Monsterland

by Michael Phillip Cash

  “Care to elaborate, Dr. Conrad?”

  “Only in America can a poor, homeless boy find employment and work his way up the ladder of success.”

  “A homeless boy with a PhD in chemical engineering, as well as a medical degree.” Joe smiled, revealing a mouthful of very white teeth.

  “I had to retake my boards and start completely over in America, from the ground up.”

  Wyatt turned to watch his stepfather’s frown. “He’s the American dream.”

  Carter made a face, but didn’t reply. They turned back to the program.

  “Come now, Dr. Conrad, you’ve personified the American dream,” the newscaster said.

  Wyatt nodded in both agreement and satisfaction.

  “I’ve merely taken the fine opportunities laid at my feet and worked them to my best advantage.” Vincent looked thoughtful and then his ego took over. “Not many could do what I have done. I am relentless when I desire something. My natural gas facilities have afforded me the pursuit of my real dream, that of medical breakthroughs in the field of communicable diseases.”

  “So, from communicable diseases, explain to me the leap to your theme park, which is more of an American nightmare than an American dream.”

  Vincent smiled. “Just so.” He crossed his long, skinny legs, resting his thin wrist on the knob of his bony knee. “The park was a solution to the problem that came from the deep steppes of Asia. As you know, the cataclysmic explosion in central Asia released a toxic gas that began the pandemic.”

  Myers looked directly at the camera. “We still can’t explain the catastrophe that sent a shock wave that scorched the earth throughout Asia, flattening buildings and forests for hundreds of miles. The seismic wave was picked up all the way in Washington DC.”

  Vincent smiled. “Some say it was extraterrestrials. A sonic boom, perhaps?”

  Myers reflected. “It mimicked the explosion of June 1908, when something exploded high above the atmosphere over Siberia with the same strength as one thousand atomic bombs. It destroyed the tundra. Most scientists agree it was a fragment of a comet.”

  Vincent shook his head. “However, no virus was recorded after that explosion, contrary to the one three years ago. Last year, the combined world governments asked all major corporations to work on solutions to containing the…the problem.”

  “You are, of course, referring to the victims who caught the virus. Everybody knows that the virus first appeared two years ago. It infected pockets of the population, spreading worldwide within four weeks, creating a pandemic that was brought under control through containment. They have isolated the victims in sectioned-off campuses in the wilderness, until you decided to enclose them in your theme park. Why use plague victims?”

  Vincent grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth. “I prefer to call them zombies.”

  “We don’t like to refer to them that way. The politically correct term is vitality challenged.”

  “You can call them anything you like,” Vincent said with a leer. “I like to call those flesh-eating catatonic creatures zombies.”

  “That sounds a bit extreme.” Joe shook his head.

  Vincent leaned forward, his face intense. This was a subject he was passionate about—he spoke urgently as if proving his point, and his voice rose. “The disease is responsible, not I. Once their minds are infected, they can no longer control the primal urge to eat. Their single-minded determination and lack of coherency make it impossible for them to be at large with the general population. They are a danger to themselves as well as everyone else. What would you have the government do? Kill them?”

  “Of course not,” Myers said, placating him. “Keeping them isolated has kept the spread of the disease under control. Don’t you think it’s a risky exposure?”

  “Nonsense. No one enters my zombie suburb without protective gear. My labs are working on a cure, dear man.” Vincent inclined his saturnine head graciously. “I intend to see the eradication of the virus within five years.”

  “That is, if it doesn’t spread. You’ll lose a great portion of your theme park, Dr. Conrad.”

  “I think we have enough to keep people entertained. With my discovery of werewolves in the Everglades—”

  “That was a big story,” Joe said. “Broken by KNAB news, our own Burton Wasserman first reported that story two years ago.”

  “I was searching for Bigfoot. I do enjoy oddities.” He laughed. “I produced a documentary, and, while we were shooting, the film crew happened upon a huge colony of werewolves. Seems they had been there forever.”

