The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon

by Baker, Scott M.

  On the second day, we tried the water. Again, strapping him to the trestle was difficult, requiring three times as many ropes and chains as is normal to ensure his being secure. We used a stick to place the strip of linen down his throat for fear of being bitten. But when we lowered his head and poured water on the linen, it had no effect. Again, he barely seemed to suffer discomfort. I ordered the guards to double the amount of water poured on the linen and to triple his time on the trestle, steps that would kill a normal man. I swear by all that is Holy that none of this had any effect on him. After the guards took Carius back to his cell, they talked in fear amongst themselves about the powerful nature of the evil we faced.

  On the third day we tried the fire. As we tied Carius to the floor and doused his feet in oil, I thought I detected a touch of fear in his voice as he blasphemed all that is holy about our Church. But when we positioned his feet near the flames, his fear—if indeed it was fear—did not prevent him from continuing his stream of invectives against God and from spewing forth the most disgusting and vile blasphemies about the Holy Virgin Mother.

  From the ultimate evil can flow the ultimate blessings, and that was when I discovered by the grace of our All Merciful God the demon’s weakness.

  “Fifteen minutes to closing,” announced the archivist from the doorway.

  Shit. Reese looked at his watch, irrationally hoping that maybe she had misread the time. No such luck. He looked up, startled to see her staring intently at him. Oh, God. Did she notice the memoirs spread out on the workspace? If she became suspicious and came over to investigate, and discovered how he had defaced the Bible, he would be banned from the archives and never get to finish reading the memoirs. Reese smiled, hoping to defuse the stern look.

  The lines around her lips and eyes became even sharper, if possible. Taking the index finger of her right hand, she tapped it several times against her watch. Reese acknowledged her with a thumb up. The stern features did not soften any, but at last she left the room and went back about her business.

  Knowing he had only a few minutes at most to put everything back in order without intrusion, Reese worked quickly. He realigned the pages of the memoirs so they were perfectly stacked. He opened the Bible and slid the pages back into the pocket in the cover. Per his usual routine, he replaced the Bible in its basswood case and shelved it, breathing an inward sigh of relief that no one caught him. With everything put away, Reese gathered up his belongings and left, wishing the archivist a pleasant good night.

  Once outside, Reese paused. His heart still raced with excitement. He had found a secret memoir by Antonio Ferrar, one that no previous historian had ever known existed, let alone read. Even more exciting, it dealt with the legendary vampire who last owned the Vampyrnomicon. He had stumbled across a historical goldmine, a once in a lifetime find. Unfortunately, he would have to put off mining that gold until the Freer opened again tomorrow morning.

  Zipping up his jacket against the chill, Reese headed back to his hotel for dinner.

  * * *

  Negotiating the rush hour traffic through Georgetown, Rodriguez spent more time with his foot on the brake than on the accelerator. After lurching to a stop for the umpteenth time, he began to wish he had taken the squad car rather this his own, because that way he could have switched on the siren and flashing blues and expedited his way through the congestion. Instead, he used his own car so he could go home right after taking care of business at the funeral home. That would make his wife and daughter happy. However, when the gridlock at Whitehurst Freeway and Wisconsin Avenue caused him to miss the traffic signal for the third time, he regretted his decision.

  By the time he made it onto Wisconsin Avenue and turned left onto the street where the Serra Funeral Home was located, he already had gone an hour past the end of his shift. He did not need a clock to tell him that. The setting sun creeping toward the horizon glared down the street, taunting him with another late shift. He pulled down the visor. Squinting against the brightness, Rodriguez almost overshot the driveway leading into the funeral home’s parking lot. He turned the steering wheel sharply to the right, bounced the front tire over the curb as he entered the driveway, and parked around back. Two minutes later, he stood on the back porch ringing the service bell.

