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The People's History of the Vampire Uprising

Page 7

by Raymond A. Villareal


  Many people began to have certain romantic notions about the Gloamings and their resemblance to the vampires of literature and film, leading them to seek out Gloamings for amorous relationships. These relationships did not succeed, as these men and women realized the substantial differences between Gloamings and humans. The Gloaming personality—as far as it could be studied by experts—generally leaned towards narcissistic personality disorder or psychopathic tendencies. I know that this has been refuted by certain organizations, without research to back their claims. Other research seemed to indicate that these Gloamings were not necessarily born with those character traits. However, the re-creation process seemed to alter certain biological processes in the brain. The nature-versus-nurture debate was constant. Anecdotally, it quickly became clear that the Gloamings, both men and women, shared certain traits: high IQ, contempt of others, cruelty to others, amoral, secretive, grandiose, and authoritarian. Unlike humans with similar traits, Gloamings did not have significant feelings of inferiority.

  Interviewer: So you were already obsessed with the Gloamings before your archival research began.

  Father Reilly: My sister called me every week, and always wanted to discuss the latest Gloaming news. She was particularly fascinated by the men and women who attempted romantic relationships with the Gloamings. She emailed me a famous morning show interview with Becky Bennett—a morning anchor for the local CBS television station in Los Angeles—detailing the challenges in these relationships. Becky had met a Gloaming named Zachary Howard, a well-known British realist painter, at a premiere for the latest Marvel superhero movie. He was a late arriver given that he needed the sun to completely go down before he stepped outside, and Becky was waiting outside after all the other movie stars had slipped past the red carpet and into the premiere. Seeing Howard wander in, she struck up a conversation with him because there wasn’t anyone else outside. Becky and Zach’s relationship began normally enough, with Becky admitting she was the initial pursuer given the reticent nature of the Gloamings. They met for their first real date at a late-night coffee bar where they talked mostly about Zach’s art, how he unlocked even more of his subconscious to fully explore the limits of the human and Gloaming experience. Becky noticed the lack of questions about her occupation—she offered up information about herself without prompting from Zachary. “I found it all rather crass and self-important,” she told the reporter. “All he wanted to talk about was himself. And then he would disappear for days without any communication. I’ve never felt so lonely in my life while in a relationship. It was impossible to make a personal connection with this man.”

  The reporter asked her why she stayed with him.

  “Because he was impossible to resist!” Becky replied. “I began to question my sanity because I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Look, I’ve lived in L.A. my entire life and I’ve dated them all. I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but he reminded me of the many drug addicts I’ve loved. Addictive personality, odd self-esteem, and an infinite capacity for denial. But I’m not trying to put down L.A. because it’s as perfect a place as can be with people.”

  She had no regrets? the reporter asked.

  “I suppose I’m pretty lucky that I didn’t, you know, disappear,” she responded coldly.

  At that point, the reporter quickly changed the subject. Becky was referring to the reports of missing women and men who disappeared after dating or going out on a date with a Gloaming—including a significant number of women in Britain, where Zachary Howard was born and kept three homes. Some of the bodies were found to be devoid of blood, which initially began the speculation that Gloamings could not safely interact with humans over a certain period of time without needing to feed on them. But the Gloamings considered such questions offensive.

  As scientists began to study the Gloamings more carefully—their increased strength and durability, their inability to be in sunlight—they determined that their bodies decayed at a slow, almost imperceptible rate, making their life span, scientists predicted, a possible two hundred to three hundred years. This determination was further supported by excavating one of the bodies from the mass grave at the Nogales, Arizona, border. Eight bodies were recovered but seven were stolen by unknown thieves at the morgue. However, one was already en route to the University of Arizona and was saved from the theft. An analysis using radiometric dating methods determined that the body was between two hundred and fifty and three hundred years old at the time of death, of which the conclusion was death by natural causes. That allowed the scientists to approximate the life span of Gloamings.

  But various scientists also established that the entire Gloaming DNA was constantly being altered because of this virus. I don’t pretend to be a scientist but that seemed pretty amazing. Then there were the stories about their ability to disappear and hypnotize with their eyes and voice—who really knew about all of those rumors? That was never proven and I did not believe any of those theories. It was such a crazy period of time.

  Interviewer: What was the clergy’s position on these new creatures? Surely you were a part of that at the church.

  Father Reilly: The church had yet to take a position, only reiterating its support for all living beings. But there was one man from the Catholic Church who sounded the alarm about the new species. Bishop Lawrence Thomas.

  Interviewer: Let’s focus on him for a moment. When did you first become aware of Bishop Thomas?

  Father Reilly: When he spoke at the Confraternity of Catholic Clergy conference in Zurich. Most of the speakers spoke in general terms about the state of the clergy, but when Bishop Thomas took to the lectern, he spoke of a “great awakening” of the flock. In order to stand against the wickedness of man, he said, the church must conduct a great revival. He stood there, basically lecturing the clergy, including many high-ranking cardinals. It did not endear him to many at the conference.

