Vampire Zero: A Gruesome Vampire Tale

by David Wellington

  She wasn’t even sure what that meant anymore, if she was honest. She’d been putting her life at stake for so long she’d never really considered what she would do if the vampires were driven to extinction. Maybe she would retire and work as a dog trainer. That would be nice.

  Not yet, though. For now, she was a cop.

  “What’s in it for me?” she asked. She couldn’t see it. Did he expect her to just jump at the chance?

  He leaned back and seemed to think about it before answering. “It would open a lot of doors for you. It would allow you to track a fugitive across state lines, for one thing. Right now if Jameson runs to West Virginia you can’t legally follow him.”

  She would anyway, of course, legally or otherwise. But it could be useful to have police powers anywhere in the country. She had often considered what might happen if the vampire moved outside the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. If she were him, she would have done it months ago.

  “You’d also have access to the resources of our Major Case Fugitive Program.” He sighed and stood up. “Let me show you something you’ve probably already seen.” He took a pen from his pocket and pointed at the warped frame of the bathroom window. “Here.” He indicated a tiny scrap of black cloth stuck in a corner. “Fiber evidence. Maybe something useful, maybe something that could take you to Jameson Arkeley.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “I went through there, too. It could have come from my pants. Anyway, I already have our Forensic Services on the way. They do hair and fiber and DNA matches all the time. I’ve yet to see anything useful out of that kind of evidence.”

  “And why would you? Your unit operates in a strictly prosecutorial role. They make the case after the subject is in custody. How long does it take them to do a thorough search? Six weeks?”

  “About that,” she admitted.

  “A lot of bodies could pile up in six weeks. My guys can take those fibers and run them against every national database and have something for you in twenty-four hours. All it takes is a phone call and I can have them here by lunchtime.”

  “Vampires don’t have any hair and they don’t wear a lot of clothes. If they even have DNA, nobody’s ever found it.”

  Fetlock sighed. “Alright, then what about manpower? You have two full-time people in your SSU, including yourself. You can’t afford to hire anyone else, so you rely on part-time volunteers. With federal money you could hire anyone you want for as long as your investigation lasts.”

  She had to admit it was tempting. “What’s the catch?”

  He shrugged good-naturedly. “You’ll have to follow Justice Department guidelines. The paperwork is a bear. But you can hire somebody to fill out forms for you.” He turned slightly away from her and looked down into the bathtub again. “Also, you’d be working for me.”

  “But I’d still be lead on the investigation,” she said, needing to make it clear.

  He smiled. “Of course. Like I said before—you’re the one who’s going to bring him down. I’ll just be there in the background to provide help when you need it. I’m not even a field agent, just a desk jockey. This is not my kind of thing, to be honest.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  She reached into his cupped hand and took the pin. “Yeah, I’m in. Anything that helps me get him. What do I have to do? Swear an oath on a Bible?”

  He beamed at her. “I think we can skip the formalities. I think this is going to be a very profitable relationship, for both of us.” He shook her hand and the two of them walked out of the bathroom and back out to the parking lot. The sun was an orange disk on the horizon, carved into pieces by the black branches of dead trees.

  Caxton scratched at her head—her hair felt greasy and thick—and started walking toward her car. “Alright, Fetlock. Get your fiber people down here as soon as possible,” she said, while pinning the star to the lapel of her jacket. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll turn something up. I’m going back to headquarters to tell my Commissioner about this. He ought to know.”

  “Special Deputy,” Fetlock called as she yanked open her door.

  At first she didn’t recognize her new title. “What?” she asked.

  “Maybe—since I am your boss now—you could refer to me not as ‘Fetlock’ but as ‘Deputy Marshal.’”

  Caxton bit her tongue before she could say what she thought of that. She had no great love for the Marshals Service. She’d been a state cop too long to ever really trust the Feds. If all he wanted was a little respect, though, she figured she could give him that much. “Of course,” she said. “Please get your fiber people here as soon as you can, Deputy Marshal. Is that better?”

