomorrow.
I bought a motorcycle and crashed it. Then I fixed it and kept riding. Hey, want to harden your nerves? Spend a couple years riding 25 miles a day, rain or shine, on Route 66 and the 495 Beltway of DC in rush hour. You’ll either be dead or a badass.
After gaining badass status, I wanted to postpone putting that last update on a gravestone, so I decided to move out of the busy DC area. Instead of renewing the lease on my apartment, I signed up for an awesome gym membership, moved my stuff into storage, and squatted in a DC warehouse for a few months. I worked out and showered daily at the gym, which required me to carry various bags around. Homeless people on my routes thought I was also homeless, and they would offer me advice. I always thanked them.
After six months of shenanigans, I decided to push my luck in DC, and I signed a lease for an affordable apartment on the top floor of a building. The roof
collapsed on me on Valentine’s Day. I took a selfie with the rubble on my head; I was pissed.
I now live in Durham, North Carolina in a nice, warm house with a good roof. My local gym isn’t fancy, but it does the job. I enjoy riding my motorcycle to local coffee shops, very safely. Most importantly, I continue flipping tables like no tomorrow.
Hector Reyes scans his security card and enters his small but lavish apartment. He sets his tablet in the living room and heads to the fridge. He grabs a beer and a pitcher of blood, then pours two glasses and brings them to the living room.
He sets his drinks down without coasters, then wipes his hands over his face and head. His buzzed gray hair bristles against his palms. It feels softer than usual, and it reminds him that he should trim again. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after… As soon as these sixteen-hour work days end.
After a sip of each beverage, he shrugs off his sport coat. He slips out of his shoulder holster and sets it, pistol and all, beside him on the couch.
As he takes a sip of his cold beer, the blue light that glows from behind the curtains on one side of the room catches his eye. He swallows and frowns, then glances at a slim black obelisk beside the television. “Esther, disable environmental simulation.”
The window goes dark.
“Play music. Guitarra Española.”
At first, an acoustic guitar plays from one corner of the 7.1 surround sound system installed in his living room, and then another guitar joins in from the other side. The two simulated instruments fill the room with an upbeat and moody tempo.
He picks up his tablet and checks it one last time for the night. What a fucking day, but it went almost exactly to plan. The tau-strain and serum worked better than expected. Got to hand it to old Doc. Kyllinglår for that piece of work… He and the plane will be back by morning. Zaman took out Flaxman, but at least we got Wollstone… All teams on schedule… He taps to write a note to his fully-rested, morning self:
@Hector, check with dept. heads that teams aren’t asking questions. Get Vaeir attack timeline update from Lars
He takes another sip of his beer, swallows, and reveals a smile. Yeah, let’s get Erica over here. When he taps over to their m
essages on the tablet, his smile fades. That’s right, she’s with Wollstone. Fuck.
He sighs, backs out a screen, and sees an earlier note from Anne. He shrugs. Third time’s the charm? He sends her a message:
@Anne, are you still up? I forgot something... Can you swing over to my apartment?
“Esther, lower lights.”
He sips his beer in the dim living room, and he doesn’t have to wait long before there’s a knock on his door. Outside it, he finds Dr. Anne Kirchner, the head of the Virology team.
She’s in her pajamas and holds her hands on her hips. “Hector, what do you want?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s been a hell of a day, and I just wanted to check in.” He turns and steps away from the door, leaving it open. “Come on it. Can I get you some blood, a beer, or maybe some tequila?”
She steps into the doorway and leans against the frame. “Hector, it’s late. Let’s make this quick.”
The fridge door closes, and -kiiish- a beer opens. “Oh, just relax and make yourself at home. These new ambers out of Auckland are pretty good. It’s too bad the world’s on a ticking clock now. Maybe when this is all over we could—”
“My team’s status is the same as it was when I sent my end-of-day report. We’re ready to receive Lars and his samples, and we’re ready to start production.” She nods, and her tone changes. “I guess there is another update… I heard that broken inkjet bioprinter has been fixed. So, yeah, we’re all set as soon as Lars and Michael get back.”