  Interviewer: And you?

  Father Reilly: Oh, I was…[Pause.] Enthralled.

  Interviewer: You know, of course, that Bishop Thomas is from Alabama. That he suffered from symptomatic partial epilepsy, caused by congenital brain scarring. All of this was public knowledge. It’s even meticulously noted in his journals. What he and his followers viewed as visions—weren’t they just seizures? I mean, look at his actions: the man was called the Cave Bishop. He took solitary hikes into the Arizona mountains to pray in silence for days at a time. Did you not consider that instead of a prophet, the man might just be…[Pause.] With respect, Father, but just a goddamn eccentric?

  Father Reilly: With respect, what you call an eccentric, others saw as an anchorite for a new era.

  Interviewer: How so?

  Father Reilly: Yes, his somewhat overbearing manner and his frequent tirades against the wealthy made him a lightning rod for complaints against the church, by patrons and politicians alike. Many laypeople winced at his dire warnings to change their ways or prepare for purgatory and hell. He spoke of the intention of God eternally to cast off and destroy sinners and the stubbornness of man’s sinfulness. “So that sin against God, being a violation of infinite obligations, must be a crime infinitely heinous, and so deserving of infinite punishment!”

  But he had a more empathetic side too. He frequently ministered to the homeless at the day camps in various cities. He organized food drives. He did cause a minor scandal with his call for more redemptive suffering: taking one’s suffering as punishment for sins. He implied that many victims of disease should look at their ailments—including the Gloamings.

  Bishop Thomas was the first in our clergy to openly question this new species and demand an inquisition into their true intentions. And this was even before their leader emerged from the ground.

  Interviewer: How did you come to be in possession of the letter?

  Father Reilly: Of course, knowing where the letter was located and taking it was easier said than done. I had access to the secret archives, but I was just a custodian. The Marian Archives themselves were
housed in a small room adjacent to the larger archives, and although most of the room was not reinforced—that would disrupt the architecture of the original building—the room was protected by a photoelectric beam system to detect the presence of an intruder. In addition, they incorporated electromagnetic locks, although not reinforced, but with cameras and lasers. Glassbreak acoustic detectors lined certain windows and walls with vibration and inertia sensors.

  I turned to my friend Father Mark Rogers, who had originally brought me to the Vatican Library. A grizzled Irishman, he had been working there for many years longer than me. I was assigned to work with him at the Council of the Bishops’ Conferences of Europe as an administrator; he had spent most of his time as the director drinking in various pubs. Father Mark took note of my Excel migration, thought I had just turned water into wine, and demanded that I go out with him and his friends to a pub. It was the first time I had ever been drunk. I suppose we’ve been friends ever since. He knew all about where hidden treasures in the Vatican might be found.

  I broached the subject over dinner in a small restaurant in the Jewish ghetto. The cramped dining room held tables close enough that you couldn’t avoid touching the one next to you, with walls covered in old photographs. Old waiters in white dinner jackets and black bow ties still roamed and bent beneath the low ceilings. We had just started a small carafe of bitter red wine.

  “Are you serious?” Mark asked me as his red cheeks crinkled mischievously. “You crazy bastard.”

  I nodded and picked at the bread on the table. “I only want to look at it. That’s it. I need to know. Look, it’s not like I’m going to steal it.”

  Mark shook his head and polished off another glass of red. “Spare me the reasons,” he said to me. “Look, I can dig around to see where it’s located but after that you are on your own. I know for a fact it’s not at the Marian Archives.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. The cardinals don’t want anyone snooping around those letters. There’s nothing in the Marian Archives that’s of real value.” He stared at his empty glass, thinking. “They must have put it somewhere else. But I can’t imagine it’s lying in some desk for anyone to go grab a peek.”

  “Yes. God always makes a way.”

  The good father rolled his eyes and signaled to the waiter for another bottle. “I need another one of these bastards before you start talking about God.”

  Over the next few weeks, Father Mark made inquiries of several custodians as to where different materials were located. He was clever, keeping his probing to generalities without mentioning the third secret. Of course, given the age of the structure and the bureaucracy, some of the important documents were kept in different depositories and secure structures; others were haphazardly kept in desk drawers and cabinets. Differing degrees of security in different buildings and rooms—this ended up being a good thing for me. For us, I mean. Sorry.

  At last we determined the letters were housed in the upper floor of the cardinal’s office who oversaw the Vatican Judicial Office. Apparently, they were placed in that location after a Vatican scholar had inspected the other two letters quite some time ago. The third letter was placed in a lockbox with the key residing within the realm of the Pope and his current secretary.

  The good news was that the letter was not housed within the Pope’s official residence—an unmanageable location to get inside. But the bad news was that getting the key was next to impossible.

