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The People's History of the Vampire Uprising

Page 10

by Raymond A. Villareal


  “We should follow the Mercedes,” Webb said. So we then turned to plotting out every possible path of the Mercedes. As I suspected, after a canvas of local police, most of the cameras located at different commercial establishments in the area had been disabled by laser or gunshot.

  However, detailed canvassing by the Austin PD and Agent Webb found a residence off Lamar Avenue which contained several cameras outside the structure, in front and on the fence line. Apparently the Gloamings missed these on their rampage. I had to give Webb credit: she had found this clue by walking miles from the museum in the oppressive heat, searching for any angle.

  The home surveillance video did indeed show a black Mercedes traveling down Lamar Avenue past Thirty-Fifth Street within the approximate time after the robbery, being 2:30 a.m. But Austin was still a pretty big city encompassing many square miles, so we had hit another dead end.

  At this point, I decided to change our search. The University of Texas provided me with a list of all events and meetings scheduled on the same day as the theft. One meeting immediately jumped out at me: Drone Club. The thieves picked the same date that the Drone Club was filming a meteor shower falling through the sky. Lucky coincidences like this have broken open many cases. We needed the drone footage, if any, before it was erased.

  The Drone Club address led us to a shabby west campus house with two shaggy-haired college dudes in band T-shirts and cutoff shorts. The living room was cluttered with strewn papers and dirty plates and I wondered how many students actually resided here. Keith and Tom, the leaseholders and current occupants of the couch, in addition to being the president and vice president of the Drone Club, fidgeted throughout the interview. The blond, mop-headed one—Keith—rambled, “We weren’t spying on anyone! Dude, seriously: we were only flying them over the city, and that’s legal. I mean, why would the NSA trip on that—”

  Webb raised her hand. “Look: you haven’t done anything illegal. And we’re with the FBI, not the NSA. We’re just here because we need your help.”

  Webb’s sympathetic blue eyes and pretty face warmed the room, but I had a feeling if this didn’t work, she could turn on a hard-ass persona that would make these kids pee their pants.

  “Sure, man—uh, Miss…Officer. Whatever you need,” Keith said.

  As I suspected, the kids had thrown a “nighttime drone party” and still had all the footage. Webb and I stepped behind them as they booted up the videos on their laptops. I viewed Keith’s footage as Webb checked out Tom’s computer. A few minutes later, Agent Webb shouted me over. Tom’s computer showed a black sedan rolling down Lamar Avenue. Our Mercedes.

  “Looks like either Forty-Ninth Street or Kerbey Lane,” Keith said as he leaned closer to the monitor.

  Tom joined him, nodding. “Definitely Kerbey Lane.”

  The next morning, after three coffees each from Starbucks, Webb and I headed to Kerbey Lane. As we drove, I asked her why she’d joined the FBI.

  “To hold a gun, of course.” She laughed.

  “There are easier ways,” I replied.

  “I know.” She paused for a moment. “I’ve heard about you. I know you’re trying to get the bureau to concentrate on these Gloamings. I feel the same way. I’m hoping to learn something from you.”

  “Well, you learn something from everyone—even if it’s what not to do.”

  She smiled. “To answer your question, I was a total nerd in high school and I thought I wanted to become a chef after college. And then my mom was robbed. The robber beat her pretty bad. She was in a coma, and it just made me so afraid. So angry. I mean, look at me: I’m, like, five foot five and a hundred and five pounds. I started taking karate, and one of my instructors was retired FBI. It had never even entered my mind but he saw something in me. And here I am, fifteen years later.”

  I suppose the surprise was all over my face. “Really? You look like you’re all of eighteen as it is, to be honest.”

  She laughed. “Thankfully, no. I have a seven-year-old kid too.” She looked at me. “You?”

  “Just me,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t mention my erstwhile wife. Probably because she would never come up in any future conversation. I was going to ask about her kid—boy? girl?—when she said she was turning onto Kerbey Lane and slowed her car to a crawl.