That’s right, you had a thing for him… Well, you better move on now before you learn he’s been killed. Hector steps in front of her and extends a cold beer. “Glad to hear the news.” His lip curls with a hint of seduction.
Anne shakes her head. “I’m not staying, Hector.”
“I mean, we could put something on TV, or—”
“No thanks.” She turns halfway around, then says over her shoulder, “Maybe another time.”
-choonk-
Hector stands in front of his thick, closed door. I wish Erica was around… “Esther, raise lights. Call Tim.” He makes his way back to the couch.
-ring-
“Mr. Reyes?”
“It’s Hector tonight. Come on over here and help me drink this shit, will ya?”
“What, none of your women around?”
He grumbles. “Not tonight. Just get over here, the door will be open.”
“Alright, we’ll be over in a couple.”
-click-
We? Probably more grunts like him. Hector sighs, sets the freshly opened bottle of beer next to his poured glass of beer, and picks up the glass of blood. The cool, thick liquid slides on his tongue. Soon, all this work will be finished, and I’ll live like a king. Even Tim and those fools will—we’ll all be kings. He smiles, then raises his glass to the only picture on his walls: a painting of a woman posed nude beside a piano. “This week, we found our weapon. Next, we take the whole fucking planet.” He dips his head. “Salud.”
He sips and smiles, reclining farther into the couch. It is beautiful here in New Zealand, but it’s nothing like Patagonia. He nods. I’ll build my capital there.
After a few minutes, Hector hears Tim, one of machinists, and another man talking in the hall. Maybe they’ll have a woman with them. He sighs and glances to his side. He moves his coat, shoulder holster, and pistol to his bedroom, and he’s back in the kitchen and pulling out the remnants of two six packs when his front door opens. “Hey Tim, who’d you invite along?”
Tim holds the door open as a half-dozen vampires stumble into Hector’s apartment, each holding a bottle of one kind or another. “Ah, just some of the crew from The Foundry. Kazumi said shit’s gonna get real tomorrow, so tonight we’re gettin’ fucked up.” Tim glances at Ytarra as she enters. “Ain’t that right? You met Mr. Hector Reyes?”
The petite vampire with olive-colored skin swigs expensive whiskey from a bottle and looks the gray-haired vampire up and down. He’s that security boss… She smiles. “Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Reyes.”
Hector lays on the charm. “The pleasure is mine, but tonight, you can call me Hector.” He motions to the bottle in her hand. “And if you’ve got whiskey’s number, I’ve got a whiskey that’ll do a number on you.”
She chuckles. We’ll see about that. She follows him into his living room and scoffs at the atmosphere. “Esther, import settings, Ytarra, Swank-Shit-Six. Load lights and music.”
The guitar music fades as the lighting LEDs flicker and flow between colors, filling the room with a pulsing, club-like ambiance. Techno-style electronic drums and a siren raise from the speakers, and a repeated voice saying “Duro,” joins in. Finally, the bass kicks, and the dancing begins.
On the G-650 jet, soft LEDs glow along the thin walkway that travels the center of the main cabin. Dr. Lars Melgaard wakes up and checks his watch. Six am, like clockwork. He sits up on the couch and stretches. Across from him, the two men from Væir’s security detail sleep on a pair of reclining chairs. One snores while the other drools onto his shoulder. Each is covered by a blanket that bulges below the shoulder—where their pistols are.
Lars gets up and slips his pants and dress shirt back on. Directly forward from the main cabin area is a bathroom and the cockpit. Immediately aft is the private room he has set up as a rudimentary lab. He walks in and checks that the equipment and samples he brought along are still safely stowed. He retrieves the organ-transportation device that Michael built. He pushes a button installed beside the microcontroller, and the readout on the LCD changes. Battery at 57%, CO2 filter at 78%. Good. The batteries should last until we land, but I’ll change them when they dip to 30%. He returns the augmented cooler to the cabinet and secures it in place. He walks another few steps aft and knocks on the door to the last room toward the tail of the plane. He can hear rustling through the thin wall.
