The Nymphos of Rocky Flats

by Mario Acevedo

  "I'll buy you shampoo."

  Wendy pointed to the spritzer. "I had to counteract the potion with a repulsion tonic. Not that I wasn't tempted to watch you and our visitor go at it. But I have dibs on you. He can wait for his turn."

  "It'll be a long wait."

  "I hope so. He wasn't a vampire hunter, was he?" she asked.

  "No. He wasn't from the group who attacked me before. But I'm positive he was the guy who whacked me on the head. He's come after me at least twice already."

  "Then who is he? And who sent him?"

  "I'm guessing the same people behind the cover-up at Rocky Flats. I was warned my investigation into the nymphomania was more important than murder. I didn't figure that might have meant my murder."

  I picked up a fragment of the bottle that had contained the love potion. "Maybe this was the cause of the outbreak."

  Wendy shook her head. "I doubt it. It's love potion, not Spanish fly. Did any of the women mention falling for their…uh…conquests?"

  "No. The outbreak was all about grinding genitals. Plus, their auras changed colors from red to yellow. The gunman's didn't."

  "So why come after you?" She pulled a candle and matches from a counter drawer. "What makes you such a threat?"

  "That's the frustrating part. I wish they'd tell me. So far I haven't discovered anything worth killing someone over. At least from what I understand." I squinted at the candle. "More magic?"

  "Depends on your definition of magic. I prefer to think of it as chemistry humans haven't yet discovered." Setting the candle into a glass holder, she lit the wick. Smoke from the candle flame carried the smell of sage through the kitchen.

  The spots in my eyes faded. The fog of dizziness eased.

  Wendy's aura crackled again. Glancing to the door, her eyebrows narrowed and creased her forehead. "Think he'll come back?"

  "Not if he figures he might end up kissing me again. But if the question is, are we still in danger? That answer is yes." I pushed to get off the floor but was too weak.

  Wendy opened the refrigerator and pulled out a steel bottle. She squatted beside me and uncapped it. "Here. It's bull blood. The taurine should rejuvenate you. I was hoping to use it to prolong our play time but that can wait."

  I sipped the cool blood and rested. Wendy brewed herbal tea and sat opposite me on the floor. She folded her legs and the hem of her blouse covered her hips. The steam from her mug carried the aroma of chamomile and lemon.

  "That was pretty ballsy of you," she said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You could've clung to the ceiling and attacked from above. At first I thought that's what you were going to do. Instead you faced him head-on."

  I didn't want to admit that my ballsy head-on attack was the fault of my weakening powers. Wendy's love potion is what saved us, not my heroics.

  As dusk fell, the curtains on the windows became dark rectangles. Strength returned to my limbs. I went to the living room to retrieve the rest of my clothes. I decided to contact Bob Carcano and have him watch my back while I hunted for the gunman.

  Wendy followed. "You leaving?"

  I buttoned my shirt. "Some asshole just tried to kill me—us—so I need to do more than watch you drink tea. Let's get going."

  "What's this ‘Let's get going?'" Wendy rattled her mug of tea against a saucer. Her green aura surged up a notch in intensity. "I can take care of myself. I've got plenty of potions. If he comes back again, I'll turn him into a frog and feed him to a duck."

  I found my cell phone and keyed Bob's number. "I'd like to see that. Until then, I need to find the gunman. He's got answers to my questions."

  "And he's got a pistol, too. Don't forget that."

  "I won't." Bob didn't answer, so I left a message for him to meet me at my apartment.

  Wendy escorted me to the front door. She rested her head against my shoulder and hugged me. "Be careful, Felix. We have unfinished business here." She gave my crotch a light squeeze.

  My fangs popped out. I touched them to her neck, then pecked her forehead and left.

  Outside, I detected nothing unusual. With the onset of night, I didn't need to worry about the sun burning me. Once inside my car, I slid my makeup kit from under the driver's seat and covered my pale vampire complexion. I drove home. Bob's Buick waited alongside the curb in front of my apartment complex. His engine was running.

  Seeing Bob in his car, I parked my Dodge and walked over to him.

  "I got your message," he said. "You need to come with me."

