Vampire Esquire's War: A Novella

by Wells Jr. , Michael

  Inman’s eyes glowered. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. What’s with those stupid fangs? Last I checked it wasn’t Halloween.”

  ________________

  “No sir it isn’t.” Fletcher grabbed Inman and slammed him on top of the desk. This is where Inman soundproofing the office is to my benefit, he thought. Inman gasped inaudibly, but no words came out. The bullshitting chatterbox couldn’t talk.

  Fletcher sank his fangs into Inman’s neck and tasted the coppery blood. Delicious, he thought, and so satisfying to control the man who has controlled my life. Now I am the boss, he thought.

  He continued to drink, and he thought about the place he would bury him, in an empty grave in Arlington Vladimir Lenin purchased years ago. Then Inman would rise from the dead undead and a vampire.

  _________________________________________________

  “Vladimir, we agree with the need to take the United States, but we must be unified. You cannot act unilaterally,” said Gustav Von Trapp, the Swedish scion of the Von Trapp family, and leader of the majority of the Restoration vampires in Northern Europe.

  “I am not acting unilaterally. No one wants this plan to succeed more than I do. I’ve waited for it longer than any of you and sacrificed more.”

  Lenin found it difficult to control his anger.

  Plaintively, Gustav said, “All of us know that Vladimir, but we must work together.” He grasped Lenin’s shoulders in a fatherly way.

  Then both men turned to the others in the room. Vampires from all over Europe sat in the audience around a giant table in a dark, underground bunker. Restoration vampires had met for hundreds of years in this bunker, and they were all related through Lenin’s blood. Easier to meet in a neutral country rarely ravaged by war.

  Lenin didn’t feel much better. He felt patronized. Idiots, he thought, they have no clue what to do. They want to be gradual. Overwhelming force is the only way to go. We will have the numbers. Numbers are what matter.

  Lenin had his mole in the United States. The league didn’t know about Fletcher. Not yet. He would tell them when the time was right or maybe he wouldn’t tell them at all. Some things they didn’t need to know.

  _______________________________________________________________________

  Ronald Drum entered into real estate deals all over the world where Nero Corporation would do the construction, and Drum would develop the properties. Drum also sold his name, which was a well-established international brand, though whether the investors actually made money was another story. He even had a reality TV show called the Protégé where he hired and fired people. His trademarked line was, “You’re shit-canned.” All of this deflected attention from his unsavory business deals.

  The latest development deal with Vladimir Lenin and Nero was by far the most sleazy. But each time Drum didn’t ask questions––and he wouldn’t now.

  The outer structures of the buildings were built, and one day the buildings would be occupied by millions. The vast scale of the projects meant each of the projects would take years to complete, but it was worth it.

  Meanwhile teenagers and other young people disappeared. No one ever found out where they went, but they had to go somewhere. And they went to the Drum properties.

  Chapter 9

  Thomas Watson arrived in Washington early that morning back from Chicago, and he went straight to the White House.

  Watson had worked for the Secret Service for fifteen years. He started after his three-year pro football career was cut short due to multiple concussions. He could have kept playing, but he didn't want his mind to be a bowl of mush for the rest of his life.

  So he applied for and was accepted into the training academy for the Secret Service where he excelled.

  He had worked his way up through the ranks due to his imposing size and keen mind. He seemed to have a preternatural sense of when things were going to "break bad," so to speak.

  His proudest moment came on the campaign trial in 2008. He was assigned to protect then candidate Thomas Elder. Watson was an unaffiliated voter at the time, but he ended up supporting Elder.

  Elder had just gotten the nomination, and he was campaigning in North Carolina near Raleigh.

  Elder walked off the stage to thunderous applause. Before Watson could talk to Elder about the speech, a vague figure—probably masculine—threw Elder against a wall. Watson didn’t have time to defend Elder, nor was he quick enough.

