Suburban Vampire: A Tale of the Human Condition—With Vampires

by Franklin Posner

  “Well, I’ve met that one,” Jack said, looking at a picture of Irene Campbell. “Mommy dearest. God, vampires don’t live with their mothers! Anyway, I don’t think she’s a likely candidate. She’ll likely stroke out if we try something. Her blood probably tastes stale, anyway.”

  The next picture was of Tim O’Neill. “And this is what, one of his buddies? Huh. Maybe. I’m not feeling it. Put this one on the back burner. Way on the back burner.”

  The vampire scrolled to a picture of Laura Campbell. “Laura Saarinen. She’s going by her maiden name these days. Not bad. Damn. How did that loser Scott end up with a handsome woman like this? Not that it matters, because she dumped his pathetic ass. I don’t know, guys; she’s his ex. If we do something to her, he might consider it a favor.”

  The next picture was of Pastor Larry Parker. “Ah, the preacher man. I’m the son of a son of a preacher man myself. Loved that song by Dusty Springfield. You remember that one? “Son of a Preacher Man”? Anyway. Yeah, I wouldn’t be opposed to grabbing him. Men of the cloth are so fun to torture. But what else ya got for me?”

  The vampire then scrolled to a picture of Dawn Rhinebeck. “Hold the phone! Who is this sweet little piece of ass?” Jack asked.

  “We think that’s his girlfriend, boss,” one of the vampires said.

  “Girlfriend? Damn. A bit out of Scott’s league, don’t you think? I mean, she’s way hotter than the ex. The guy has taste; I’ll give him that. Now, this one is interesting. Oh yeah. We could have all sorts of fun with that. And you guys know you don’t need to call me boss, right? Call me what I am.”

  “Yes, Father!” the vampires replied in unison. They saved the pictures to a zip drive and then drove out into the night.

  Yet another day passed as Scott waited, admittedly not very patiently, for the House to contact him and tell when his inquisition was to be held. He was scared, of course. He was scared like he never had been before. Scott didn’t like that fact; he was supposed to be the cause of fear now. Jeremiah’s advice of “Fear not” was not very helpful (Oh yeah. “Fear not”! This coming from the uber vampire. Yeah, I’ll get right on that.) This was worse than any fear Scott had faced before. Not only did he face the possibility of death but also of eternal destruction, which really didn’t help calm him any.

  Scott was also simply frustrated. He wanted to tell these guys to just get this whole stupid show over with. And he was concerned that his mother would never know his fate, as he didn’t think the House was about to let a mortal woman know they’d just dusted her vampire son. Scott had to be vague around her. She noticed his stress and frequently tried to salve his troubles with advice he felt was simplistic or even trite. Scott took it in stride, appreciating the sentiment but knowing that she could not possibly comprehend the terrible truth.

  Work was, as usual, completely uninteresting. Al still avoided him as much as possible. Scott did not mind this. However, he needed to ask Al if he could get Halloween off in order to attend Tim’s party, so he undertook the unpleasant task of actually talking to the man.

  “Al, can I have Halloween off?”

  “I need the IT desk covered that night, and I don’t know if I can get someone to fill in. Robin and Zed both have plans. So, I’m sorry.”

  “No, Al, I can have Halloween off.”

  “Sure, you can have Halloween off! I’ll ask one of the student workers to fill in, no problem!”

  Scott had to admit that vampire mind-control stuff sure came in handy sometimes. There are some perks to being undead, after all.

  After work, Scott would meet with Jeremiah for more training at the dojo. They practiced various kata and different forms of punches, kicks, control holds, grappling, and ground fighting. Sometimes they would run the streets, and Jeremiah would teach him to perform acrobatic feats that would awe even the most hardcore parkour practitioner. The education may have been relatively brief, but Scott was growing, pushing his boundaries, learning that he truly had no limitations.

  Sometimes they would practice weapons-based martial arts. Scott was given a crash course in sword-based arts from various cultures; before this, he had done some SCA-style boffer fighting as a Renaissance Faire geek and some informal kendo and longsword. Jeremiah was well versed in many of these various styles and walked Scott through most of them. They would often change styles and weapons in midstream during training, switching from iaido to silat, to sword and buckler, to German-style longsword. The multiplicity of styles would have confused mere mortals, but that was no longer an issue for Scott. In the process, they broke many bokken and wasters. Needless to say, to a history nerd and Ren Faire geek, this was immensely fun.

  Then Scott would drive home. He noticed the silver Camry that had been following him the last few nights now parked at the end of the dead-end street. This was getting old. Scott had to find out what was going on, so he approached the Camry.

  Grace, seeing Scott approach, placed her hand on the butt of the Glock 19 she carried off-duty in an inside-the-waistband holster. She barely cracked the window. Scott came within a couple feet of the car.

  “Stop right there,” Grace commanded. “Do not approach any further.”

  Scott put his hands up. “Okay, okay, I just wanted to find out why you’re here so late at night. Hey! I recognize you! You’re that detective from the mall! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m watching you, Campbell.”

  Scott had been trusting, and perhaps a bit naïve, when he was human. Maybe not so much now; however, he was definitely a bit clueless in this case. “Watching me? Why? Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  “You are the trouble. But I’m watching you.”