  "Why?" I pointed to my apartment. "We can talk inside."

  "No time." The lock on his front passenger door snapped open.

  I got into the Buick and buckled up. "Where're we going?"

  Bob headed down the street. "The nidus council is meeting tonight to discuss the vânätori de vampir. We've already lost Ziggy and Andre. If we lose a third vampire, all hell will break loose. You know, fang first and ask questions later. The mood is ugly."

  "It'll get uglier if they hear about this." I described the attack at Wendy's.

  Bob's aura lit up like napalm. "Damn it, Felix. Trouble follows you like a shadow. And we aren't supposed to cast shadows. How do you know this gunman wasn't a vampire hunter?"

  "Because he came after me with an automatic and a silencer, not with a crucifix and a wooden stake. And he knew my name."

  "No shit! this does make things uglier. That settles it."

  "Settles what?"

  "Tonight you tell the nidus what you know about the vampire hunters and this hit man. After that, you leave Colorado. Disappear."

  "Bullshit. I'm staying to finish my investigation."

  "Because you gave your word to a friend at Rocky Flats?"

  "It's a matter of principle."

  "What about your principles regarding the rest of us? And Wendy? Have you bothered to think about what that gunman intended to do to her after he plugged you? I doubt he was going to give her a sympathy card and flowers."

  "You let me worry about Wendy."

  Bob stared at his outside mirror. His aura shrank around him.

  "Did you hear me, Bob?"

  "Yeah, I heard you." He divided his attention between the road and the rearview mirrors. "We're being followed."

  Immediately my fingers and ears buzzed. I tipped my head to check the mirror outside my window. A Ford Crown Vic pulled close. A black one. "They're right on us."

  "Vânätori?" Bob accelerated until we about tapped the bumper of a delivery truck in front of us.

  I turned my head around to see.

  The Ford surged into the oncoming lane of traffic and gained on us. A familiar aura filled the passenger side of the windshield.

  "Not vampire hunters. It's him," I said. "The gunman from Wendy's place."

  The gunman's aura flared.

  "Get down," I yelled to Bob.

  A swarm of bullets punched out our rear window.

  Chapter 23

  THE GUNMAN PAUSED, as if reloading. His big hands manipulated the pistol. He kept his gaze fixed on me. His eye sockets seemed chiseled out of a head massive enough to use as a battering ram. He leaned from the window of the Ford and waved the driver to speed up.

  My fangs sprang out. I reached across Bob and grabbed the steering wheel.

  He tried to push me away. "What the hell you doing?"

  "Taking the offensive." I spun the steering wheel to the left.

  Our Buick bashed against the Crown Vic. Sheet metal crumpled. Trapped within the door window, the gunman flailed his arms and yelled in panic as I slammed our car inches from his body.

  After enduring these last days of having been chased and shot at, my kundalini noir coiled in vengeance within me. "I've had enough. This son of a bitch is going to pay."

  I let go of the steering wheel. "Take it, Bob. Keep our rear window even with the gunman."

  I dove into the backseat. I smacked the window and shattered it. I reached for the gunman and seized his thick arm.
We locked gazes. I didn't hypnotize him, as I wanted him to feel the pain of every cut and bruise I was about to inflict.

  I bared my fangs and growled.

  He blanched with terror and tried to yank free. "What are you?"

  I laughed at him. "Your executioner."

  The cold night air whistled past as we hurtled down Speer Boulevard, he and I bridging the gap between our cars. I couldn't reach to bite him so I punched him in the face. Blood spurted from his nose and over my fist. His pistol fell and bounced onto the street.

  "I don't care what kind of a freak you are, Felix," he shrieked. The wind pushed blood across his cheek. "We'll stop you."

  "We who?" I paused from punching him again. "Stop me from what?"

  "Stop you from living." The gunman drew his free arm and brandished a switchblade.

  "Too late for that." I parried the knife and grabbed this arm as well. Bracing myself against the inside of the Buick's door, I yelled, "Now, Bob! Stop!"

