“Officer, she took my son!”
“Then let’s go back to the station so you can file a report.”
He walked back to his patrol car. I peered over my shoulder at the diner. I didn’t need spidey sense to know Junior was in there. Gomez spoke to me from behind his wheel. “Sir?”
I held up a hand and punched in Wendy’s number on my cell. She had better pick up this time. Her voice mail again. That dopey jingle.
“Wendy, I know you’re in there with him. I’m out front. If I’m wrong, call me back and tell me I’m wrong! Don’t do this to me! I’m with the police. If you don’t get back to me, I’m pressing charges!”
I clicked off and scanned the diner’s windows. All of them were draped, shut off from prying eyes, an enigma that thwarted incursion. The closedsign’s fonts were vast. They might as well have read: “Keep out!”
“Hey buddy, we need to get moving,” Gomez shouted.
I waved him away. He shrugged like later for you and sped off. I skimmed the vista surrounding the diner, which was flanked by a woodlot of trees, except for the gravel driveway that led to it. I suddenly realized I had no car, no source of transportation. The only way out of the desolation was car service. I checked the cell’s battery. Two, maybe three calls worth of energy remained. I shut it off and headed for the diner. My gut told me that a car stood behind it. I turned the corner.
Hell, yeah. There it was: A silver Mercedes parked just off my peripheral vision, behind a bulky generator. I galloped to the vehicle and peeked inside it. A large brown briefcase lay toppled against the front seat. Next to it lay an object that clutched my heart: a blood-stained jacket I perceived to be Junior’s. I circled the diner and fist-hammered the solid wood door. The thumps sounded faint, hollow. I felt as if a garrison had been devised for just this moment.
I imagined my son, my beautiful boy, being held against his will, tied-up, gagged, his muted cries throttled by either Wendy’s hands or a thick rag, his eyes bulging with fright and confusion.
I picked up a heavy rock and pitched a fastball against the shrouded window. It bounced off the frame. Shatter-proof glass? For a diner? Doug didn’t miss a thing. I was up for demolition, still. Set in on fire? I shook off the visual. Not with my son trapped in there. Call 911? That made sense.
“My son was snatched from me against his will!”
I initiated the cell. The sucker took its time before the Apple icon popped into view.
A text. From Wendy. “Stop trying to be a hero. I’m coming out. Don’t do anything and just listen to me.”
I texted back: “I’m waiting.”
I gravitated towards the door, queasy and trembling, my heart pulsing, as if any moment it would explode. The door swung open and there she stood, under its frame. I never felt more afraid of another person. She was dressed in a heavy wool overcoat. The lack of make-up made her appear older. I stepped forward. She shot up a hand and I froze. Three yards of gravel separated us. “That’s close enough,” she said, studying me.
“Is he in there?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure you’ve gathered that. Yes. He’s with Doug.”
I fought the caprice to cry, to let loose the pent-up melancholy seething inside me. I still loved the bitch. “What’s all this about, Wen?”
She lowered her head and sighed. “Oh, Gil.”
“Tell me.”
“You couldn’t hash them, could you? All the little clues.”
“Talk English, Wen.”
“He’s Doug’s son.”
Warm blood flushed and gutted my brain. “What the hell are you talking about?” I said.
“Put your mind at rest, Gil. Doug didn’t fuck me.”
The words “artificial insemination” rolled across my mind like a Times Square teleprompter. “When and where?” I asked, feeling strangely sedated. They hadn’t made love.
“I went to this other fertility center,” she said. “Open twenty-four hours. Egg freezers like you wouldn’t believe. They even had a gender selection. You longed for a boy, right? Typical of men. So I asked for a boy. Took a while. Pre-implant genetic screenings. Diagnosis. Universal blastocyst-embryo blah-blah testing. I never thought the guy jerking off into a cup would be Doug. His missiles were tough. My cervix never had a chance.”
She smiled. I was not amused.
“From the beginning, I wanted you to think it was yours,” she added.
“And so you did,” I said, gazing down at the rock that fizzled.