  The creature hissed, and it tried to bite Elder’s neck. But Elder pulled out a silver stake and stabbed it, which popped like a tick, coating Elder in blood.

  Watson remembered rushing to Elder, and Elder said, “That was a vampire. Not my first encounter with them.” Then Elder collapsed in exhaustion.

  Elder missed the next few days of campaigning. The official word was he had a sore throat and a touch of the flu, but Watson knew better.

  Watson thought of this day often, and he thought of the conversation too. He always felt he saved the future president by giving him enough time to react. The president agreed, and he put Watson in charge of monitoring vampire activity. This was not a task many others knew about, for, if this were discovered, people would think President Elder were a fool.

  Over the past few years vampire activity had been relatively quiet. Eerily quiet. Consequently Watson and President Elder believed the vampires were planning something.

  And they were planning something. But at night when his fears came Watson asked himself, When are they coming for me?

  What he didn’t notice on that day in 2008 was Vladimir Lenin lurking in the background watching. Lenin wanted to see how Watson fought, and Lenin was impressed with the movement and the natural skill Watson possessed.

  Lenin had locked eyes with Watson from a distance. Just for a split second, but that was enough. Enough to be able to one day worm into Watson’s brain and summon him when at the right time.

  ______________________________________

  As a White House aide, Bridgett Myers worked all the time.

  She worked in the press office, and this meant she was in charge of keeping the Press Secretary abreast of topics in the news and topics that may be news. And she knew how to work the system. She’d been quite successful.

  Her success certainly made her proud, and she knew she would be able to parlay it into a profitable lobbying career. The nagging single status bothered her mother and others more than she.

  Her single status certainly didn't have anything to do with her looks. She resembled a taller version of Katie Couric.

  But she was single for another big reason too, a reason that would break her mother’s traditional heart. Bridgett was a lesbian, and that didn’t exactly lend itself to acceptance in her society. Not even in Washington, D.C., which was known to be a great city for people who preferred same sex partners, but not the circles she dwelled in. For now she kept her love life on hold.

  Bridgett continued reading conspiracy web sites, Twitter and Reddit boards. On Reddit she saw some insane things, but one issue that kept popping up was vampires. At first she dismissed it as fantastical. She’d heard of the clubs in D.C., but those were for fun. They weren’t real.

  But she continued to see references, and there were some You Tube videos that appeared too real. For example, she saw one video of a man and a woman each of whom had their heads ripped off in quick succession. If it was a fake video, it was certainly a good one. No human could be that strong, she thought.

  Bridgett remained skeptical, but she did find the continued references to vampires unsettling even if they weren’t true.

  She started to hear people actually talk about it in public. On one of the few Friday night’s she had off, she went to a bar near Dupont Circle.

  Some cocky frat boy type was talking about vampires.

  “Didn’t you hear about the vampire attack in Chicago the other day? Fang bites on the neck.”

  “It was an animal,” Bridgett responded. She dismissed the thought a
s the ravings of a drunk guy, but she didn’t forget what he said.

  She looked it up when she got home. She saw some stories on tabloid websites, and she doubted the veracity of these sites. She attributed the stories to the recent surge in popularity of vampires. DC had its share of grisly murder, but humans were capable of being just as vicious as their fictional vampire counterparts.

  But she did not rule out the possibility that vampires existed.

  She was not, however, without superstition. She didn't step on cracks or walk under ladders, but she still believed in the devil and his influence. Many people with her same level of education and her same level of intelligence dismissed such notions as superstitious gibberish and the obsessions of lesser minds. She realized there were some things she could not explain.

  Bridgett knew that superior minds also understood there were things that could not be explained by the sciences. There were some mysteries that defied objective reality.

  Bridgett's phone rang. “This is Fletcher Turner, the new Chief of Staff for House Majority Leader, Mark Inman."

  Bridgett rolled her eyes. She always thought Fletcher was a tool. She had known him since they were both Senate interns in the summer of 1999. Both had worked for senators in Dirksen Senate Office Building.