  “An amazing discovery. It earned you the Darwin Discovery Prize.”

  “Exactly!” Vincent clapped his hands, sitting up straight. “What an honor.”

  “And the vampires?”

  “Everybody knows the vamps have been around us for years,” Vincent sniffed. “It was natural to enclose them in a theme park to keep them safe. They are virtually extinct.”

  “Why not let them just die out. I mean, how many are there left?” Joe raised a white eyebrow in disbelief.

  “Twenty-six or so, that we know of, and they are all living in my theme park. We can’t let them disappear.”

  “Sounds like you have a mission.”

  Vincent nodded gravely. “We have a duty to keep them safe.”

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “To study, of course. So we understand what makes them crave blood.”

  Joe sighed dramatically. “I think, doctor, that you invite risk by perpetuating their unholy lifestyle.”

  “Your own government has enlisted my help.”

  “I thought you had been naturalized a US citizen.”

  “I am a citizen of the world. I intend to grab the problems deviling our times…” He made a fist, his face a snarl. “And squeeze them into submission. With answers, of course,” he added.

  “So simple, yet so profound.”

  “I know!” Vincent cooed.

  “It does feel a bit like exploitation.” Joe was clearly troubled.

  Vincent held up his hand using his fingers to make a point. “Number one, the creatures are contained. Number two, I’ve created a use for their skills; they were languishing in those prisons.”

  “Containment camps,” Joe insisted.

  “They were prisons and these people—”

  “People?” Joe said shocked.

  “So then, Joe,” Vincent said silkily, “define people. What makes a human, human?”

  Joe sat back in silence, studying his notes, dumbfounded.

  “These people are being punished for being different. It’s morally wrong to kill them. They are victims, not villains. They do what they are driven to do to survive, nothing more. There is no diabolical plan. They exist, we exist—we must learn to live together. We need to unite the world and come up with simple answers that will deal with it in the same way. We need conformity to keep the world safe. In my parks, they are taken care of, and, more importantly, they are safe and happy.”

  “Safe?”

  “Yes, safe from us. We are just as much a plague to them as they are to us.”

  Joe Myers leaned closer, his face set. “But is it safe for us?”

  Vincent sat back, his face beaming. “Of course. I have everything under control, regulated.”

  “Nothing is foolproof.”

  “Let me assure you, Joe.” Vincent laughed condescendingly. “I have put together a crack team to not only run my parks, but to control the inhabitants. Monsterland will be a gateway to the future of many different world issues, leading the way to solutions.”

  “Those are mighty big aspirations,” Joe said simply.

  The room went silent, Vincent’s eyes blazed with an inner fire, his lips thinned, and he replied quietly, “I think I am up to the task.”

  “Seven parks on six continents, all opening on the same day. Those are some big shoes.”

  “We cannot be selfish here. China, Australia, Brazil, France, South Africa
, and Egypt have agreed to host the parks. The plague is a world problem, and we are determined to band together to overcome its insidious encroachment. While werewolves are indigenous to North America, the last of the vampires can be found in all countries. The problems they bring affect us all globally. Monsterland will save the planet, and Copper Valley is ground zero in the states for the parks. How we handle the different species will determine how the world moves forward in the coming decades.”

  “All right, then.” Joe sighed. “If you could sum up your parks in one statement, what would you say?”

  The camera centered on Vincent’s face. He took a deep breath, looked straight into the lens, and stated, “Monsterland is dedicated to the nightmares that have created this world. They have kept us frozen in fear and unable to move forward as a society. Only when we are no longer afraid do we truly begin to live.”

  “I can’t take it anymore,” Carter said in disgust as he turned off the TV. “That guy’s a parasite.”

  “What are you talking about?” Wyatt demanded. “The nation had just about shut down. He single-handedly revitalized the country. Monsterland will reignite the economy. It will save the world.”

  “Yeah, a regular Disneyland.”

  “What do you have against Monsterland?” Wyatt asked.