  Father Mark checked with the Pope’s secretary’s assistant and found the papal secretary was scheduled to be in Spain for a week. With a skeleton crew on that third-story office, it seemed like the perfect time to at least explore the possibility of trying to find the key to the lockbox in his office.

  At this point, Mark was invested. He readily agreed to help me in this quest and we formulated a quick plan.

  Interviewer: Take me through the robbery.

  Father Reilly: Well, the Vatican is a series of buildings connected by entryways and courtyards. Most of the buildings face Saint Peter’s Square, so once you’re inside the complex, it’s easy to sit on a bench and conduct surveillance given that you can view all of the buildings from most locations. We picked a Wednesday night when the building we needed to access was empty for the Lenten adoration—a twelve-hour nightly prayer during the Easter season.

  I was nursing a cup of coffee, watching the third floor of the building adjacent to the Academy of Sciences, and shivering. An unseasonable cold front was passing through Rome, and the open frescoed hallways of granite and marble seemed to direct the cold air to my location. I wore my cotton cassock but now wished that I had opted for the wool one. I stared at the large order of Corinthian columns from the Palace of the Governorate that were topped by thirteen statues hit by the orange glow of the departing sun. After about an hour, no lights were visible in the building. The closest building was the Mater Ecclesiae convent, which was closed down.

  I opened my psalmbook every now and then, in case someone was watching. I would simply be another priest reading the good book. A bit after midnight, I texted Father Mark: “GO.” Fifteen minutes later, he took a hard seat next to me.

  “What took so long?” I asked.

  “I made a perimeter around the building,” he said, “to make sure there weren’t any people near. To make sure no one was watching.” He pulled out a flask from his pocket and unscrewed the cap to take a long drag. He offered it to me.

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “That’s pretty smart. Other than the crippling alcoholism, you could be a Special Forces operative,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Liquid courage, amigo. I’m about to go Jason Bourne on these bloody fools. We need to do this the right way.” He looked around and put the flask away. “Okay, so I have a key that will get us into the building. But then we’re on our own.”

  “We have a key? What could go wrong?” I told him with a sad smile.

  Interviewer: Let’s get into some specifics here.

  Father Reilly: We walked over to the front door of the building with the decorative arcading of scenes from the Old Testament. Father Mark pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the front door—pretty easy so far, I thought. We took out our flashlights and walked down the long hallway of oval rectangular groin vaults and clustered piers made of granite. I instinctively looked up for cameras, but there weren’t any—or they were well hidden. Either way, we would find out pretty soon.

  We found the staircase and sprinted up to the third floor. I glanced at Father Mark before I gripped the door handle. It opened smoothly. I could barely conceal a smile as we walked down the dark hallway with my flashlight, searching for room 3C. The oak from the walls glistened from the lights. The ceiling bore a fresco of Italian maps from the tenth century painted by a cleric who occupied the building hundreds of years ago. Each doorway was a curved arch with crafted angels on each segment. The light blinked off the marker and we were standing in front of the office. I clenched the door’s handle and it didn’t budge.

  “Your move,” Father Mark whispered.

  I took out a thin piece of metal I had borrowed from the book repair room and slipped it through the flush bolt and the frame. I swiped the metal up and down until the lock pulled back and the handle turned to open.

  I grinned at Father Mark. He shook his head and motioned inside. We stood in the ornate reception area, full of cabinets encrusted with gold figures of saints. The faint smell of incense wafted through my nose. I shined the flashlight over the other part of the room—a desk and some chairs on that side.

  Father Mark pushed my arm down. “Try not to shine the light near the windows.”

  “Good idea,” I said as I walked over to the door to the main office. Luckily it was open and we walked inside. This couldn’t have turned out better. The hard wooden floor creaked as I stepped along the walls looking for a safe or lockbox—anything that looked like it might contain the documents.

  Strangely enough, we found the
safe inside a cabinet behind the large gold-decorated desk. Even at this point it hadn’t occurred to me that I would be unsuccessful. The safe was locked but I turned and saw Father Mark rifling through the desk, looking for the password. The papal secretary at the time was of the age where remembering passwords was sometimes a chore. We believed the safe code was written on something inside his desk.

  After a few minutes, I saw Father Mark’s head pop up; he was waving a small notepad. Hard to believe, but I would learn in the coming years this is the way most of the world’s companies get hacked—passwords are useless if they are easy to find. I shined the light on the password list and found the one for the safe written in scratchy Italian. I punched in the numbers. I took a deep breath as the handle turned and the large safe creaked open.

  The inside was a mess. Items accumulated for hundreds of years, and I wondered how long it would take to sift through the scattered contents. Father Mark visibly relaxed after another tug of his flask, peering over my shoulder. He shook his head. “We can’t be here more than an hour. Every minute that goes by increases the odds of us spending quality time in a jail cell.”

 

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