“You tried and failed, Gil. Doug succeeded.”
I shook my head. “I don’t get it. The guy donates his sperm to a clinic willy-nilly and of all the women…”
“It was pre-arranged. From the start.”
I frowned. “Whoa! Now you lost me.”
“Gil, you stupid jerk. Doug paid off a doctor he knew to choose a woman for his gift. That doctor chose me. He got to know me and liked my dark sense of humor.”
“Never mind all that, Wen. Why’s Junior cooped up in there?” I pointed at the diner.
“Daylight’s not a good thing for him. Not recently, anyway”
I stared at her. She had to back that up. “Punch-line, Wendy!”
“Doug’s a vampire. Imagine the consequences.”
I nodded and stepped back, hands on hips. The charade was over.
“I wanna see my son. I’m through fuckin’ around.”
She lifted her chin. “Right, then. But I warn you. Don’t freak on us. Stay calm.”
She held open the door for me. I entered, my insides burning. At the bend of the kitchen was a small room. Doug’s black-hooded cape shielded his face. He was seated at the foot of the trifling cot where Junior lay. The boy’s white face glowed faintly in the gloom. No window, the walls a deep shade of gray. Junior looked comatose. Wendy touched my shoulder and I twitched. Doug caught my presence and his eyes widened.
“It’s okay, Doug,” Wendy soothed, “I told him. He knows.”
I turned to her. “I only know that you’re a lying lunatic.”
Doug addressed Wendy. “What time is it?”
I jumped on that. “Time to get out of my way. I’m taking Junior.”
Wendy curved in front of me. “You’ll kill him!”
Doug hobbled to his feet and swiveled towards me. He nodded towards Junior. “Take him, then. See how far you’ll go.”
Wendy went pop-eyed. “Doug, no!”
“It’s the only way he’ll discover for himself,” Doug said. He swept his hand in Junior’s direction. I side-stepped him and gathered the boy into my arms. The thick blanket slid off his torso. Wendy bleated a sound as I passed her, then began moaning like a mewing cat as I opened the entrance door. I could feel her breath on my back. The sky was overcast but the sun threatened to burst through with its early fall rays.
Junior squirmed in my arms and his skin hissed from the onset of blisters. I looked at his face.
Pustules and cankers grew large around it by the second, sprouting like a deranged, speeded-up garden. He squirmed and struggled to tear loose from my grip. “Gil! Enough!” I heard Wendy scream behind me. I slipped back into the shadows of the diner’s portal. Junior’s labored breathing eased back into a sweet familiar rhythm. I toted him back to the cot. Doug gazed down at his natural son, smiling in relief. I stood numb. The shock would eventually ripple through me in waves. It was true, then.
They did exist.
These aberrations were but myths to those who denied their essence, their journey. I regarded the father. “So how old are you, Doug? Three hundred years old, give or take?” No sarcasm intended. I was genuinely curious. He looked up at me, his hands folded on his lap.
“I turn sixty-two next January.”
I knitted my brows. How was it possible? “Not sure I understand, Doug.”
Wendy sat beside Junior, brushing back his dampened hair. The blemishes on his face had faded. Doug said, “I’m of a species whose tolerance of God’s light grows stronger with each
generation. I can step into the light only so long before my skin…” He trailed off, allowing my imagination to fill in the rest. Watching our son’s transmutation was testament enough.
“How long can you endure the light?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Three to four hours, at best. Perhaps more, if I had the courage to trial-run my resilience. Not all vampires are alike.”
“Meaning what?”
Wendy sighed and blurted, “Meaning, Gil, our son inherited a stronger tolerance against the light. Call it ‘transcending genetics.’ Did I get that right, Douglas?”
She got it right. I understood. In time our son’s tolerance would toughen with each venture into the void of daybreak, like baby steps, perhaps, his appetite for the sweet taste of blood a fading memory.
So, there was that consolation. But other issues lingered. Legal issues. And answers to relentless questions from Nora’s lawyer, that supercilious doctor, and Nora’s bite victim, if still alive. My wife and I would be harboring from the public eye a myth made flesh. I expected full compliance from her down the rabbit trail.