  “It’s good enough for now,” he said.

  She was already climbing in her car and driving away.

  14.

  The silver star felt weird on her jacket. She’d never worn a badge before—Pennsylvania state troopers never did. It was part of their oath that their good conduct was all the badge they needed. Well, she supposed she would get used to it.

  There were a million things to do. The first order of business was to go take a nap. Her house was too far away, so instead she headed to the state police barracks on Cocoa Avenue in Hershey, the closest place she could think of. The academy was there—the place where she’d taken countless training classes—and she knew the place well enough to feel safe there. The trooper on early-morning desk duty showed her to a ward room with a narrow little cot and a buzzing Coke machine. It wasn’t uncommon for troopers to show up and use the spare bed. Troop T, the turnpike patrol, worked weird hours and very long shifts and were encouraged to keep themselves sharp by taking occasional naps. The desk trooper asked no questions as he sorted out a blanket and foam pillow for her, though he stared openly at her new star. When she refused to follow his gaze he eventually just told her to sleep tight and left her alone.

  She switched off the lights, but the Coke machine filled the room with a baleful red glow. She ignored it, lay down on the cot with the pillow still in her arms, and was asleep before she could even think of covering herself with the sheet.

  Four hours later her eyelids popped open and she was awake. Her body creaked and moaned when she sat up, protesting that it needed more sleep, but her brain knew better. She glanced down at her watch and saw it was just after noon. Half the day gone and she had accomplished nothing. Well, she’d been upgraded to an honorary Fed, but that didn’t feel real yet, not at all.

  She turned in her pillow and her neatly folded sheet and headed back to her car.

  There were a lot of people she needed to notify of her new employment status—including the Commissioner of State Police and, more important, Clara. As she drove toward Harrisburg, fighting with herself to stop yawning so much, she reached for her cell phone, only to find that its battery had died sometime during the night. Worrying that she might have missed some important call, she plugged it into her car charger. Instantly the phone chimed at her. She had new messages—a text message and at least one new voice mail message. Exactly as she’d feared.

  Caxton looked at the text message first—and dropped the phone. When she picked it up again and stared at the words on the screen, she felt her blood run cold.

  ’Twas a nice service, Laura.

  He was brought to tears.

  Caxton bit through a hangnail on the side of her thumb. There was no signature on the message. The phone said it came from an unknown number. She knew exactly who had sent it, though, based just on the archaic phrasing. Justinia Malvern. The ancient vampire couldn’t speak, at least not the last time Caxton had seen her. She was too decrepit to even sit up in her coffin. She had been able to communicate only by tapping out cryptic messages on a computer keyboard. It looked like she had learned how to text as well.

  It also looked like she had been watching the ceremony over Jameson’s empty grave. No, Caxton thought, that was impossible. The ceremony had taken place during the day, when Malvern would be dead to the world i
nside her coffin. Which meant that she must have sent a half-dead to observe it. The whole time she was arguing with Jameson’s kids, some undead freak must have been standing close by, keeping an eye on her.

  She wondered how long Jameson and Malvern had been watching her. The idea made her skin crawl. If only to clear her head, she decided to listen to her voice mail. She held down the one key until it automatically dialed her voice mail, then put it on speaker mode. “You have six new messages,” the phone told her. “First new message.”

  “Trooper, it’s Glauer. Just checking in. I took Raleigh home, just like you said. Except it’s not exactly what I would call a typical residence. Some kind of weird hospital or halfway house or something. A big old mansion, red brick with ivy all over the front. Really big lawn, and the whole place is surrounded by a ten-foot wall. She said I couldn’t go inside, that it’s for women only. I figured that was okay, so I just dropped her at the gate and confirmed your appointment to come talk to her. I’m headed back to HQ now. I’m probably going to go home in an hour or two, but I’m on my cell if you need me.”

  “Next new message,” the phone said.