  An extremely attractive blonde opened the door. Standing five-and-a-half feet in height with shoulder-length hair, she reminded Rodriguez of a young Jodie Foster. Her attire took him by surprise—white blouse, black skirt, and black heels. Granted, he did not expect a hunchback with a broken neck, but neither did he anticipate meeting someone who looked like they just stepped out of a Washington law firm.

  “May I help you?” she asked, a solemn expression masking any emotion.

  “Are you Miss Hughes?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m Officer Rodriguez with the Washington Police.” He offered his hand. “We spoke a few hours ago about Michael Fletcher.”

  “Do you have some identification, please?”

  “Of course.”

  Rodriguez reached under his jacket and pulled out his badge, flipped it open, and presented it. She examined it for several seconds, then moved aside and held open the door.

  “Please, come in. Sorry to seem so paranoid. We have to protect the deceased’s privacy.”

  Rodriguez stepped inside. “Is that really a problem, Miss Hughes?”

  “You’d be surprised. Once we were preparing a former child star who had ODed on cocaine while staying here in Washington. A tabloid journalist showed up claiming to be a police photographer.” She closed the door and turned to Rodriguez, flashing him a flirtatious smile. “And please, call me Michelle.”

  Michelle led Rodriguez through the back rooms of the funeral home and down a flight of stairs to the embalming room. As they approached, Rodriguez coughed, the overpowering odor of disinfectants irritating his sinuses. Still, it was not as aggravating as having to listen to George Thorogood’s Bad to the Bone blasting from a stereo system. When they entered the embalming room, Rodriguez stopped short, taken aback by the sight before him.

  His gaze focused on the stainless steel table in the center of the floor. Atop the table lay the cadaver of a middle-aged man, naked except for a piece of cloth discretely covering its genitals. Its head rested on a plastic block, and its arms were folded across the chest in a state of peaceful repose, temporarily held in place by a wooden positioning device. Between the loss of blood and the pale, waxy appearance, the cadaver looked more like a movie prop than something that once had been alive.

  The mortician stood behind the table. Wearing a full-length white vinyl coat, yellow latex gloves, and a surgical mask, he looked like a mad scientist. He hovered over the cadaver holding what appeared to be a nail gun. The mortician placed the gun against the cadaver’s gum just beneath its nose and depressed the trigger. A hydraulic thump echoed over the music. When the mortician pulled the gun away, Rodriguez could see the head of a needle imbedded in the cadaver’s gum, with a short length of wire attached. The mortician performed the same procedure to the matching spot on the lower gum. Rodriguez nearly puked when the mortician began tying the two strands of wire together, wiring the jaw shut.

  Michelle leaned into Rodriguez and spoke loud enough to be heard over the music. “First time seeing a dead body?”

  “I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies. I’ve just never seen them… like this.”

  Hearing the two talking, the mortician looked up from his work and reached over to turn off the stereo. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Michelle answered for them. “Bob, this is Officer Rodriguez with the Washington Police. He’s here to pick up Fletcher’s personal affects.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Rodriguez stepped up to the work table and extended his hand.

  Bob did not offer his own. “Don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t want to be shaking my hand right now.”

  Rodriguez could not argue with that.

  “Michelle, could y
ou get Officer Rodriguez the bag with Fletcher’s personal belongings?”

  “Sure thing.”

  As she left, Bob bent over the cadaver. “If you’ll excuse me. I need to finish up here, and then we can talk.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Rodriguez moved to one side so as not to be in the way, but still watched with morbid fascination. Bob moved to the next stage of the embalming process. He took from underneath the stand holding the embalming machine several bottles containing various fluids and emptied them into the machine’s container tank.

  “Is that formaldehyde?” asked Rodriguez.

  “A mixture of formaldehyde and glutaraldehyde.” Bob held out the empty bottle for Rodriguez to see. “The rest of the solution is made up of germicides, preservatives, dyes, water, and a bunch of other chemicals.”

  “It sounds like a drink at a bar I know of in Dupont Circle.”

  “Trust me. This cocktail would rip out your insides within seconds.”