“One second.” In the light coming from Mary Wollstone’s heartrate and IV monitors, Erica Wakkana climbs off the partially-inflated air mattress beside Mary’s bed. She was told that she could only bring a handbag on this trip, so she didn’t bring any change of clothes. She slept in her underwear, and she grabs a sheet to cover herself.
She attempts to open the door, struggling for a moment against the air mattress, which blocks it. When the fog of sleep clears enough, she slips a toe between the door and the air mattress to create enough room to open the door a crack. Her frown softens when she sees that it’s Dr. Melgaard who has woken her. “Sir?” She runs a hand through her dark, tightly-curled hair, taming it some.
“Good morning. Once you check on our guest, I’ll need your assistance in the lab.”
She yawns and glances out the unblocked window beside Mary’s bed. It’s pitch black outside. She checks the time on Mary’s monitor. Eleven-o-five pm. “Morning? Are you kidding me? I just went to sleep like an hour ago.”
“That’s irrelevant. It’s six am Eastern. Until we land in New Zealand, you’re on my time. Get dressed if you must, but meet me in the lab in two minutes.”
She groans and shuts the door. Big wig or not, that guy can be a real dick.
She enters the lab at 6:10 Eastern Standard Time. “Ms. Wollstone required a new set of IVs. I got here as soon as I could.”
Lars looks up from his papers and laptop. “Very well. Put on gloves. I need your help making some bone marrow cultures.”
She grabs a pair of latex gloves from a box but waits to put them on. “How many gel plates should I grab?” She motions to the fridge and yawns, her white teeth in stark contrast to her dark skin.
He shakes his head. “We’re not going to be growing the cultures on gel—we’re going to be using fresh blood.”
The sun washes through the windows at INOVA Fairfax Hospital. June feels its warmth on the back of her neck and shaved scalp, and she smiles.
For the first time in almost a week, she had a natural, rejuvenating night’s sleep. Not even the fancy hotel suite’s luxurious be
d could grant her rest, but yesterday’s events—starting with being drugged and knocked unconscious by Dr. Melgaard and Michael Turner—changed her, and a simple chair beside the window was comforting enough for her to sleep in. She woke an hour ago when the sky started to bloom with the day’s light, and she has sat in front of the window in deep reflection since.
She watches over a hospital bed where her father lies asleep. His leg is raised and wrapped in bandages; his femur’s compound fracture required extensive surgery. A thin ray of sunbeam slices across the room towards Skip’s head. The anesthetic should wear off soon, and he’ll wake.
She remembers how he looked when he first saw her when he arrived at the hospital. He was being carted off to surgery, but he insisted on seeing his daughter first. He quaked when his eyes looked over her, then they filled with tears. The doctor told him June had been beaten and medically molested, that she was harvested for her blood and bone marrow, and her ovaries were surgically removed. Skip screamed and jumped out of the stretcher toward the doctor—only to further drive his broken femurs’ shards through his quadricep. He collapsed on the ground and passed out. June and the doctor lifted him back onto the stretcher, and he was rushed away.
June sighs. He’ll freak again when he sees me the way I am now. It’s going to be very hard on him… He won’t understand. I died yesterday. That’s that. June is no more, but I am... Who am I?
The light hits Skip’s closed eyelids, but he doesn’t move.
Is he even still my dad? Do I even have a dad, or a family? Now that I’m so different, it feels like I’m completely alone… She looks down at her hand and imagines the wolf-paw and claws she felt last night. She remembers tearing into that boy who hurt Eddy’s friend, Enrique, and then thinks about her change in front of the Costanzas. I am a lone wolf now, a pack-less, fearless, animal.
