by Alex Dire
“Hello,” said the young woman. Her thick accent betrayed her lack of experience outside her country. “We move fast. Sun is up soon.” She led them onto a trolley that wound its way through the roads, stopping occasionally to take on or let off early morning passengers. No words passed between them as they rode the streets of Bucharest.
Norman looked at the glowing horizon. Sunrise neared. “Shouldn’t we have taken the metro?” he said. “Underground?”
“Underground soon,” said the woman.
That would have to do. He wondered how this young woman had managed to survive in the three years since the war and then the Corps. V resurgence. “What’s your name?” Norman asked.
“Alina,” she replied.
“I’m Norman,” he said. “This is Chip, Bronte, Georgios, MacManus and Matt” Norman waited for a reply but she answered only with silence.
“This is Gracie,” said Georgios, indicating the wheeled carrier containing his sleeping pig.
A smile brightened Alina’s face for just a moment. Then she went back to watching the blocks pass by out the window. Finally, she pulled a chord that ran the length of the trolley near its ceiling. A bell sounded and the trolley came to a stop.
Alina looked down the line of vampires. “Come. Fast.” She then nodded her head toward the window. “Morning.”
The group left the trolley which then rolled away down the street.
The warm morning air made Norman more nervous. The sun would rise in a few minutes.
Alina walked into the street toward a traffic island. The group followed. When they reached the island, Alina pointed to a crumbling hole in the pavement. “Down, yes?” She then sat down and dangled her combat booted feet through the fissure and lowered herself in.
Bronte went next. “Pass me the pig she rustled up.”
“Her name’s Gracie,” said Georgios opening the carrier. He lifted the pig out and handed her down the hole.
Each member of the group then slid into the crack in the street. Norman went last. As soon as his feet hit solid ground, a blast of heat smacked him in the face. He looked around to get his bearings. Light bulbs dangled from a makeshift network of wires and cables that crisscrossed the crumbly ceiling.
A young man covered in tattoos greeted them in words they didn’t understand. Alina led them through a corridor in and out of the spots of light produce by the bulbs that hung at inconsistent intervals. Wasted humans lay along the sides leaving barely enough room for walking. They passed a young boy, maybe twelve, who sat and watched them walk. He held a black bag up to his mouth and breathed in and out. The bag pulsed like a slow heartbeat.
They reached the end of the passage and entered a room that was filled with more ruined humans. Most were clearly high on one drug or another. All had puncture wounds on their necks.
A vampire wearing a mohawk approached them. “Americans?” he said by way of greeting.
Norman wondered if this punk could really be the leader of a survivor cell. Although, looking around, this seemed much more like a vampire apocalypse than the post-war life Norman had been living.
Chip nodded. “Petre, I presume.” He extended his hand.
“Yes,” said Petre. “Welcome. Drink?” Petre waved his arm around the room offering the humans who lay about.
“Not just now,” said Chip.
The group looked around taking in their new surroundings. Techno music played through a wired network of various speakers. No one danced, though.
“What is this place?” asked Norman. The whole nest reeked of despair. To describe these vampires as surviving would be generous.
Petre answered. “Everyone here dying.” Then he put an arm around Alina and pulled her to his side. “Or already dead, eh?” An adolescent laugh escaped his mouth. “Please, eat. Bucharest has little. But much suffering. Hard life for many. Much for us, eh?” He smiled again.
This felt almost like a vacation to Norman. He had seldom travelled in the past due to all the complications a vampire experienced when more than a few minutes from a safe place to spend the day. However, he’d left the United States a handful of times. He had even been to Bucharest before. It had been a sort of rite of passage for many vampires of the newer generation. A nod to a mythical past which really served more as a wink at an inside joke. He remembered tourist destinations that came to life at night specifically tailored for vampire tourism. Of course, none of this activity occurred within the legitimate realm of commerce. Vampire ex-pats from around the world set up shop here to take advantage of new Nymphs and their willingness to part with their money.
Norman sloughed his duffel to the ground against a stone wall and fell against it in exhaustion. He slid down to a sitting position, remembering the luxury accommodations he’d stayed in during his last visit here. Every vampire need had been meticulously catered to. There had been a large soft bed in the middle of the room, but the press of a button would reveal a slide out coffin underneath. The hotel even had a small set of catacombs for those who wanted to sleep underground: an authentic vampire experience. The minifridge had made Norman laugh. When he’d opened it, he was surprised to feel a blast of warm air escape from inside. Rather than keep the contents cold, this device kept bottles of fresh blood at ninety-eight point six degrees. Perfect after a long night of tourist traps.
Those accommodations were much more luxurious than the single concrete room he and his companions would spend the rest of this day in. Norman seemed to be spending more and more of his time hiding out in sparsely masoned subterranean spaces these days. This one had clearly been created by humans. It had none of the ancient feel of the old catacombs that had served as Chip’s headquarters or the carved cobbles of the werewolf Circle. It did not even have the elegant facade of a structure forged by human capitalism. It had the simple, minimalist feel of a public works endeavor. It was solid and would do the job, but beyond that it inspired little else.