  "Yeah Fletcher, I heard about your new post. Congratulations. Looks like you picked the right horse. You always did try and back the winner, not the person you believed in the most. I suppose you are a true politician in the making."

  Fletcher laughed, a laugh filled with confidence. Bridgett was not used to hearing such a confident, masculine laugh from Fletcher. He usually had a soft, mousy laugh. Maybe he had convinced a girl to sleep with him the night before, and he was still feeling the high.

  "Look, Bridgett, can we meet for a drink tonight? This is not a date. I've got something important to tell you."

  Bridgett considered this for a minute. “I’m not falling for that shit Fletcher. Don’t you know I’ve heard that pickup line before?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of pickup lines.”

  Such witty repartee, she thought. “Okay, I will hear what you have to say.” She agreed not so much because of what he may have to tell her but out of curiosity as to what imbued him with such self-confidence.

  She agreed to meet Fletcher at the bar at Clyde's in Georgetown at 9:00 p.m. that night.

  ______________

  She arrived at 8:45. Bridgett walked across the white-tiled floors towards the mahogany bar with a mirror behind it. Clyde’s bar was always packed with politicos and politico wannabes. Fletcher was already there sitting at the bar with an attractive woman on each side. One blonde, one redhead. He appeared much taller and better looking. How odd, she thought.

  "Bridgett, so good to see you. Let's talk."

  "Let's cut to the chase here Fletcher. Why am I even here?"

  "Okay, House Majority Leader Inman wants you to work for his presidential campaign."

  "He's running for president?”

  "What if I told you he has the support of some very deep pockets?"

  "I'd say you were bullshitting me." Fletcher laughed at the comment.

  "I'm not, and, if Inman wins, which I think he will, you will have an even more significant position in his administration than you do now. By more significant, I mean White House Press Secretary."

  Careful not to reveal her interest, Bridget kept a poker face. "I'm flattered by your offer Fletcher, but let me make this easy on you. No. I would never work for Mark Inman in any capacity regardless of whether he is president. I'm ambitious, but I'm not willing to sell my soul to the devil."

  Fletcher's corneas expanded, and his nostrils flared. He showed his teeth, which, to her alarm, appeared to be fangs. They appeared real, and she ran off weirded out by the whole thing. She also had to admit she was a little scared too. In the background, above the din in the room, she heard Fletcher call out, "Don't leave Bridgett. We can talk some more. I was just kidding."

  When Bridgett walked outside on to the sidewalk her heart pounded. That was weird, she thought. What’s wrong with this town? Why is every man here a dork, a wannabe or some asshole who wants action on the side? Not that I would care, but I wonder still.

  Then she considered Fletcher’s fangs, and she dismissed them as a stupid prank. She wouldn’t rule out anything, but she still didn’t believe in vampires. Too many TV shows and books made people overly imaginative. She would lay off the message boards for awhile at least.

  Chapter 10

  Roland was nervous about the first vampire hunt. He still found the vampire thing implausible in spite of Pierre’s flying around the building though he found it more plausible than before.

  There had to be a reasonable explanation for it. Maybe they slipped him a hallucinogenic drug, and he imagined the whole thing. The world made even less sense than after he got back from Iraq.

  Roland couldn’t escape the words of the dying little boy. Sometimes he could silence the cries of the other people killed, but never the little boy. Would he always hear the boy’s words?

  Killing vampires (if the were in fact real) didn’t leave room for much else, and that was good. It was easier to start over that way.

  "Roland, I'm going to take you to a rough neighborhood on the South Side?"

  "Isn't rough neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago a bit redundant? And I’m still not convinced you didn’t slip me some drugs or something"

  Magnum barked out a laugh. "I see you have a good sense of humor and a healthy dose of skepticism. Both are good things. It is important to embrace the fear and not to let it master you, but you also have to not be afraid to call bullshit."