  Carter didn’t answer him; he looked down and ruffled Wyatt’s head affectionately. Wyatt pulled away. “Never mind that. Let’s talk about something really important. What happened with Josh?”

  Wyatt struggled for a moment and then began. “Yeah, Josh. He’s the monster.”

  “Werewolf, vampire, or zombie?”

  “Ah,” Wyatt acknowledged, looking at Carter to see if he was mocking him. Satisfied that Carter was indeed interested, he continued. “The age-old question of monster superiority. Is he indestructible like a werewolf?” Wyatt stood, warming to his subject. “Or perhaps cunning as a vampire? No…he may have the coveted single-mindedness of a zombie—”

  “Can’t,” Carter interrupted. “Minds are shot. Zombies got nothing up there.”

  “So you think. I have my own theory about that, but my little brother may be lacking intelligence altogether. No, Josh is a garden-variety monster. No imagination, no style, no—”

  “Enough. Skip the narrative.” Carter held up a hand. “Just tell me what he did.”

  “Forget about it, Carter.” Wyatt stood, brushing him off.

  Carter touched his arm. “No, really. What’d he do? Maybe I can help.”

  Wyatt looked at him skeptically. Carter raised his eyebrows. “You never know until you try.”

  Wyatt sighed and then sat down again, his voice low. “He came up to me as we were leaving school. I was talking to Jade. You know—”

  “Jade, princess of the Dairy Queen.”

  Wyatt nodded and smiled at the image of Jade dressed like a princess, dispensing frozen shakes that could be served upside down.

  “The pretty girl with long, dark hair?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So?”

  “He slapped my back. I didn’t think anything of it.” Wyatt reached into the trash can removing, the crumpled ball of paper. He flattened it out. The word desperate was written in bold magic marker.

  “You had this on your back when you spoke to her?”

  Wyatt nodded glumly. Wyatt was a sweet kid, but painfully shy. He knew Wyatt was smitten with the elusive Jade; he couldn’t figure out why. She was pretty enough, but was dating the school quarterback and resident bully, which in Carter’s mind didn’t speak well for her character. He didn’t like Nolan Steward; his father owned the car dealership downtown and was known for his aggressiveness as well. Wyatt, on the other hand, had fallen in with the group that other kids rejected. Nice kids, Carter thought, just a bit on the weird side. Well, except for Wyatt. Now that he was turning eighteen, he seemed more settled, a little less geeky.

  “She saw?”

  “Everybody saw it.”

  “Shall I hold him down while you pummel him?” Carter threw the remote on the couch. He had taught Wyatt how to deliver a punishing noogie. He held up a hand, showing a perfect fist with the knuckle of his middle finger slightly protruding. Wyatt smiled in shared amusement.

  He shook his head. “Nah, he’s just a kid. I save those for the bullies.”

  Carter wrapped his arm around Wyatt’s shoulders affectionately. They were having a moment, and, for a second, Carter felt close to him. Wyatt smiled tentatively up at him. “Let’s get dinner up before your mom comes home.” He still topped his stepson by a few inches, but Wyatt would catch up. “Wait a sec.”

  Carter turned around, opening the screen door to peer into the growing dusk. Frogs croaked; fireflies lit up tiny pinpoints of light. The air had turned strangely muggy. In the distance, he heard the wolves start their howling. While the park was five miles outside of town, the wind carried the cries. He shivered involuntarily and then latched the door. Reaching under the couch, he removed his revolver where he had hidden it, holding it loosely in the palm of his hand.

  CHAPTER 3

  West Hollywood, LA

  “The way I see it, we got no choice.” Raoul slid down onto the floor of the rat-infested apartment.

  “We never had a choice,” Sylvie responded. She pulled a tattered cardigan over her white shoulders.

  “Cold?” He helped her slide her arm through the sleeve.

  “I’m always cold.” She shivered, her purple lips pursed.

  “I’m sorry.” Raoul shrugged. He leaned over to kiss her on her lips. He nipped her gently, drawing only a little blood. Sylvie reached over, smearing the red droplets with her thumb suggestively over his lips. His fang pierced her forefinger, impaling it.