“Hey, Teacher.” An Irish brogue smashed through the wall of Norman’s thoughts. MacManus sat down beside Norman. “I get why Chip brought Bronte, and Georgios. Bronte is always good to have around in unknown quarters. Georgios has that pig. Matt has his little tricks and his…secrets.” He paused turning his head to look Norman in the eye. “I’m not sure why you’re here?”
Norman thought about that question and realized it pretty well summed up his whole existence since the end of the war that devastated most of vampiredom. He hadn’t joined the fight. He had no particular skills in combat, yet for three years he thought he, alone, had survived the conflagration. Now it seemed he maintained an undesirable position at the center of the last iteration of vampire armageddon. He contemplated the irony of his position for a moment. “I could ask you the same question,” he replied.
“Bugger if I know,” said MacManus All I know is Chip said come. So, I came.
“I guess that’s why I’m here, too.” Norman frowned at the unsatisfactory nature of his own answer.
“I trust the bastard,” added MacManus. “He’s always done right by me. When this is all over, if we’re still standing, I’d vote for him in a heartbeat.”
“Vote for him?” asked Norman. “For what?”
Approaching footsteps interrupted Norman’s question. All eyes turned to the doorless entry to the warm concrete room. Petre reappeared. He nodded in Chip’s direction, “You come, yes?”
Chip answered “Where are we going?
“Just come. Is business,” said Petre.
Chip glanced in Norman’s direction. MacManus stood up. Norman, unsure if Chip had meant the look for him, too, stood up as well. They walked to Chip’s side.
“Not them. You,” said Petre pushing a finder in Chip’s chest. His mouth bent to a frown.
“It’s okay,” said Chip. “They can come.”
“No,” replied Petre. “You.”
Norman thought this could get ugly. Underneath Petre’s former friendliness there had been a substrate of chaos. The randomness now
seemed to spew up belligerence in Petre’s tone. Norman didn’t doubt that he and his friends could easily subdue Petre, but who knew how many vampires dwelled down here. Even if they fought their way out, the sun had risen. There was nowhere to escape to…not for another ten hours.
Chip slid into politician mode as he put an arm around Petre’s shoulder. “My friend.” His lips widened into a disarming smile. He tilted his head toward Norman. “That’s the one I told you about.”
Norman wrinkled his eyebrows at Chip’s use of the word “that.”
Petre looked over at Norman, sizing him up. “The teacher,” he said. His chaotic soul vomited up the crazy smile they’d seen on him when they first met. “Yes, come. All come.” He patted Norman on the back, squeezed his shoulders and led them out. “Come. Business.”
Petre led them through the labyrinthine underground passages. This journey under the earth had turned out much less wet, cold and putrid smelling then his experiences in the sewers. Norman wondered at the purpose of such a maze. The air seemed to get hotter the deeper into the tunnels they walked.
“Here,” said Petre. He stopped them at a wooden door. It’s ornate iron hinges and knob did not match the plain cement ‘decor’ of the rest of the catacombs. Clearly the vampires who dwelt down here had added it “aftermarket.”
Petre grasped the iron ring in the center of the portal, lifted it and knocked three times. He turned back to them and smiled.
As the door slowly swung open, a mist of smoke seeped throughout the crack carrying notes of Charlie Parker’s saxophone with it into the corridor. The syncopated rhythms contrasted the ubiquitous techno pulse that seemed to ooze from the walls.
As the door finished its arc, Norman made out a figure sitting on a sofa across the room. Candles rested on every possible surface. Vinyl record jackets lay strewn on a coffee table in front of the couch. A haze of smoke hung in the air like a fog.
“Welcome” said a voice from the sofa. No hint of the local accent betrayed his diction. “Come inside.”
As Norman moved into the room, he could make out the features of the figure on the couch. He opened his goateed mouth and breathed out a stream of smoke. He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. Norman saw the candles reflected in his slicked black hair which terminated in a tight bun at the back of his head.
The man shot a glance over at Petre. He erased one eyebrow and crinkled the other. “Why so many?”
Petre’s smile faded for an instant and worry crept onto his face. He hesitated, then shook off the momentary lapse. His mile returned, wider, and he slapped his hands on Norman’s shoulders. “This is teacher, eh?”
The man leaned forward. “I see.” He stroked his goatee with his thumb and forefinger.
“The other,” replied Petre to the silent question. He looked over at Chip.
However, before Chip could chime in, MacManus blurted out, “I’m a fuckin’ friend.”
MacManus’s display of belligerence beckoned five figures who’d been waiting invisibly from the shadows in the corners of the room. Two had been standing right next to them. Norman cursed himself for being caught off guard. The five vampires all had versions of the post-punk techno garb that seemed to be the uniform around here.
“I see,” said the man on the sofa. “I’m Rolph. Welcome friends. Petre has told me your needs.” He paused for a long moment. Norman wondered if he was waiting for some kind of reply. “We have needs, too.”