  He slammed on the brakes. Our car skidded and swerved. The gunman's arms tugged against mine. He screamed. His bones cracked. I held fast until his body jerked from the Ford's window, then I let go. His shoes flew off. He helicoptered in the air and flopped face down on the street. A car behind us had nowhere to turn and skidded over him, thump, thump.

  Bob revved the engine. We whipped around to the opposite direction. Centrifugal force flung me across the backseat. Cars honked and dodged around us.

  The Ford locked its tires and stopped. The driver hustled out and fired a pistol. Two slugs whapped into our trunk lid.

  We raced away and took the on-ramp to Interstate 25, heading north. No one followed. I climbed back into the front seat.

  Bob merged into traffic. "You like to make enemies, don't you, Felix?"

  "Doesn't have to be about me. Maybe they don't like Buicks."

  Bob smiled. "Too bad we couldn't have finished them off properly. Shame to think of all that fresh blood getting dumped on the street." The reflection of passing headlights twinkled along his fangs.

  I massaged my knuckles. "Yeah, it would've been great to have fanged him but my fist breaking his nose felt good enough."

  Bob leaned toward me. "Is that his blood on your hand?"

  "Yeah." I opened the center console and found a small box of tissue.

  Bob sniffed. "Smells good."

  I wiped the blood from my knuckles and handed Bob the tissue. "Here, have a taste."

  Bob put the tissue in his mouth. He rolled his window down and spit out the tissue. "Mmmm, not bad. It's the adrenaline. Drinking donated blood gets bland after a while."

  A police car with flashing lights approached on the opposite side of the highway and continued past us.

  "You just killed a man," Bob said.

  "I know."

  "And you feel no guilt about it?"

  "Only that I didn't kill him earlier."

  "So you're okay now to drink human blood?" The question sounded hopeful, as if the correct answer would eliminate any lingering tension between us.

  "The death of that goon changes nothing," I said.

  "What would, Felix?"

  "Forgiveness." I was surprised I let myself admit it.

  "That simple?" Bob looked at me, his fangs peeking from under a dismissive grin. "Sounds like you need religion."

  "Sounds like you need to shut up."

  Bob's grin went flat. He stared straight ahead and floored the accelerator. The highway curved to the right. Bob cut across the lanes to the next exit and zoomed between two cars. The exit took us into the Five Points area north of downtown. He turned on Brighton Boulevard, a long strip of industrial businesses and warehouses deserted at this time of the evening, then slowed for a red traffic light.

  My fingers tingled. "We're not safe."

  Bob's aura simmered. He adjusted his rearview mirrors. "I sense it, too. Where are they?"

  The light turned green. Bob tapped the gas pedal. We rolled through the intersection.

  An older-model Dodge cargo van zoomed at us from the left. The intense glow of red human auras filled the windshield. Familiar auras. Vampire hunters.

  "Vânätori," I warned. "Look out!"

  Bob accelerated and veered to the right. The van turned sharply, came parallel to us, and rammed our front fender.

  Our Buick hit the curb and ricocheted back against the Dodge. We careened up the street, fender bashing against fender. The side cargo door on the van sprung open. A bearded man in a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat pointed the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun at Bob's window.

  The window exploded into a shower of glass. Blood sprayed inside the Buick. Bob clutched his neck and gagged.

  The vampire hunter lifted the shotgun and aimed for me. I snatched the top of the steering wheel and pushed. The Buick surged to the left. The door pillar knocked against the shotgun just as it went off. The muzzle blast deafened me. A swarm of pellets gashed through the ceiling upholstery.

  The Buick bounced over the curb. We flattened a stop sign and smashed into a telephone pole. The airbag deployed and slapped my face.

  The Buick perched at an angle, the front end balanced on the stump of the telephone pole. I sat silent, stunned by the collision. My ears rang. The Buick groaned and hissed like a dying animal. Pushing the deflated airbag from my face, I groped for Bob.

  He rested against the steering wheel, swaddled by the fabric of his airbag. His aura pulsed and grew dim. Overcome with desperation, I cradled his head and lifted gently. Blood gushed from a wound in his shoulder at the base of his neck. Moaning, he stroked my arm with a bloody hand.