  “Ow.” She pulled it away, but he captured her hand, taking her finger in his mouth, sucking on the sluggish puncture.

  “Pig. Leave some for me.” She pulled away.

  “Look at us!” Raoul stood and parted the dusty blinds to gaze at Sunset Boulevard. He made a disgusted noise, and Sylvie rose to peer out the window, spotting Johnny Knoxville running down the strip, his ass exposed to the honking cars. His film crew following, chasing while they laughed hysterically at his antics.

  He took her hand, caressing the puncture mark on her finger. “We’re practically cannibals. I almost drained you of every drop of blood last month.”

  Sylvie nodded, her pink hair a matted mess. She examined her pale hand, the nails nearly blue. She was as starved as her lover. She looked at Raoul. It was all his fault. He had turned her into this. It was true she had demanded it, lusted after him for months, even though he tried to avoid the final outcome. He had warned her it was not a great life. Sylvie didn’t care. Back then, the lure of the stage, the road trips, the music had made her frantic to be included. For a time they had nightly gigs, but she barely remembered them between the bloodlust and drugs. They were careful. It was dangerous to turn someone into a full vampire—the punishment: isolation in a camp in Antarctica where the cold eventually wore them out and they died of exhaustion. Or loneliness—vamps were social, loved a party, a crowd. They defined party animals of the free-wheeling eighties. When they stopped recruiting, a euphemism for having sex, they simply started thinning out. Humans only became vampires by having a sexual encounter with one. Diseased blood, sickness, skin cancer, and a host of unglamorous reasons were steadily reducing the vampire population. Stupid assholes, who called themselves vampire hunters, annihilated the Eastern European population. Overzealous religious fanatics wiped out the rest. It wasn’t safe for them anymore, and they had nowhere to turn. They were careful in their hunger for blood. They were watchful not to leave a traceable trail. Raoul taught her well. They drank only from the homeless, or the roadies who followed them, begging to be included, so they made them into drones. They created armies of these drones, people they fed on, taking just enough blood to sate the demands of their bodies They became their slaves, doing their bidding without question. Drones were not full-
out vampires, and, once they stopped feeding off them, within weeks, they reverted to their regular, boring selves. Occasionally, they went all the way, initiating another poor soul into their number, but eventually the music died. The whole thing turned stale. Numbers dwindled. Their act got old, and the new generation laughed at them. The songs seemed silly, the music out of sync with the times. They lost their appeal. They were ridiculed. Where before, they had ruled the night, had been sought after, controlled the club scene, they were now seen as tired, campy, too old to imitate. Their music, their fashion were reviled. Rejected from the venues they once ruled, they were forced onto the streets. Oh, there was talk of a reality show a few years ago, but somehow they couldn’t garner enough interest. Being a vampire was de trop. They were reduced to panhandling, which only brought them in contact with other vampires who were down on their luck and running from the law as well. There were just a few of their kind now. They were almost gone. Broke, dejected, and blood starved, they scurried from town to town, searching for their next fix of blood, hiding in the shadows.

  Raoul slid down the wall and held up a creased contract that had been lying abandoned on the floor. “We would have a home,” he said, his voice low. “The other day I read that some kids set fire to a vamp hiding in an abandoned building.”

  “We took this way of life to live outside of society. Conrad’s offering us a prison. We’ll be a freak show.”

  “We won’t have to hunt. No more drones. We’ll be with others like us. He’s promising us a lot.”

  Sylvie faced the wall. “I could go home.”

  Raoul cupped her chin, his long nails caressing her cold skin. “They’re all dead, honey. They died a hundred years ago. We have no more home, and we are running out of options.”

  “It’s…it’s inhumane what they want to do.”

  “I told you…we have no choice.”

  Raoul stood, holding his hand out. Sylvie allowed him to haul her up. She was hungry and chilled. Vincent promised them a safe haven, a place to thrive. It was time to come out of the cold.