  “Hey, cutie! It’s me, the much-neglected but still wonderful Clara. I’m at work right now and I can’t really talk. The sheriff and his boys have knocked over another drug lab. No shots fired, thank God, everybody went quietly. I’m taking pictures of all these bags of heroin and stacks of money. I’ll bring you home something nice. Just kidding! Actually I’m calling because I miss you, like, a lot, and I’m going to be done here by one or two and I thought we could have lunch. That way at least I’ll know you’re eating. I miss you. Did I mention that? I really do. Call me.”

  “Next new message.”

  “Trooper, this is Glauer. I just got into work and I heard—well, I heard what happened last night. It’s all anyone wants to talk about here at HQ. I was glad to hear you’re alright, and sorry to hear about Angus Arkeley. This is—I guess this is what we’ve been bracing ourselves for the last two months. It’s funny, I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. Between you and me I’m kind of relieved. Listen, I’m sitting here with no direct orders, so unless you need me for something I’m going to get to work. Kenneth Rexroth has been talking to the local police in Mechanicsburg. They left me a message last night saying he had all but confessed to the two homicides—they said he was gloating about those kills. I want to get out there and talk to him myself. I know what you said, that he’s just a wannabe and that he’s not worth our time. But, Trooper, this is a real bad guy. You did a real good thing putting him away. I’ll talk to you later—I’m on my cell phone if you need me.”

  “Next new message.”

  “It’s Clara. Again. Call me. Please, call me as soon as you can. I love you.”

  “Next new message.”

  “Trooper, it’s Glauer again. Things have gone from weird to worse. I arrived in Mechanicsburg about an hour ago. I met with the cops there and asked to talk to Rexroth. They said he was sleeping—he sleeps all day, because he’s supposed to be a vampire. They asked me if I wanted them to wake him up, but I decided I’d get more information out of him if I waited. I thought maybe I’d made the trip for nothing, but the locals had some information for me themselves. It turns out that Kenneth Rexroth is an alias, that the kid’s name is actually Dylan Carboy. He’s nineteen years old and lives with his parents up in Northumberland County, in Mount Carmel. Lives—lived, I guess. The Mount Carmel cops sent a car out there to try to contact the Carboy family and got no response at the door. They popped the lock and went inside and found three dead bodies, all in states of advanced decomposition. The victims were, let’s see, Mark Carboy, father, forty-three years old, Ellen Carboy, mother, thirty-nine, and Jenny Carboy, sister, seventeen. The two parents were killed with shotgun blasts, the same gauge as the shotgun you took off Dylan at the storage facility. The sister was strangled in her bed, and had…Jesus. She had bite marks on her neck. Made by human teeth, not vampire. I don’t think he woke her up first. I really don’t think he did. I don’t want to think he did. They recovered a bunch of stuff from Dylan’s room. Notebooks full of handwritten journal entries and newspaper clippings. They sent them on to Mechanicsburg, where I got to take a look at them. I asked if I could borrow the notebooks to show you and the locals said that would be fine, as long as I left a receipt in case they need them for the trial. The kid had plenty to live for, Trooper. He had one prior, for possession of marijuana, but the judge threw it out as long as he promised to go back to school. He was in community college studying to be a chef. You need to see these notebooks, Trooper. I think you should see them. They have your name all over them. I’m going back to Harrisburg now. I have my cell phone if you need me.”

  “Next new message.”

  “Laura, it’s Clara. I heard about—I heard—the guys here are talking about it, they’re talking about you, just call me. I’m scared. I’m scared for you, so just call me, alright? Call me, damn it.”

  “End of new messages. You have forty-five saved messages.”

  Caxton flipped the phone shut. Thought about whom to call first. Glauer shouldn’t be working the Rexroth angle. It wasn’t even an angle! Finding and killing Jameson Arkeley was the only thing that mattered. She called his number, but it went straight to voice mail. Typical. For two months while they’d had nothing real to do he was always at her heels, always waiting for his next order. Now that she actually had an order to give him he was out of cell phone range.

