The Nymphos of Rocky Flats

by Mario Acevedo

  Tamara pushed the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her forearms. She leaned on her elbows and gave an accusing glare. "You know what I learned from all this?"

  "No." But keep talking.

  "How much you men fear women. I mean this whole sex thing. Women being the fair, weaker gender and all that bullshit. That you men grant us sexual permission. It's a myth so you can control us."

  "Okay, guilty as charged," I said. "Put all of man's failures on my shoulders." Now shut up about this and tell me what happened in Building 707.

  "All of man's failures?" she laughed. "Who are you now, Jesus Christ?"

  "If I'm going to help, you'll have to tell me about the beginning."

  "What if I don't need help?"

  "You like what happened?"

  "Not what it cost me."

  "Then I need to know what caused it."

  "Read the report."

  "What report?"

  "If you have to ask that question, I can't tell you. It's classified." Tamara crossed her arms. "I could lose my job. Hell, I could even go to prison for revealing anything."

  Time for my vampire powers. This brassy Amazon had no defense. I bowed my head and popped the contacts from my eyes.

  "Are you okay?" Tamara asked. "You really can't handle tequila, can you?"

  I sat upright and stared at her, shining the full effect of my tapetum lucidum into her eyes. My lupine gaze transfixed her. The red aura of a human shimmered around her.

  "Holy shit." Tamara jerked her head back in surprise, but only for a second as my hypnotic spell took effect. Her blue eyes dilated. Her face relaxed. Her lips parted slightly and released a curl of smoke. Her arms unfolded, and the cigarette dropped to the carpet. Such a strong-willed woman, and yet such easy prey.

  I could turn my vampire gaze away for ten seconds, maybe even a minute, depending on the human, before I lost the hypnotic lock. I snatched the cigarette and snubbed it in the ashtray. Returning to stare into her eyes, I held Tamara's hands in mine and kneaded the flesh between her thumbs and index fingers. Her breathing slowed, and her eyelids fluttered to remain open.

  Gently, I raised our hands and, in a quiet voice, commanded her to stand up. I led her to the bed and levered her long body onto the mattress, resting her head on a pillow. The plastic slides fell from her feet. A wave of pheromones rose from her body. My control over her was complete.

  The halo of her aura floated on the pillow. Her hair fell away from her neck and exposed the tender skin and tempting veins. The pleasure of erotic domination surged through me. My fangs started to grow, and I lapped my tongue against my dry lips. Blood tastes much better than tequila.

  But I wouldn't bite her. This investigation was tricky enough without me leaving holes in the necks of the witnesses. Plus, who knew what had contaminated her?

  I climbed on the bed and straddled her, careful to put my weight onto my knees and not against her hips. Her pelvis arched aggressively and she pressed her groin against me. Odd. Hypnosis victims have always remained passive.

  I laced our fingers together. Now to question her. The complication was that hypnosis opened up a victim's subconscious and there was no telling what could come gushing out. Some blabbed like they were on a psychiatrist's couch, and the trick was to get them to stick to my questions and shut up about everything else.

  Staring into her eyes, I said, "Tamara, tell me what happened in Building 707."

  Her breathing deepened. The middle of her sweatshirt creased as her breasts rose and sank. She gulped. The focus in her eyes bore into mine, and she stared through me as if I wasn't there.

  In a relaxed voice, Tamara explained that as each floor of a building in the Protected Area was torn down, a survey team would go into the next area scheduled for demolition for a final "reconnaissance level characterization."

  "We were in the basement of 707, mapping discharge points beneath the foundry and casting modules. It was a real mess. Miles and miles of unmarked pipes. Sofia, Jenny, and I wore coveralls and respirators. We kept following one pipe after another, trying to match the master layout. Then we got lost. Apparently we had walked into a corridor that didn't exist on the original print. We kept going since our TLDs didn't register anything."

  "Transluminiscent dosimeters?"

  "Yes. We had the new ones that chirp an alarm. About the time we figured we were under the north loading bay, we found a secure door."

  "Secure door?"