With those words, Rolph rose from the sofa, his leather vest and crisp purple shirt contrasted the clothing of the other Romanian vampires in the room. He moved toward a door at the side of the room. “I shall leave Petre to iron out the details of the negotiation.” He strode to the door and grasped the handle.
“Wait,” said Chip. “I wasn’t told of any negotiation.”
Rolph paused before passing through the door. “Life is a continuous negotiation. When you lose, you die.” He passed the threshold and closed the door behind him.
They all turned to Petre whose smile seemed wider and more insane than it had before. “Well. We talk, eh?”
The five techno-vampires in the room closed in around them. It would appear a negotiation was in order.
16
The Price
The group of vampires surrounding Norman seemed jumpy, like they’d had a few too many coffees. Their heads twitched from side to side and they kept smacking their lips. Their eyes appeared pried open as if constantly adjusting to low light. Their bodies seemed literal tomes inscribed with art and letters of various languages, some long dead. One had a metal spike stuck through one side of his neck and protruding out the other; piercing on a whole new level.
Norman did not sense that a calm, metered negotiation would ensue. It seemed more like blackmail, and the price for failure was death.
Chip spoke up. “When I contacted you, I thought you were in charge of this cell.”
“Cell?” replied Petre. “This look like prison to you?”
“Actually…” said Bronte.
“No one in charge,” interrupted Petre. “You want in charge, you go up.” He pointed to the ceiling indicating the world which was just waking up to the morning sun.
Norman had come to learn that Petre’s statement was delusional. Someone was always in charge. People who thought otherwise were sheep, or in this case, lambs.
“You were going to take us to the Hoia Baciu forest to look for Worms,” said Chip. “That was the deal. Simple. We’ve come a long way.”
“Worms,” scoffed Petre. “You sound like all the fucking tourists.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Now things different. I…alter deal. Perhaps I alter more, eh?” He chuckled at his dominant position in this “negotiation.”
“What do you want?” Chip asked.
“What every vampire wants,” replied Petre.
The other tunnel dwellers hissed and wagged their tongues at Petre’s statement.
“Blood,” said Matt. “They want blood.”
The negotiators intensified their hissing and became more frenetic with Matt’s words. One approached him from behind and licked the back of his neck. Bronte picked him up by his collar and placed him a few feet back. “Keep your fangs to yourself.”
Norman marveled at her restraint. A soldier always seemed to jump at the chance for a fight.
Chip raised an eyebrow, “But you have all these…people lying everywhere. There’s more blood here than you could ever drink if you don’t kill them all.”
“You’re friend correct,” said Petre. “We desire blood. Many humans down here, yes.” He then spat on the ground to introduce his next point. “Blood spoiled. Infected.”
“But you’re immune to their diseases. And they don’t seem to put up much resistance.”
“No. No resist,” replied Petre. “Almost no fun, eh?” “We not catch their infections.” Then his smile faded, and his face became somber. “But we have diseases of our own, eh?” His maniacal smile returned with his final syllable. “Here is deal. You go up. Get fresh blood. Then, we bring to Worms.”
“Why don’t you go yourselves?” replied Chip.
Petre laughed as if Chip had delivered the punch line of a joke. “We do. We just not come back. Romanian humans have seen much war. This one they no see. Only we see.”
“Why us?” said Norman. “We’re as likely to become victims in the war as you. What makes you think we’ll survive?”
Petre looked over at Bronte. “You made for war, eh?”
Bronte twisted her face into a disgusted look. “They won’t take us to the Worms even if we get them their blood. They’re sick. Junkies. They’ll promise anything.”
“No,” shouted Petre. “You get us blood. We show. First, blood”
Norman sensed desperation in Petre’s anger.
“I think we’ve wasted our time,” said Chip.
Norman thought Chip had the right of it. However, he couldn’t quite figure out their next move. They couldn
’t just leave. The sun had risen. They’d have to spend the day underground. While he was certain they could fight their way out of this room, there were far too many subterranean vampires here. Moreover, even if they could charge through them and make their way back to the crack in the street, they’d have nowhere to go but into the light.
“No,” said Petre, his anger intensifying. “No waste time.” He quickly turned and walked over to the side of the chamber. Several shelves hung on the wall. They held up books, pictures and various jars. Petre removed the glass lid from one and reached his fingers in. They came out clutching a small, irregular brown object. It appeared soft and wrinkled. “Here. No waste time.” He handed the object to Chip, who furled his brow in confusion.
Georgios sniffed at the air a few times. “Wait.” He reached out. “I'll take that.” He brought the wrinkled, near-black object to his nose, using his olfactory sense to explore it. He drew a long slow breath through his nostrils. As the scent from the object entered his nose, his eyes closed in rapture. After moment, he exhaled and opened his eyes. He tore off a small chunk of the soft object. It revealed a white interior. Georgios gently placed the chunk into his mouth and slowly chewed.
Everyone in the room watched as Georgios interacted with the thing in an almost ritualistic way.
“It’s a mushroom,” he said finally. “Old. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
“How old?” said Chip.
