Low-Skilled Job [Vol. 2]

by Roger Keller

  The previous owners of the mansion had a nicely stocked bar. I used my gloved hand to pour a drink, a tall glass of straight rum.

  “Why am I bothering? The fucking FBI probably knows about me now.” I said to myself, hoping the houses real owners were on vacation and not rotting away somewhere. I looked at the powder filled glove. No point in making it easy for them. Although if they do come for me it won’t be with search warrants and lawyers.

  I sat down on a leather couch, with the hunting knife in my un-gloved hand. I killed half the glass, not knowing if it would help or not. Then I closed my eyes and let it happen.

  *****

  The vision came on fast. Which didn’t make the things any more pleasant by the way. I found myself looking at Lee’s first American house, appropriately made of logs that he’d probably chopped down himself. It was a huge multi-story construct that he’d built into the side of a hill. Both house and hill were in the center of a clearing. As I saw more of it through the fog, I realized it was a bunker. It looked like the kind of massive fortress that Lee must have used on the Western Front. A trench line, complete with barbed wire, circled Lee’s redoubt.

  It made me think about my Vietnam Vet uncle. When the weather got hot he’d patrol the cornfields around his house with an AR-15. I went with him once when I was younger. He’d dig booby traps and set up ambush points along the way. Once his head cleared we marched back. He filled the traps back in without saying a word as we went.

  A vampire sentry stood guard at the trench line with a 1921 Thompson gun. He saw something and disappeared into the fortress.

  The Librarian watched from the trees. He adjusted his tie and glasses, waiting for whatever was coming.

  The Flapper was there with him, although she was wearing slacks and a silk blouse this time, instead of her short dress and pearls. “This is wrong,” she said.

  “Nicole, it’s out of our hands,” the Librarian said. “They brought it on themselves.”

  “This is worse than using poison gas,” Nicole said.

  As the fog cleared I realized just what Nicole meant. Hundreds of revenants waited in the trees. A few of them wore rags and bandages like the ones Heather and I killed. But most of them looked like they’d just come from a soup kitchen. There were a few women and even two children. Well, they were small and moved like children, but I couldn’t see their faces. They wore tattered blue boarding school uniforms. Rusty steel claws tipped their tiny fingers.

  A revenant, who wore a long green wool coat, trudged out of the trees. He pulled the stiff, yellowed bandages off his face. His lips were gone and he’d replaced his teeth with glass shards. He motioned to the hundreds strong revenant army and they moved forward like an inhuman wave.

  Revenants swarmed everywhere. They came through the trees that would eventually disappear to suburban sprawl. A monstrous battle took place on land that would one day host gas stations and fast food joints. Machine gunners opened up from their positions inside the wooden fortress and cut through the revenant charge like a scythe.

  “He’s using firearms,” the Librarian said, genuinely shocked.

  “What,” Nicole said, “did you expect him to ride out with a sword like some medieval knight? You already know he has no respect for our ways.”

  Wounded revenants picked themselves up and staggered foreword. Even the ones with shattered legs or spines crawled toward their target. The defenders kept firing as they reached the trench line. Revenants forced their way through the barbed wire, oblivious to the pieces of flesh they were leaving behind. A tall Afro-American vampire appeared and raked the trenches with a Lewis gun. He emptied the circular magazine and leapt back, out of range of the revenant’s infected claws.

  Lee stood at the entrance to his wooden fortress. He held a BAR. Other vampires fired from slit-shaped windows around him. They worked bolt action Mausers and Springfields at vampire speed. Smoke rose from their barrels. Lee wore spare magazine pouches over his fashionable L.L. Bean hunting gear. He handled the big gun like it was a .22. Every time he pulled the trigger a revenant’s head exploded into rotten chunks.

  The Foundry Worker stepped out of Lee’s fortress and lit up his flamethrower. Revenants screeched and withered when the flames hit them. Lee had really thought everything through.

  The revenant leader leapt out of the burning trench. His arm was gone and one of his red eyes had been put out. Scorched cloth hung from his rotting body. He shrieked and charged at Lee. A full BAR magazine cut him in half at the waist. The flamethrower finished him.