  “What do you think we’re going to find here?” Webb asked as she squinted at the houses on the odd-numbered side of the block. “I don’t see any Mercedes.”

  I scanned the even-numbered side of the block and wished we could walk this instead of driving. I needed to see each house individually. “I don’t think they would have taken a chance on driving the Mercedes much further; it might be spotted by another camera somewhere. Probably dumped the car and switched.”

  Webb nodded. “Worth a shot, I suppose.” She drove slowly down the block and onto another street. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Then, something just barely out of place in the corner of my eye…

  I grabbed Webb’s arm on the steering wheel. “Slow down but don’t stop. Stop at the far corner,” I said.

  Webb pulled the car over at the corner. “What are we looking at?” she asked as she turned to look out the back window.

  I pointed. “Third house on the odd side of the street. The one with the brown garage.”

  Webb squinted at the house. “What about it?”

  “It’s hard to explain. The windows don’t look right. Like the window’s covered with something. The house just doesn’t look real for some reason. The light is kind of reflecting off the window…weirdly. The house looks like a display or something. Like it’s trying too hard to be a normal house in suburbia…”

  Webb cocked her head to one side. “You might be right. I mean, the more I look at it…” She looked over at me and her eyes narrowed. “So now what?”

  “I need to get inside that house,” I said almost to myself.

  “We don’t have a warrant,” Webb replied. I detected a hint of apology in her tone, and I ignored the comment, as she probably suspected I would.

  “We need to wait until the sun comes up,” I said. “Then we can get a closer look.”

  The next few hours before sunrise were spent alternating naps, sweating in the Texas summer heat, and watching the house between us. Obviously it wasn’t the perfect situation, but it would have to do. The sun rose like a slow yawn, throwing its warmth around my knotted shoulders. I could not remember the last time I had a decent night’s sleep. Webb was leaning her head on the steering wheel, sound asleep. I felt bad about waking her up but we needed to move. I pushed her arm and she startled awake.

  “What? I was having a great dream where I was in my own bed asleep.”

  “The sun is up. I’m going to take a look at the house,” I said.

  “You need me to back you up,” Webb said as she stretched and yawned. “I could do that at the Starbucks, you know.”

  “You wish. No, stay here and scan the area. I’ll be right back.” I stepped out of the car and walked up the block to the dark house. No need to scurry under the cover of daylight.

  I stopped in the driveway of the house and scanned the entire area. The daylight hours were the most vulnerable for the Gloamings, as they required an undetermined period of rest inside a pod filled with soil, so I was confident that they were not watching me at this point. They would be locked inside, though. It did not mean there weren’t any aspiring Gloaming apprentices who could be conducting surveillance during their rest period. They would do anything for their Gloaming masters, and I could handle those types.

  I walked along the hedges up the side of the house, the branches lightly brushing my face. There were no visible cameras. I stepped closer to the window by the front door. I had been right: it appeared that the glass had been removed and replaced with concrete, and covered with a dull reflective surface to simulate glass.

  This was a Gloaming safe house.

  The dirt near the foundation of the house had been tilled or moved. I did
n’t know what this meant—maybe a construction within the house which might include a basement for the Gloamings to sleep in? It certainly added to my suspicions. The backyard was surrounded by an eight-foot cinder block fence. I advanced over to the garage and pulled on the handle but it was locked tight. I squatted down to peer through the cracks but I could see nothing inside—not enough light. I stepped back and walked the perimeter of the house. The fake window structure and shabby construction covered the entirety. From there I moved to the cinder block fence guarding the backyard, where I searched for a divot, gap, or outcropping, in order to secure a foot and climb over. I was attempting to pull myself up when I heard a noise behind me.

  “Come down and turn slowly with your hands in the air,” the voice said.

  I recognized the police officer cadence and got down—I could feel the pistol pointing at me before I even turned around. And there it was: an Austin police department officer looking hard at me, pointing a gun at my face.