  "It looked like the ones blocking the ‘infinity rooms' in Buildings 371 and 776. The rooms that are so crapped up with radiation that the instrument counter goes off the scale to infinity. But this door wasn't marked. It seems the demolition above had shattered the concrete around the door and sprung it open. As many times as we've gone through those buildings to update the placards and warnings, I wondered how anyone missed this one."

  "Did you go inside?"

  "Not right away. We radioed the RLC coordinator for instructions. He didn't know about the room, either, and told us to investigate. So we entered and looked with our flashlights. There were rows of fifty-five-gallon drums and boxes shaped like caskets."

  Caskets? Were there bodies? "What about markings?"

  "There weren't any. They looked like they were painted black."

  "Had you seen anything like them before?"

  "Not the boxes. The drums, yes. They were standard, though usually they're painted gray or white."

  Tamara lay quiet, swallowing nervously.

  I stared at her, renewing my concentration to coax her to start talking again. "Continue."

  "Suddenly, something hissed, like a steam vent. A vapor started swirling from the drums and boxes, rising and surrounding us."

  Tamara's hands trembled. I squeezed to reassure her. And strangely enough, she squeezed back.

  "Tamara, you're safe here. Go on, tell me what happened."

  She bit her lower lip. Her chin quivered.

  "Tell me."

  "First my TLD started chirping. The three of us backed out of the room. Sofia's TLD went off. Then Jenny's. We shouted for help over the radio and ran like scared dogs. By the time we reached the entry point, our TLDs were showing seventeen rems."

  Tamara's eyes watered with distress. "We were crapped up and had to go through rad decon. The other RCTs stripped us naked under the shower and scrubbed us with brushes. Security guards in bunny suits with Tasers and guns escorted us to bioassay."

  I knew about rad decontamination. What I needed was more details about the room. "Tell me what you saw."

  She closed her eyes and started to weep.

  "Shh," I whispered. I tightened my grip on her hands to comfort her.

  Tamara turned her head from side to side to wipe her tears against the pillow.

  "What about the report?"

  "The Tiger Team report?" Tamara gripped my fingers hard. Her aura took a yellow cast.

  This alarmed me. Never had a hypnosis subject initiated such physical action, nor had I ever seen an aura change color like this. And to yellow? Was this the nymphomania at work?

  "Tell me about the Tiger Team report."

  Tamara opened her hands to loosen my grip. "Big Wong has it."

  I let go of her fingers. I'd never experienced this. Normally I was in absolute control of the hypnosis. "Dr. Wong?"

  Leaning forward, I cradled her head in my hands and raked my fingers through her sweat-damp hair. Her aura clung to my fingers like Saint Elmo's fire. "You mean Bigelow Wong, the head of Radiation Safety?"

  "Yes," she moaned. Her lips darkened. Her female scent gushed up at me. The aura lost its yellow hue and turned red.

  Now I felt I was in control again. Releasing my hold on her head, I relaxed, admiring how easily I manipulated her, like I could any other human.

  "Tamara, open your eyes and look at me."

  Moaning again, she slipped her right hand under the pillow.

  I caressed her face. "Tamara, look at me."

  Her eyelids popped op
en, her pupils riveted on me. Her aura turned bright yellow again. Her right hand jerked from under the pillow and she pressed the muzzle of a Browning automatic against my forehead.

  Chapter 6

  MY CONSCIOUSNESS SHRIVELED around the circle of steel where the business end of the pistol barrel pressed into my skin. I couldn't move fast enough to parry the gun without risking a bullet through my skull. Vampires don't fear wooden stakes nearly as much as high-velocity metal-jacketed slugs. Especially to the brain.

  My hands still cupped Tamara's head. The yellow aura sparkled over her skin. Her eyes retained that faraway gloss from the hypnosis. Except for her holding a gun to my forehead, I'd have said that she was still under my control.

  So as not to startle her, I whispered slowly, "What do you want?"

  "Take off your pants," she said in a curious, distant voice.

  Ordinarily when a nymphomaniac tells you to undress, her intentions are obvious. But the gun confused the situation. I didn't know whether she wanted to play with my nuts or shoot them off.