  Most of the revenants never made it past the trench line, their bullet mangled bodies lay in heaps for the flamethrowers. The two child sized revenants however, crept past Lee’s defenses. They drug a pinstripe suit wearing vampire to the ground and wrenched his head loose. In the seconds it took for Lee’s men to notice them, the small revenants had widened one of the slit windows with their claws. They wriggled through the gap like rats. Lee’s mouth dropped open. The defenders inside the fortress started screaming and firing wildly. Lee barked orders in three different languages. Someone lit up a flamethrower inside the fortress. Lee fast-walked for the door, changing BAR magazines in a blur. He paused in the door, turned back, looked across the clearing, and locked onto the Librarian.

  Nicole pulled at the Librarian’s jacket. “Run, you fool.”

  The Librarian stood frozen in fear. Nicole disappeared into the trees. The air rippled around Lee. The Librarian staggered back like he’d been kicked in the stomach.

  “Tell Campbell,” Lee howled, “I’m coming for him.”

  The Librarian nodded and ran.

  I snapped back to the reality of an unclean house with a headless vampire in the basement. Time to go. I poured the rest of the rum down the kitchen sink and snuck out through the glassless patio door. The sun was already setting.

  *****

  I got back to Heather’s place before sunset. Something moved and thumped under the stairs as I walked down into the basement.

  “Morning Misty,” I said, “or evening, or whatever.”

  I clapped the lights on. Heather was on the couch, wrapped up under a blanket. I pushed her feet out of the way and sat down next to her. Miami Vice was playing in the main TV.

  “Did you uh, kill that guy?” Heather mumbled under the blanket.

  I rubbed her bare feet. “Yeah.”

  “What else happened?” she said.

  I stroked Heather’s cool bare legs and told her about my vision.

  “Wow, that’s fucked up,” she said. “Fucking revenants, huh? Lee never told me about that.”

  Heather sat up and leaned against my shoulder. She wore a men’s size, Motley Crue t-shirt as a nightgown. I wondered what became of the metalhead who originally wore it. On the main TV Crocket and Tubbs shot it out with some Colombians.

  “So, you can control your visions now?” she said.

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Was he alone?” Heather said.

  “Yeah.” I tossed the Librarian’s hunting knife on the table. “Something for Lee.”

  “He’ll like that,” Heather said.

  “So what are we going to do?” I said.

  “About what?” she said.

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “Seriously.” She growled and tapped her claws on my thigh. “Let’s see, there’s the vampires that are coming to kill us, the revenants that might still be out there, and there’s us.” Her voice lowered at the last part.

  “Take your pick,” I said.

  “Same basic answer for each one,” Heather said. “We see how things go.”

  “Then what ?” I said. “What happens if Lee doesn’t make it?”

  Heather snuggled closer. “We find a new place and plan some payback. This is kinda what it was like in the old days, you know? A whole lot of shit happening all at once.”

  “And us?” I said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Heather said, tapping my chest with clawless finger
s. “That reminds me. What were you going to tell me, at Marcello’s, before my exorcism?”

  I looked into her jade green eyes and swallowed hard. I’ll tell you when I think of something good, something that won’t embarrass me.

  “I’ll tell you when you tell me why you wear that cross,” I said.

  Heather tilted her head down and smirked. She kissed me with cool, undead lips. We made out while the next episode of Miami Vice started. At some point Heather got up and went looking for some blood. I watched her toss the Motley Crue shirt on a wooden crate full of DVD’s. She wore a pair of black panties underneath and nothing else.

  “Were getting low on blood.” She bent over, rummaging through the refrigerator and showing off at the same time. “You know?” She looked back to make sure I was watching.

  “Yeah, I can see,” I said.

  Heather giggled. I took out Marcello’s non-magical flask, which I’d refilled with 151 proof rum. Heather padded back to the couch with a bottle of blood. Her pale breasts swayed nicely. She sipped the blood while she walked and the color returned to her skin. Her eyes softened.

  “Your hair’s different,” I said.

  “Misty worked on it.” She twirled around.

  Heather finished her blood and climbed on top of me. I caressed her breasts. Her nipples stiffened. I slid her panties down.

  “Speaking of Misty,” I said. “Are you sure you wanna do, uh?”

  “She’s cool,” Heather said. “Misty’s really liberal. Polyamarous, that was the word she used. She’s like a hippie. She would’ve got along great with my mom.”

  “Wait, what about-” I said.

  “Ugh, don’t worry about it.” Heather ran her fingernails down my chest. “Just enjoy the moment.”