  Roland trusted Magnum for some odd reason. It helped Magnum had some age on him and had obviously survived lots of scrapes be they vampire or otherwise. Of course, it only took one loss before your ticket was punched. Kind of like gladiators, Roland thought. Then he thought he should ask Pierre about gladiators sometime. More than likely, Pierre had actually seen gladiators.

  "I'm sure you wonder who we are going after, and I'm going to tell you. A Russian pimp and bookie. His name is Peter Petrovich. He's a few hundred years old. From what I've heard the guy used to hang out with Rasputin. He's just as big a scumbag too. He wants to control the entire South Side and possibly all of Chicago if the vamps take over. We want to knock him off so that he never gets that far."

  Magnum drove Roland to the South Side destination. As expected the place was bar with a pool hall in it. A red neon sign "Beer and Billiards" flashed against the dark sky.

  “We aren’t going to take any weapons in because they will frisk us when we go inside and when we enter Petrovich’s room, but there will be stakes taped behind toilets in the restrooms. This assumes they let us use the restroom.”

  Magnum and Roland walked inside where they heard rap music blaring. Neither could make out what the music said or who it was. Who knew Russians enjoyed rap music? No one seemed to pay them any mind, and that surprised Magnum and Roland. Both were sure they did not fit in.

  Just when they thought no one would notice them a short, well-muscled guy with an expensive suit and a cheap shirt walked up. He wore several gold rings on his fingers, and his knuckles were scarred––probably from fighting.

  "I don't know either of you two stooges," the man said laughing contemptuously.

  Magnum responded, "We aren't here to see you shorty. We are here to see your boss."

  "He's busy."

  "Go tell him William Magnum is here to talk to him. I guarantee he will want to see me." The man scoffed and turned around and walked off.

  “Now, let’s go get the weapons,” said Magnum. They ran to the restroom to the right. Luckily no one was in there. They both went to the first two stalls and felt around on the backs of the toilets. Two stakes on each toilet. They rushed outside just as the bouncer walked up.

  "Come with me," he said.

  Peter Petrovich sat on a large ch
air that appeared more like a throne. Behind it was a red velvet background over which hung dim light bulbs.

  Upon spotting Magnum, Petrovich hissed and his fangs dropped down. "What do you want William Magnum? Haven't you learned by now you can't kill enough of us to make a difference? We will always overpower you. I let you live just for amusement.

  “Frisk them,” ordered Petrovich.

  Magnum reached around and gripped the handle of the first stake. Roland did the same. The bodyguards came closer. Both were muscled vampires with large fangs. Roland didn’t like the look of them, vampire or not.

  "Is that so Petrovich?” said Magnum. “I guess that's why I was able to kill your number-two and number-three vamps. Yeah...for a vamp you are a bit of a pussy.”

  "Is this one of your new protégés? Doesn't look like much." Petrovich whipped his head around and sneered at Roland.

  The bodyguards grabbed both Roland and Magnum. Both simultaneously said, “Get your fucking hands off of me!”

  Roland blinked, and Petrovich pinned Magnum up against the wall. Roland could see Magnum gasping for air. He’s trying to suffocate him, he thought. “You aren’t so tough now are you Mr. Magnum?

  Petrovich looked over his left shoulder and stared back at Roland. “You are next, and it won’t be long.”

  Without thinking Roland pulled out his stake. He rushed forward and stabbed through Petrovich’s back. Blood sprayed out like a geyser, and it splattered all over the room. Before Roland and Magnum knew it, Petrovich was a pile of mush on the floor.

  “Jesus, that was impressive,” Magnum gasped, his voice still raspy. “You hit his heart from behind.”

  Then two more vampires flew out of the shadows. One came straight for Roland. He approached him head on but flung towards him in less than a second. Aim for where the vampire will be, Roland thought. He pulled out a second stabbing stake and drove it into the vampire’s chest using the vampire’s momentum to impale it. The vampire spewed blood and was soon a pile of gunk on the floor.