  Her finger tensed on the trigger of the Browning. "Take off your pants," she repeated. "Let's do it."

  At this proximity the pistol looked as big as a howitzer. "Sure, but under the present circumstances I might have performance issues."

  "Men. Such babies." Tamara's left hand groped for my waist and fumbled with my belt buckle.

  I nudged her hand away. Straightening my legs, I lay flat on top of her and caressed her voluptuous torso. I nuzzled her neck, cognizant of the pistol now pressed to the side of my skull.

  The humid scent of her perspiration and natural pheromones formed an inviting cocktail of aromas. I kissed her neck and nibbled tenderly on the skin beside her jugular. Such temptation. My fangs protruded to their maximum length, and they ached to bite through skin.

  Tamara's breathing deepened. Her feet hooked over the back of my ankles, and she tilted her big hips to rub her pubic bone against my groin.

  I didn't want to bite but the hypnosis wasn't controlling her. I had no choice but to subdue her the traditional way.

  Putting my wet open mouth against her neck, I let my saliva deaden her nerves. My fangs hunted for her jugular. I broke the skin and let the blood seep onto my tongue. Human blood was supremely delicious, but I couldn't enjoy it. I let her blood dribble out my lips.

  Tamara moaned. Her left hand stroked down my shoulder and back until she gripped my butt.

  Any other vampire would've sucked her blood until she passed out. Instead I worked my spit into the punctures to let the narcotic effects of my saliva sedate her.

  Tamara's breathing slowed. Her aura faded to a dull red color. Her muscles relaxed. The Browning clattered to the floor. Her hands dropped to her sides.

  Satisfied that she was unconscious, I sat up, pulled a handkerchief from my coat, and wiped my mouth. A wave of remorse turned into a nauseating dread. What had contaminated her at Rocky Flats? And since the nymphomania had begun, what sexually risky aerobics had she indulged in? I tried not to ingest her blood—even one drop containing a pathogen could be enough to destroy me. If she were infected. I hung my hopes on that doubt.

  Tamara lay peacefully on the bed, her serene face pale. Blood trickled from the two small holes in her neck.

  I pressed the handkerchief against the wound until the bleeding stopped. Besides its analgesic and sedative effects, vampire saliva also accelerated healing. I had hardly drained any blood, so the bruising would be negligible, and by the time she awoke she'd only have two tiny scabs surrounded by yellow discoloration.

  I climbed off her and replaced my contacts. To erase evidence that I'd been here, I washed my shot glass and returned it to the cupboard.

  Tamara would suffer amnesia from both my hypnosis and the narcotic chemicals of my saliva. She wouldn't remember anything, starting from the half-hour before I arrived. Tomorrow morning she'd be one very confused woman.

  I returned to my apartment and climbed into my coffin to reflect on what had happened. I ran the air conditioner to recreate the cool dankness of a crypt. Incense—Dresden cadaver, my favorite—should have given my bedroom that perfect Old World decaying smell that induced relaxed meditation.

  Funny how becoming a vampire changed things. And, no, I don't mean the obvious physical stuff. I was much more of a beer and tacos man, and I still like them, only now I needed to add the rich liquid texture of blood. I couldn't deny my vampire personality and my awareness of the psychic plane we inhabited. In times like this I embraced the gloom to rejuvenate myself.

  But this time, the incense and darkness weren't working.

  One afternoon years ago, when I was still human, I had discovered that my car was missing from where I had left it. I searched the parking lot, bewildered, wondering if I had even driven to the store at all. I couldn't believe that my car had been stolen. I felt off-center, empty, and confused. Not only had someone taken my property, they had also upset my perception of reality.

  Now I had the same feeling of disorientation. I fidgeted against the satin lining of my casket. This incident with Tamara was supposed to have enlightened me. Instead I had stumbled deeper into a labyrinth of questions and shadows. Why hadn't vampire hypnosis worked? Why had her aura changed from red to yellow when she succumbed to nymphomania? What in Building 707 had caused this? I needed to interrogate the other affected RCTs and cut through the confusion surrounding the investigation. This time I wouldn't be so complacent.