  “I’m still at a loss, Deputy…Montoya, wasn’t it?”

  “I know what you are, Scott Campbell.”

  Oh crap. Scott knew what she meant. She knew Scott was a vampire. His curious cluelessness turned into a mixture of feelings: the fear of discovery, the outrage of personal violation. He may have been a vampire, but he wasn’t a bad guy. “No, you don’t,” he said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Oh no, you don’t!”

  “Oh yes…I’m not playing this game with you, Campbell. I know what you are.”

  “You have no idea what I am, Detective. Now leave me alone.”

  Scott turned and walked away, not happy that he now had another source of stress in his life, as if he needed that. Grace started her car and drove away as Scott entered Irene’s house.

  Scott didn’t sleep well that night. Not that he needed to, as vampires don’t exactly need their beauty sleep. Still, it helped make him feel human again. But not tonight.

  The vampire known as James didn’t expect Elizabeth’s arrival at the shops of Salish and Springwater, a contract business that did pipe fitting for large-scale commercial projects. He was overseeing some journeymen preparing PVC pipe for a commercial property that was located in a floodplain and needed a reliable method to pump the flood waters from the lower levels of the business. This contract was important to him and all his fellow workers; losing this one would have caused the United Association to come down hard on him. So he wasn’t exactly happy when Elizabeth so rudely interrupted this important work to issue him a summons to appear immediately before the House. The journeymen joked about Elizabeth after she had left, commenting on her attractive body and how they wished to see more of it. James advised them not to, not so much to be politically correct but to save their lives. Not that James especially cared for these men. The loss of a man would mean a labor shortage, slowing up the project, and also would mean a loss of union dues. That could not be tolerated.

  James arrived at the House as soon as he could beat the traffic into North Portland, driving his used Dodge Ram, a vehicle he chose in order to play up his working-class image. Eventually, he took a seat in the boardroom across the table from Father. There were a few other high-ranking members of the House sitting around the table. And, of course, Elizabeth, the pit bull of
the House, who would not have been anywhere else, stood behind Father and gave James the evil eye.

  “Welcome, James,” Father said. “We are so glad you were able to attend this meeting, especially in light of recent events. I have a few questions to ask of you, so allow me to commence. Before we do, I must advise you that these proceedings are being recorded. Now, to begin, are you a member of the Council of Improvers?”

  “I am,” James answered.

  Father was not expecting the immediate honesty. It was too confident, too defiant. Too dangerous.

  “Was the Improver Council involved in the recent attempt on my life?”

  “I serve as a spokesman for the Council of Improvers. And we categorically deny any and all involvement in the attempt on your life. Furthermore, as a representative of the council, we denounce any act of violence against your person.”

  “Somehow, I am not completely convinced.”

  “Then I will swear an oath. On my honor, we were not involved in this heinous act. We would never have sanctioned it. Father, I admit, we do not see eye to eye on many matters, but I would never stoop so low as to advocate your assassination. The Improver Council is a political organization—”

  “As are many groups. Al Qaeda is a political organization. And yet, they openly advocate violence.”

  “We are not that kind of organization, Father. The Improvers would never advocate the aggressive use of violence against the House.”

  “And against Mr. Ralph Stevens?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ralph Stevens. The active shooter of the late Clackatonic Faire shooting.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought that was you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I thought that was a House-sanctioned hit. I thought the House was simply cleaning up a loose end, protecting the identity of this acolyte, this Campbell character. Wasn’t it?”

  “You deny involvement?”

  “Absolutely! The Improvers never sanctioned that, either! In fact, many of us on the council considered it the work of Enforcement.”

  Elizabeth huffed. “Enforcement isn’t so sloppy. This was the work of an amateur.”

  “An amateur, perhaps,” Father said. “Or a young, hungry vampire. Which leads me to my next question: You know Jack, do you not?”

  “I do. I wish I could say I did not.”

  “Oh? And why is this?”

  “I will not attempt to conceal the truth. Jack is, or was, a member of the Council of Improvers. However, most of us have distanced ourselves from him and his faction, considering Jack to be much more radical than we are comfortable with. We are also concerned about his offspring.”

  “His offspring? You mean, his sirelings?”

  “Yes. We believe he has been attempting to pack the ranks of the Improvers with his acolytes in contravention of Improver policy. We cannot accept unregistered sires, much as the House cannot. We must maintain standards of legitimacy as well. Besides, we think it may be a ploy to gain more power in the Improver movement, since, as you well know, a vampire’s sirelings tend to be loyal to their creator.”

  “Yes, unless they be unwilling…never mind. Thank you. You’ve been most helpful. If I need any further assistance or information, would you mind if I called on you?”

  James had walked in fearing that he would be struck down. It was beginning to appear that it wasn’t the case. “Certainly. We are at your service, Father, and hope that you can see our disagreement with House policies as strictly political and not personal.”

  “Thank you. You may see yourself out.”

  James stood up and walked through the double doors and out to his pickup truck.

  “And you just let him go?” Elizabeth asked.