  “Officer, I am an FBI agent,” I said. “My credentials are in my left-hand coat pocket.”

  The cop said nothing, just continued to stare at me. I wondered if this idiot ticket writer was going to put a few in my chest. “You know,” I continued, “there’s an actual medical condition where you’re too stupid to know how stupid you are. I think you might have that—”

  “FBI. Put that fucking gun down,” Agent Webb commanded as I saw her step from behind the hedge and around the cop. “Put it down,” she repeated. “FBI. Drop it now or I blow your fucking head off.”

  The only thing more surprising than the gun pointed at me was the language coming from Agent Webb’s mouth. And she looked like she wasn’t even looking for a reason to pull that trigger.

  The skinny cop scowled before he knelt down and placed his gun on the ground. I walked over and picked it up and stuffed it in my waistband as I took out my FBI badge and slapped him in the face with it a few times. My heart was flapping like it was having a goddamn heart attack. “I should have told her to blow your head off for pointing a gun at a federal officer.”

  The cop glared at me with numb eyes as Webb holstered her gun.

  “I saw you on the fence and thought you were a thief,” the police officer said in a monotone.

  “Who called in the incident?” Webb asked.

  This question perplexed the young cop and the blond mustache above his thin lip quivered with the wind. I could see the flicker of a lie forming in his eyes.

  “If I call the dispatch supervisor, will I find an incident report?” I asked him. The cop looked away and said nothing. I pointed to the house. “Did they call you? Are you on the Gloaming payroll? Did they promise to re-create you one day? It’ll never happen.”

  The officer paused before answering in a soft voice. “I was on patrol and—”

  “Bullshit,” Webb said.

  The officer stared at the sky for a moment. “I—I received a call from a number that indicated a burglary was in progress.” The officer stopped at that point and seemed satisfied with that lie.

  I glanced over at Webb and smiled. “I totally believe you,” I said as Webb wrinkled her face, looking at me like I had completely lost my mind. Even the officer seemed confused. I pointed at Webb. “I think we have a possible criminal event in progress, Agent Webb. According to this police officer. Extenuating circumstances dictate that we enter the residence to make a protective sweep to ensure the safety of any possible residents in the house.”

  The cop sputtered “No!” as Webb grinned. She again unholstered her weapon.

  I pointed to the officer. “You stay here.” And to Webb: “We’ll go through the front door.”

  I kicked open the front door with little resistance. Inside was a makeshift booth-like area with another thick door that was also open. I assumed it was a safeguard against any sunlight entering, especially when the front door was open: they’d close the front door before opening the second door.

  I startled a moment when Webb kicked each door back open. She shrugged. “We might need the sunlight,” she said.

  The den was completely dark and I assumed it was because that would make it easier to determine any stray leaks of light. I flipped the switch on the wall and illuminated an empty living room with a white floor. It was stark and somewhat jarring. Jagged graffiti was sprayed on the wall: “ANOESIS.”

  I took a picture with my cell phone.

  Webb stepped over to clear the kitchen. I heard her breath catch: “Fuck.” Empty bags were piled on top of each other on every inch of the kitchen. The bags were splattered with dried blood. It looked like the scene of a bloody civil war battle. Yet the room smelled like a doctor’s office: antiseptic and sharp.

  “Looks like my aunt’s house,” I said to no one in particular. “I bet there are carpeted toilet lid covers in the bathroom.”

  In the closest bedroom, we found a skinny naked man on a cot with a needle stuck in his arm. I pushed his face with my gun, although I could tell by his bluish pallor that he was probably gone. “Wake up, asshole,” I said.

  Agent Webb leaned over and checked his pulse. She shook her head. “I don’t get it,” she said. “I didn’t think Gloamings would be so sloppy about the people they hire.”

  “They treat these idiots like apprentices, offering them a chance to be re-created,” I told her. I had seen this a few times before. “They ply them with drugs or alcohol—if these apprentices readily accept it, then the Gloamings know they don’t have the real discipline. And eventually they allow them to OD when their usefulness is over. Like this poor bastard here. Gloamings only take the best and brightest—someone that adds to, not subtracts from, the whole.”