  The next day I left my apartment to visit the second RCT. To bypass rush-hour traffic, I took a short cut along a quiet road parallel to an abandoned railroad line in the neighborhood.

  I drove with the driver's window open. The sun filtered through the trees growing alongside the railroad tracks. My fingertips tingled where they touched the steering wheel. The day was too clear, the air too crisp, the mood too normal to inspire trouble. Concerned that something might be wrong with my car—a wheel out of balance, for example—I let off the gas pedal and listened to the tires rumble over the asphalt.

  A whirring sound, like a hornet, buzzed past my ear. Something popped against the right inside of the convertible top. Sunlight instantly beamed through a finger-sized hole in the fabric.

  My fingers twitched in alarm. Someone was shooting at me.

  I pressed the gas pedal. The Dodge leaped forward, pushing me back against the seat. A second buzzing sound and another hole popped in the convertible top. The shots came from my left.

  Yanking off my sunglasses, I turned my head to see where the shooter might be. A car horn blared at me. I faced the front. A stop sign appeared from the center of an overgrown lilac bush and a blue Chevy Impala screeched before me. I stomped on the brakes. My Dodge skidded through the intersection and missed the Chevy by inches. My car slid to the muddy right shoulder and stalled. The Chevy slowed, honked the horn as a curse, then hurried off.

  A black Ford Crown Victoria approached in the rearview mirror.

  I turned the ignition key, but all the engine did was whine and not start. My vampire sense blaring the danger signal, I opened the door and bolted from the car.

  The Ford swerved and presented its passenger side to me. A large man wearing black leaned from the window and panned me with the muzzle of an M16 that had a silencer attached.

  I sprang to the left and right as I ran for the cover of the trees along the railroad tracks. Bullets nipped the air close to my head.

  I tripped and splashed into a shallow ditch next to the railroad. Scrambling to my feet, I kept running as the bullets pecked at the leaves and branches around me.

  The dirty water went from ankle deep to mid-shin. I hurdled over tires and a shopping cart discarded in the ditch. The Ford started up the road to overtake me.

  I crashed through a wall of reeds. Here the ditch joined a culvert about as wide as my shoulders. I dropped to my hands and knees and shimmied into the culvert, wallowing in grime and mud. I slid deep into the dark corrugated tube, not waiting to find out
if I had lost my pursuers.

  I needed to see. Removing my contacts in these conditions would be risky but I had to do it. I whisked my hands through the water to rinse the mud from my fingers. Carefully, I pulled the left contact out, then the right. Grit scratched my eyeballs. I splashed the filthy water into my eyes in an attempt to flush the irritation away.

  Minutes passed. I heard nothing and could see little. A human would've been mortified with claustrophobia to be in this tight culvert for so long. But this reminded me of stories of being buried undead and emerging decades later, refreshed by the extended siesta.

  Something blurry with a red aura approached to sniff my head. My claws instantly extended to defend me. The thing with the red aura growled and snapped at my face. It was a raccoon.

  I bared my fangs and snapped back. The raccoon held its ground. We bitch-slapped each other until I'd had enough and retreated backwards to the ditch. Pausing before exposing my feet, I listened for danger, the quickened breath of my excited pursuer, the scratch of his finger along the rifle trigger, the tires of the Ford scraping over gravel. Nothing.

  I backed out to my knees. Still nothing. Then out completely. The sun poured upon me and stung my naked eyes. A crow squawked at me from the concrete embankment of the ditch. The shooter was gone. I sloughed off the mud and rotting leaves from my trousers. Reeking of garbage I stumbled out of the ditch and walked along the shoulder back to my Dodge. Water squished in my shoes.

  I inspected my car to see if it had been left alone. It had. Getting a canteen from the trunk, I washed my face, touched up my makeup, and put in a new pair of contacts. I sat on a towel to protect the driver's seat and tried the ignition key. The engine turned over right away. Before I drove off, I surveyed the area and reflected on the attack.

  Who was the shooter? He knew my route. He knew me. I was sure I had seen him and the black Ford before, if only incidentally. I promised myself that in the course of this investigation I'd get even with this shooter. It would be a delightfully hideous revenge.