  “He knew nothing,” Father replied. “He is not our enemy. I fear something more sinister is at play here. And Jack is at the center of it.”

  “Well, we will likely be seeing Jack at the trial, whenever that will be.”

  “I have received word that the Inquisitor has procured transportation. He should be here early next week, prior to Halloween.”

  “Are you going to advise Scott?”

  “No. When the appointed time is set, we will advise him.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The weekend brought more opportunity for Scott to train with Jeremiah, which he did, not so much to perfect his skills but to further prove to himself that he could push himself farther than he had ever thought possible, that he could perform acts of astonishing power and grace (this coming from a man who, when he was mortal, was a total klutz). He could sprint several times as fast as the head of his old high-school track team and not be winded afterward. He could perform acrobatic skills that would make the Wallendas want to adopt him. He could bench press more than Schwarzenegger ever could in his younger days. The more he pushed his limits, the more confidence Scott gained in his abilities. Of course, the dark shadow of fate still loomed above him like a vulture over roadkill. Still, he wanted to meet that fate, and sooner was better than later. He was tired of waiting, tired of taking the easy way out, tired of the pathetic ghost of the old Scott. He was something new now, and he wanted to live his new life, short though it may be.

  Irene mentioned that she had seen an unfamiliar automobile parked at the end of their street on occasion and that sometimes it was there quite late in the evening. Scott told her that there was nothing to worry about. This was partially true; he had no concern that his mother was at risk from Detective Montoya, since he was her true target. Scott’s main concern was still Jack, whom Irene had unwittingly invited into her home. Only she could revoke that welcome, and how was he going to convince her to do that? He could envision that conversation:

  Mom, revoke Jack’s permission to enter this house.

  Why?

  Because he’s a bloodthirsty vampire.

  Oh, you and your…what do you call that thing you do? Cosplay?

  Somehow he didn’t think that would go over well. What to do about Jack eluded Scott; what to do about his other enemy, Detective Montoya, was not so hard to figure out. On Monday, he would take care of the problem in the most effective manner a vampire like Scott could: he would file a complaint with the Clackamas County sheriff’s Internal Affairs Division. Not your usual vampiric solution, but Scott is not your usual vampire.

  Scott was also struggling with the idea of presenting himself, his vampire self, to Pastor Larry. It could be a good thing, as Scott really did feel the need to talk about what he had become to someone who wasn’t a vampire. He knew Larry counseled people from all backgrounds, people who struggled with issues like marital infidelity, drug and alcohol abuse, domestic violence, and criminal behavior. Surely being a vampire was not much worse than any of those. Scott also considered the possibility that perhaps it was not the smartest thing to do. He knew there were some in his church whose mind-sets were not as enlightened as he would have preferred; there were few of them, perhaps, but it didn’t take a whole lot of torches and pitchforks to ruin one’s day. However, Larry was not among them. Not much shocked him, not much got to him. He was always willing to show people the forgiveness of God in a practical way. So if there was anyone Scott could trust with this secret, it had to be Larry. Or so he hoped.

  Sunday came as an unusually bright and sunny day for a Portland October. Scott found himself once again dragged to church by his mother, again not rising with the congregation to sing, again hearing a message preached from Holy Scripture and not being moved or even really interested. His mind was on other matters. Again, Dawn was there, and again Scott attempted to avoid her, which he did, for the most part. But for a moment there, he noticed that Dawn had been looking at him. She quickly averted her gaze when his eyes met hers, though. He couldn’t tell the meaning of her stare; was it desire? Fear? Hate? Or did Scott have some kind of stain on his shirt? He did not pursue the issue and continued to avoid her.

  In any event, after the service, Larry approached Scott, making small talk, aski
ng how his week had gone and taking note of his evasive answers. When pressed—lightly, as Larry was not known to be overly aggressive in his attempt to help those who did not want help—he asked to meet Larry privately once again after everyone had gone. He agreed, allowing Scott to wait in his office while he took his family home.

  As Scott sat there alone, he could only further stew about his situation. He tried to think of other things, but looking around at the Bibles and the crosses and the theological books and that ugly knit wall hanging made by an elderly lady parishioner (a friend of Irene’s) that was supposed to represent a dove coming down from heaven but looked more like a white stealth fighter bombing a blue ball with a rainbow really did not distract Scott and in fact only worsened his turmoil. Finally, Larry returned, greeting Scott and asking if he wanted a cup of coffee. Scott declined. (Yeah, sure, he thought, coffee. Got some blood creamer?)

  “So? What’s going on with you, Scott? What is really going on? And please don’t tell me you’ve become a gigolo. Because that didn’t happen.”

  Scott was initially silent as he searched his mind for something to say, something that made sense and was not at all vampire related. Nothing of the sort came.

  “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know. And it was Luke who was the gigolo, remember?”

  “Wow, that’s not much of an answer. Are you still struggling with doubt?”

  Scott rose from the cheap wooden chair and paced around the office, looking out the window again just like he had the last time.

  “No. Oh no. No, no, no. Doubt is definitely not what I’ve been struggling with.”

  “Well? Then what? I know something has been eating at you. Something probably pretty heavy. You can tell me, Scott. You know I’ll keep it completely confidential.”