  Bob finished filling the container tank with two gallons of embalming fluid mixture. Taking a scalpel from the tray, he used it to make a small incision several inches long near the cadaver’s collarbone, then used an aneurism hook to pull back the layers of skin and muscle until the arteries were exposed. He raised the right common carotid artery above the skin and strung two sutures underneath it, holding the artery in place, then followed the same procedure with the right jugular vein. Again using the scalpel, Bob made one incision each in the carotid artery and the jugular vein. Picking up two tubes from where they rested by the embalming machine, Bob inserted the pumping arterial tube into the carotid artery pointing toward the heart, inserted the drain tube into the jugular vein, and secured both in place with sutures. With all the preparations having been made, Bob switched on the embalming machine and set the pump’s pulse feature. Embalming fluid pumped down the arterial tube. As the fluid was injected into Fletcher’s cadaver and filled the vascular system, the body began to expand to its normal size. Every few seconds, the pulsing action would eject remnants of blood and bodily fluid out of the drain tube, which emptied into a nearby sink.

  After removing his gloves and wiping his palms on a towel draped over the rim of the sink, Bob stepped over to Rodriguez and extended his hand. “Let me properly introduce myself. I’m Bob Hanley.”

  “Juan Rodriguez. Nice to meet you.” He shook the mortician’s hand. “You have an interesting operation here.”

  “Thanks. It’s not for everyone, though. It grossed the shit out of me for the first few months. That’s why I could never understand why Michelle wants to get into the business.”

  Rodriguez looked over his shoulder to see Michelle enter holding a clear plastic bag filled with bloodied cloths. She shook her head in good-natured frustration. “Don’t listen to him. He just feels threatened because I like this stuff as much as he does.”

  “Three weeks’ vacation and all I can eat,” said Bob in a passable imitation of Boris Karloff.

  Michelle handed the bag to Rodriguez. “Here are Fletcher’s personal effects.”

  “Thanks. Can I bring these back to the station with me?”

  “As long as you sign an itemized list of the contents.”

  “We have to be careful about accounting for the deceased’s personal belongings and for every mark on the body,” added Bob. “You’d be surprised how many people would sue to make a buck off of a loved one’s death.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about the body while preparing it?”

  “Other than its sex organs were chomped off?” Bob forced a grin. “Seriously, no. I examined the body myself when it arrived.”

  “No bite marks on the neck?”

  “Nothing like that. The body—”

  The stirring on the embalming table attracted everyone’s attention. Rodriguez’ eyes widened in disbelief. Michelle gasped. Bob said it best when he muttered, “Holy fuckin’ Christ.”

  Fletcher moved. Nothing dramatic. More like someone stirring in their sleep. As they watched, the cadaver changed. The hydrating muscles became developed and toned. Its fingers extended and its nails elongated into talons. Its face underwent the most severe transformation, with the forehead protruding and becoming deeply-furrowed, and the mouth twisting and churning as something changed underneath the skin. What lay on the table no longer appeared human.

  “Oh my God,” rasped Michelle. “Did the embalming fluid do that?”

  “I don’t think so,” answered Bob, bending over the cadaver. “I’ve never read of such a reaction—”

  The body went rigid, causing the three to jump back. A primal scream bellowed from its lungs, muffled by the mouth being wired shut. Twisting its head and stretching its jaws, it strained to open its mouth until the skin began to tear around the wires. Finally, the mouth sprung open in a jagged, gaping yaw, leaving chunks of jaw and dislodged teeth clinging to the wires. It took a deep breath and let out an agonized howl.

  Raising its arms, the thing that was once Fletcher clawed at its collarbone, gouging out dead flesh and muscles. Instead of blood, pink fluid flowed from its veins and arteries. It eventually found the arterial tube and ripped it out. The tube clattered to the floor, still spewing embalming fluid. The vampire fell back onto the table, writhing in agony and ripping away its flesh to release the fluid still in its system.