Things had to be worked out.
We had a son to raise.
END.
The human woman that was turned, the boy, and his biological father must be destroyed. This is a job for a true vampire, please notify Atum.
Sam went to the closet and up to Atum’s office to give him the file number. “Ah yes,” he said, “I wonder why this went to you.”
“Technically, it went to Bertha, she brought it to me to look at and bring to you,” Sam replied.
“I must find out how that happened,” Atum said. “I thank you for bringing it to me. This is definitely a job for the real vampires.”
“So, the vampires are like the werewolves, in that there are real original vampires that were created by the Ancient Ones and bastardized versions that were created by their enemies?” Sam asked.
“Indeed,” Atum said. “The original versions don’t usually come to this dimension, it’s difficult to get them here. I will take care of this, thank you, Samantha.”
“You knew, didn’t you?” She asked.
“Knew what?” Atum said.
“You know what I’m thinking, you knew Aiden would tell that story and we would learn about alcohol and the Ancient Ones’ version of recreational drinks,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, “it was important information.”
“Then why not just tell me?” she asked.
“You have to learn things in your own time,” Atum said. “I’m betting you were far more impacted by Aiden’s story than you would ever have been by my warnings. That is a story you won’t soon forget. Now that you know about the other menu at the bar, I’m sure you’ll use it more often. They don’t affect everyone that way; the person partaking must belong to the Ancient Ones. It has no effect on those belonging to the enemy.”
“That explains a lot,” Sam said. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Atum said.
“Can I ask a totally unrelated question?” Sam asked.
“Certainly,” Atum said.
CHAPTER 6: THE RECRUIT
Sam made her way back to her office and passed Mason Shandy on the way.
“Hi, Sam!” Mason said. “How are you?”
“Hi, Mason,” she replied. “Pretty good, how are you?”
“Not bad,” he said. “I’m just happy it’s Friday. I’m on my way to check out a new recruit.”
“Good luck! We can use some more good people,” Sam said.
“Thanks,” he said, “We certainly could.” He made his way to the elevator. The elevator chose to play The Cure’s “Friday I’m in Love.” Again, the elevator played the real song, not Muzak, and made sure the song played in its entirety before landing on the proper floor. Mason made his way to the garage and plugged the case number in and swiped his index finger.
“Good afternoon, Mason Shandy,” the female voice said. “Here is the story of your case:”
“STILL LIFE”
Outside the autumn rain falls. The heavy downpour of water against the windows creates a raucous noise so intense it echoes throughout the household, bouncing off walls and disturbing the serenity of mourners. Clouds hide the sun, reflecting bleak gray shadows on the landscape. The grass, no longer green; the flowers, no longer spattered with colors of the rainbow. There are low hums coming from the cemetery down the street. Each corpse is singing its melodic dirge, their dreams lost forever inside a somber wall of immortal despair. There is no returning from this ultimate endeavor.
Across the street from the cemetery, a park filled with children betrays the scene. Their voices sing in a cheery tone as they splash their feet through the cool puddles. These songs of elation are a counterpoint to the morbidity of this moment, for inside the house a grievous loss is being remembered. Inside there are solemn whispers throughout the rooms. Tears are choked back and loss bears down on the shoulders of all.
She paces back and forth uneasily, unsettled by the somber events of the last twenty-four hours. Black roses adorn her hair while the scent of cloves follows her footsteps. She reads the sorrow on the faces around her and looks upon them with great despair. Every one of them is dealing with their suffering in their own special way. Some hide behind tear-soaked tissues, while others smile and tell light-hearted jokes to help the mood. There are some whose faces are still stricken with shock as if the weight of this tragedy still hasn’t hit their nerves. They can’t understand what happened and why this ever-changing world continues to devour its youth. She walks up to each one of them and puts her hand on their shoulders knowingly, but they barely seem to notice. She wants to help them, her family and friends, through this dark time, but for the moment it seems futile. A feeling of uselessness overwhelms her.