  The Dodge van screeched to a halt and backed up, its transmission grinding. Three vampire hunters jostled in the open cargo door, two hulking bearded goons flanked the older man, all of them pointing guns. They opened fire. Their shots cracked against the Buick's windshield and peppered me with glass.

  Energized with panic, I opened my door and dragged Bob by the arm.

  The van jumped the curb, scraped alongside the Buick, and stopped with the cargo door aligned with Bob's window. At this distance they couldn't miss me.

  If I held on to Bob, there would be two dead vampires. I hesitated for a microsecond and weighed self-preservation versus loyalty. Dead, I'd be of no help to him. So I let go and tumbled out through my door. Bullets tore the upholstery inches from my head. I landed on the sidewalk and put the Buick between the vampire hunters and myself.

  The closest refuge was behind a stack of rusted metal drums at the corner of the sidewalk and an alley. I scrambled over the concrete like a bug and dove over the drums just as another volley of bullets came searching for me.

  I couldn't abandon Bob. Turning around, I peeked between the drums.

  The older vampire hunter aimed a crucifix at Bob and shouted in Latin. His burly companions reached through the Buick's window and clutched Bob by the collar. They dragged his limp body through the window and into the van.

  The vampire hunter with the crucifix waved his shotgun in my direction and fired. I ducked. Pellets rapped against the drums. The van tore back into the street and picked up speed.

  Why did they take Bob? Why didn't they blast him to pieces with their guns?

  I dashed from around the barrels and into the street. The van's taillights receded up Brighton Boulevard. I ran after the van, faster and faster, spurred by rage and the need for revenge. The van kept pulling away. My lungs sucked the cold air. Running at vampire speed, I should've been able to catch the van. But I wasn't able to keep up. My legs tired. In one final effort, I lunged forward and then slowed to a trot. From the pit of my belly came that burning craving for human blood. A craving that turned into guilt. If I had overcome my aversion for human blood, then perhaps I would have been able to rejuvenate my failing vampire powers and rescue Bob. Perhaps.

  The rear doors of the van opened. Out dropped a body. A round object followed and bounced lazily like a lopsided ball.

  My guts tightened when
I realized what I was seeing. Massaging a runner's stitch between my ribs, I jogged forward and approached the body lying on the street. The round object rolled to a stop over a sewer grate at the curb.

  I stepped close to Bob's decapitated corpse. A wooden stake jutted from a bloody stain in his breast. His head faced me, lying sideways atop the sewer grate, his mouth frozen open in an silent scream. His upper lip was torn apart and revealed two gashes where they had pried out his fangs.

  A great sadness crushed me. My knees buckled. I sat on my heels, my arms drooping to my sides. Breath wheezed through my dry throat. Far ahead, the taillights of the van merged into one and then disappeared.

  At this moment, I wished that vampires could cry.

  Chapter 24

  I STOOD WITH TWENTY other vampires under the night sky, on the shoulder of an asphalt road beside a dusty field near Last Chance, eighty miles east of Denver. Against the dark contours of the terrain, our orange auras looked like gems floating on black velvet.

  A cold, dusty breeze stirred the morning air. As dawn approached, the twilight sky faded from inky black to purple and then to blue.

  Bob's naked corpse hung from a sheet of salvaged plywood propped to face the sun. His head rested on a crude shelf above his shoulders. A ragged hole the size of a fist showed where the vampire hunters had pounded a stake through his sternum. Frayed polypropylene boating rope looped under his armpits and across his chest, holding him flat against the plywood.

  To us vampires, the first rays of the morning were the most savage to our flesh. For protection, five of the vampires used the satin robes they usually donned for choir with the Temple Baptist Church. Carmen, as usual, was ensconced in tight black leather, looking like a petite dominatrix making a rural house call. My jacket and trousers rustled in the wind. Everybody wore balaclavas, gloves, and welders goggles.

  A corona of yellow light spread over the eastern horizon. A tremor of awe surged through me. Since prehistoric times when the first vampires stalked human prey, this moment of dawn has meant the dreaded finish to us, the undead. Now we watched, standing with impunity in the open, protected by thick tinted glass and layers of polyester, leather, and wrinkle-free cotton.