  Michelle staggered backward, tripping over a box and falling onto her back. She kept crawling away until she slammed into the wall. Bob stood frozen in a pool of his own urine. Only Rodriguez snapped out of the original shock.

  “Shut that thing off!” he ordered, shoving Bob toward the embalming machine.

  As the mortician fumbled with the controls, eventually shutting down the flow of fluid, Rodriguez looked around for something to put the vampire out if its agony. He spotted an axe in a glass-enclosed firefighting station on the far wall. Racing over and smashing the glass with his elbow, Rodriguez grabbed the axe and ran back to the table. Raising the weapon above his head, he aimed for the neck. Because of the vampire’s writhing, the blade crashed into its mouth, practically severing the lower jaw. The blow splattered Rodriguez with chunks of skin and fragmented teeth. Rodriguez tried to yank the imbedded axe free, twisting it several times. He nearly puked at the squishing noise the blade made against the muscles. When the axe finally came loose, the jawbone fell away, giving Rodriguez a clear shot at the neck. He raised the axe a second time, took careful aim, and brought it down hard, severing the head with a single blow. A look of relief washed over the vampire’s mangled features as its head dropped to the floor.

  Embalming fluid sprayed from the neck, covering the table and floor. The body stiffened one final time before beginning its disintegration. The skin darkened and peeled off like embers from a burning log, revealing muscles and organs that crumbled into ash. Once exposed to air, the body fell apart from the heart outward, consuming itself more rapidly with each second. The left shoulder caved in on itself, freeing the drain tube which fell onto the table and rolled off onto the floor. Its head crumbled last, the remnants mixing with the spilled embalming fluid. Within thirty seconds, nothing remained of Fletcher but ash and a nightmarish memory.

  Rodriguez stepped over to Michelle, who huddled against the wall in a fetal position, her head pressed tightly against her knees. She flinched when he touched her. Rodriguez crouched down and offered his hand again.

  “It’s all right. It’s over.”

  Tentatively, Michelle took the hand and struggled to her feet. She leaned back against the wall and sobbed. Rodriguez wrapped his arms around her and hugged, trying to provide some solace.

  “W-what the hell just happened here?” asked Bob, still in shock.

  “There’s a new narcotic on the street that has strange effects on its users,” Rodriguez lied. “It must have reacted with some of the chemicals in the embalming fluid.”

  “A drug that brings the dead back to life?”

  Rodriguez ignored the question.

/>   Bob moved closer to the table and examined the carnage. “What the hell am I supposed to tell the family?”

  “Tell them what I just told you.”

  “Yeah.” Bob struggled with the story, slowly accepting it. “Do you think they’ll believe it?”

  “Of course they will.”

  Rodriguez did not know, or really care, if the Fletcher family believed a story so fucking outlandish. He only hoped Roach and Preston would.

  * * *

  Angela strolled down the sidewalk, her stiletto heels clicking against the pavement. Despite the chilly night air, she wore a leather mini-skirt and a red silk tank top. An outfit, she could boast with pride, that nicely accentuated her long legs and naturally large breasts, and which complimented her neck-length auburn hair. Not that it did much good. Business had been slow these past few weeks, so she wore the whorish attire to attract a john. Since she was not about to lower her fee, she needed to dress more seductively than usual to give them a bigger bang for their buck, no pun intended. The look, unfortunately, had not drummed up any business, and all she had to show for her efforts were blisters and a set of nipples rigid from the cold.

  She turned left off of H Street, walked a few blocks, and turned left again, heading back toward Union Station and the surrounding hotels. With luck, she would find a lonely businessman or horny tourist looking for some companionship. Angela had walked a block when she saw a handsome man approaching from the opposite direction, of average build and height, with a goatee and black hair down to his shoulders. She liked what she saw. The way he bore himself suggested someone extremely confident, and his clothes hinted of money, much better than her usual johns. Hell, she might have done him for free if she was not already behind on her rent.