She decides to escape for a while and heads up to her bedroom. In there she always finds the solace she needs. Everything is familiar, and no matter where she looks it reflects her. She walks over to her record collection, which is meticulously alphabetized. They are all still there— from AC/DC to Frank Zappa— or in her case, Zappa, Frank. Who listens to albums anymore, let alone continues to buy them? “They’re making a comeback,” she would tell people. She takes one out to listen to, walks over to the turntable, and lowers the record gently into place. There is no sound as she flips the switch. All she hears is the light sound of uneven scratches from a thirty-year-old album. It’s that immortal silence that creates a deafening hush in her mind. It’s nothing but a grave reminder of all that has come to pass. She will get through this and everything will return to normal— or whatever normal is for a girl like her.
She walks over to the bed and falls onto it as lightly and gracefully as a feather making its journey from the heavens. The sheets have the scent of fresh cotton just like she always remembered. She closes her eyes to take in more of the moment, but her life flashes before her. Each scene is surrounded by grays and blacks. The shadows intensify and the sliver of light eventually disappears as she fades into a dream.
As she makes her way through the golden trees in the Forest of Souls, their shimmering leaves more beautiful than anything she has ever seen, the souls cry out to her. Their decaying hands try grabbing onto her, trying to pull her into their grasp, but she resists. Some of them are almost too strong for her but she fights her way free. She’s not ready to go down there with them again. Their cries become cacophonous and it’s too much for her. She starts clawing at her ears hoping to get rid of the sounds but it gets louder. Blood from her ears drips down her cheeks. She wipes it away as she tries to look for a way out.
The trodden path is within her sight, the one leading her through the Forest of Whispers. It’s marked on either side by marshmallow flowers and blue dandelion freckles. She remembers this place from her previous dreams—this recurring visit to her own Wonderland. The trees whisper in scintillating verses, a song she remembers from her youth. The birds harmonize and seem to smile at her as she passes.
She looks down and sees her gown is a flowing ocean of burgundy silk, the wind blowing the layers of material like waves on a harsh sea. The dress was a new twist, but one she pleasantly welcomed. The east and west suns illuminate her path. Their radiance glistens against the chartreuse sky. Translucent clouds with silver water bubbles seem to bounce along their way. The curious calla dilly again teases her to try and pop the bubble clouds. She finds a rock on the side of the path and takes aim. The rock bounces off the bottom of the cloud and heads back towards her. She ducks just in time but loses her balance much to the delight of the hidden gnomes. Their rhythmic snickers are far too humorous for her to become angered.
As she makes her way to the edge of the Forest of Whispers, the wolf bars the exit. He stands on his hind legs as she approaches, waving her down to stop. He pulls a top hat out of the invisible pocket in his fur and positions it perfectly atop his snow-white head. Every time she attempts to leave, he stands before her, always asking the same question. When she simply responds, “I don’t know,” he nods and stands aside. She turns around to give her customary wave, but he isn’t there anymore. All she sees is the flowing golden leaves losing their luster, turning black, and crumbling like ash to the once brilliant floor. She sheds a tear and wonders if this has some significance back in her world.
Off in the distance she sees a glowing door. Her feet lead her in that direction, but it seems like she isn’t getting any closer. She tries to run, but her shoes weigh her down, almost like she’s wading into quicksand. The door calls out to her. The pounding from the other side entices her. Is someone there waiting to come through to her side or are they trying to gain her attention? The knocking gets louder and louder as she fights her way out of the sinking floor. The heavy shoes fall off and, barefoot, she makes her way to the door. She hears it vibrating as she approaches it. The humming seems to be coming from the other side. It reminds her of the low hum of the cemetery. As she grasps the doorknob it sends a jolt of electricity throughout her body, but she doesn’t let go. Her body shivers as if she has just felt an intense release. She manages to pull it open. Before her there is nothing. Across a great empty plain of white she sees nothing at all. Off in the distance, she hears a voice whisper, “no.” The door slams and she wakes up in her bed.
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