  Webb opened the closet and whistled. “What do we have here?” she said as she kicked on a steel plate built into the floor.

  Exactly what I was looking for—there was one in every Gloaming house. “Jackpot! It’s the entrance to the real Gloaming residence,” I said. “It’ll be locked from the inside. They don’t like to be bothered.”

  I waved Webb back and her grin told me she knew exactly where this was going.

  I raised my gun and sighted the lock with the barrel before I pulled the trigger. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Smoke filled the closet. Briefly, I wondered what the idiot cop outside was thinking. The lock split and Webb lifted the cover as I stood above her with my gun pointed down. I wished I had checked out some of the experimental new ammunition specific for Gloaming threats. I had been harping about Gloaming-specific weapons, specifically the depleted uranium bullets, to my colleagues for a while but my requests went up the chain of command with jack shit coming back down.

  I went down the stairs first. Webb shined her flashlight for me. The air smelled metallic and foreign, yet as I stepped farther down, a dry, flowery scent began to filter into my nose. I clicked on my flashlight and swept the light across the room as I took the last step to the floor of the basement. My eyes went straight to the light switch on the wall and I flipped it up to see the entire room illuminated.

  The size of the room and extensiveness of the renovations were shocking. Behind me, I heard Webb’s breath catch. The walls were pristine, cold, clean, and steely, like a hospital. In the middle of the room were two rows of the foil sleeping bag pods which serve as the rest mechanisms for the Gloamings. They’re usually filled with a particular mixture of proprietary dirt combination and chemicals. I counted quickly: two rows of five.

  Potentially ten Gloamings, fast asleep.

  Normally they would use what I would call a space pod of high-grade machined aluminum. Apparently, these sleeping bags served as a temporary resting place for Gloamings in transit.

  “Are those…what I think they are?” Webb hissed. “I’ve only seen pictures of this kind of stuff.”

  “You bet,” I said. “No need to whisper.”

  I resisted the temptation to empty my new clip into every bag. Then again, like my mom used to tell me, only an idiot goes around kicking hornet’s nest
s. Webb walked over to one of the pods and leaned over to study it closer. I stepped along to the other side of the room and scanned the shelves, looking for anything useful regarding the theft. I opened a few cabinets but found no blood or anything of note.

  I can still recall that sweet smell of blood and iron and perfume or incense. I had read about that smell so many times, but smelling it firsthand…It intoxicated me for several seconds and that was all that was needed.

  I turned around at the faint sound behind me. I saw a Gloaming man. More monster than man, with tree trunk legs, long fingers and nails, and a shock of wavy red hair—and those hands around Agent Dana Webb’s neck.

  He snapped her neck and left it hanging by the sinew and skin.

  I moved through instinct and emotion all at once. I clearly recall emptying my clip into the Gloaming as I rushed toward the staircase. The bullets would only buy me so many seconds, given the Gloaming resistance to conventional weapons, so I sprinted and lunged for the stairs as I popped another clip into my pistol. By the time I reached the first step, I saw many Gloamings exiting their pods. Why would they leave the safety of their pod during daylight hours? I wondered.

  I tripped on a middle step and a hand scraped my leg as my pants ripped and my skin burned along with it. I kept scrambling up the stairs. As I reached the living room, I was finally knocked to the ground. I felt a rush of air from my lungs. I barely held on to my gun, and my eyes lifted to see that the front door was closed.

  I felt hands reaching for my neck.

  I could smell the burning aroma of something more than flesh, almost like rotting flowers, coupled with a scream that rang inside my head.

  The weight lifted off my back as my gun erupted toward the front door—and bursts of sunlight shined into the room through the bullet holes. I rolled onto my back and lay there for a moment to catch my breath, bathed in the light from outside. I was still in a haze seconds later, when an FBI tactical team stormed the safe house.

 

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