  “Officer Glauer, this is Caxton. I want you to stop playing around. You’ve heard what happened last night. Well, you’re right, this is it. This is what we’ve been waiting for. This is what we’ve been studying for and working toward, and it’s happening now. I have no doubt that Arkeley will want to kill again, and we need to get him before that happens. So when you get this, start putting together an action item list we can send around to everyone in the SSU.” She glanced down at the star on her lapel. “There are going to be some changes to how we work, but I’ll tell you about them when I see you next. Stay focused, Glauer. Stay with me.”

  She snapped the phone shut. Centered herself. The next call required her to be calm and collected. She scrolled down to Clara’s cell number, then pressed SEND.

  She got Clara’s voice mail. The phone didn’t even ring once.

  “Hi, baby. I got your messages,” she said. “Listen, I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.” He didn’t even want to hurt me, she started to say, then stopped herself. Clara was no idiot. She knew that if a vampire didn’t kill you one night it only meant he was saving you for the next time he got hungry. “Let’s do lunch, okay? Get to Harrisburg, to the HQ, whenever you can and we’ll eat and talk and I’ll tell you everything. I miss you too.”

  She ended the call—and then immediately wanted to call back, to say that she loved Clara, that she wanted nothing more than to go home and be with her alone and quiet and not talk or think about anything, just be in each other’s arms for a while with nothing to do, nowhere she had to be.

  She should just call back, she told herself. She really should. She even started reaching for the phone again.

  Then it rang on its own. Thinking it might be Glauer or Clara calling her back, she responded immediately. “Trooper Caxton,” she said.

  “Good afternoon, Officer,” a woman’s voice said. She didn’t recognize the caller.

  “I’m not an officer. I’m a state trooper.” She thought of her new star. “As of today I’m also a special deputy of the U.S. Marshals Service.”

  “Really? How very wonderful for you. Why, that’s the same title Jameson had.”

  Caxton’s blood went cold hearing the name of the vampire. “Who is this?” she demanded, then regained control of herself. “I’m sorry. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Of course. This is Astarte Arkeley. The widow. I believe you’ve been trying to get my attention.”

  15.

  “Yes! Yes, I have,” Caxton said
. “Thank you so much for calling me. Can I ask who gave you my number?” It seemed like everyone had it these days—even Malvern.

  “You may,” Astarte told her. “It was my son, Simon. He was quite intent on my contacting you. He seemed to think I could appeal to your mercy and convince you to stop your desperate pursuit of the vampire. I told him I would do no such thing.”

  Caxton pulled over on the side of the road. This was important—she needed to focus on the call. “I’m kind of glad to hear that. I need to tell you something, Mrs. Arkeley. It’s sort of upsetting.”

  “Then I’m very glad that I am sitting down. Please proceed.”

  Caxton rubbed at her forehead. “Last night Jameson killed his own brother. He killed Angus. I was there.”

  “How sad. I suppose the vampire attempted to kill you as well. That’s what they do, of course.”

  “Actually—” Caxton stopped herself. She knew almost nothing about Astarte. She had no idea how far she could trust her. Deciding to err on the side of full disclosure, she said, “Actually he didn’t. I tried to kill him.”

  “Which is what you’re supposed to do.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it is. I tried to kill him, but I couldn’t. He was stronger than I expected. Stronger than any vampire I’ve ever seen. He could have killed me easily, with just his bad hand, but he didn’t. He said he owed me something. You don’t have any idea what that might be, do you?”

  “I couldn’t begin to imagine.”

  “Okay. Alright. Listen. I’d really like to come meet you. Today if possible. I’d like to sit down and ask you some questions about Jameson and the last time you saw him. Is that something we can do?”

  “I think not,” Astarte told her.

  “This is very important, ma’am. A man has already been killed and others are sure to follow. I wouldn’t ask, not in your time of grief, if I didn’t think it would help keep people safe.”