  *****

  I woke up on Heather’s couch tasting stale rum and blood. Whose blood? I checked myself for bite marks. Heather and Misty were gone. The Miami Vice marathon was still playing on the main TV. I turned the sound down and clicked on the newsfeed that Misty’d left up on the right hand screen. The Lawn Gnome House burned out of control while a local news anchor described the scene.

  “At least somebody dealt with the evidence,” I said.

  There was a sub and some chips in a bag on the coffee table. I checked the time on my phone, 10:30 PM.

  Misty floated down the stairs after midnight. She faltered at the last step, but righted herself and landed on her feet.

  “We ordered you some human food,” Misty said.

  “I found it, thanks,” I said.

  “It’s been a while since I ate anything food wise,” Misty said. “It’s weird you know?”

  “Where’d you guys go?” I said.

  “Hunting,” Misty said. “We need supplies. Heather’s been showing me how to camouflage myself better and mesmerize people.”

  Misty looked right at me and pulled a serious face. The air around her rippled like it did with Heather.

  “It doesn’t work with you the way it did them,” she said.

  “Them?” I said.

  “The guys upstairs,” she said. “We’re going to take their blood for later. Heather wants to have some on hand just in case.”

  “Come on boys, this way,” Heather said from upstairs.

  Two men in shorts and officially licensed NFL t-shirts carried a biker down the stairs. The biker wore outlaw patches on his well-worn leather jacket. His long, gray hair drug on the steps. Heather followed them, holding a black clawed hand up to direct them.

  “The big one was stronger than I thought,” Heather said. “Had to knock him out. His brain’s fucked, but his heart’s still working.”

  “Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do?” I said.

  “Yup,” Heather said, blase, “it’s more efficient this way.”

  “I’m out.” I stood up and mimed dropping a mic. “I’ll come back when you guys finish.”

  “Bring back some duct tape and trash bags,” Heather said. “Misty, start putting some paper towels down.”

  Heather’s victims partially blocked the stairs as I headed out. I pushed past the two football fans, causing them to drop the biker. “Fuck outta my way, assholes.” They looked at me as I passed, pleading with their eyes. Heather stopped me midway up the stairs and kissed me.

  “Your friends here look scared,” I said.

  Heather flicked her wrist and the football fans picked the biker up. She smirked at me, her eyes glowing. I checked my jacket pockets, plenty of weapons. I couldn’t remember how some of them got there.

  “Misty caught those two by herself,” Heather said. “Not bad for a first try. They put something in her drink. It like, blew their minds when she didn’t pass out.”

  “What about the biker?” I said, regretting the question immediately.

  “Him and his buddy followed me out of a strip club,” Heather said. “I killed his friend outright. He was nasty, had a bunch of diseases.”

  “Well, have fun,” I said as I hit the top of the stairs. “And make those two jocks watch when you drain the biker. You know, so they see what’s coming.”

  “That’s what I was planning.” Heather smiled and laughed.

  *****

  I drove through town in Heather’s late Nineties Mustang while listening to an oldies station. Someone followed me as I blew through flashing red stoplights. I couldn’t sense anything, so the driver had to be human. Fuck.

  I pulled into a gas station and parked where I guessed the best cameras were pointed. My shadow stopped at the pumps and waited. I got out and stared at them. There were three people moving and gesturing in the black Ford Taurus. I pointed at them.

  “What the fuck do you assholes want?” I said, not sure if they could hear me.

  The passenger door opened and a woman stepped out. Her black pantsuit was faded and worn, like a veteran soldier’s uniform. She had short gray hair that looked blonde at first glance. The career woman took a breath and walked over confidently. She made me think of a politician, no a CEO, somebody who would cut throats for a half a percentage point.

  “So, what do you want?” I said with no doubt she had the right guy.

  The businesswoman stopped just out of range and crossed her arms. Her jacket bulged awkwardly around the full-sized sidearm on her hip.

  “Mike Ellis?” she said.

  “Yeah, and you?” I said.

  “SAC Angela MacArthur.” She held up her badge and ID. “I have some questions for you.”

  “Sure, I got a few minutes for the FBI.” I thought about Heather and Misty, breaking who knew how many laws and laughed. Maybe there was even some kind of federal law against being a vampire. “Go for it.”

  “I find it’s best to do this sort of thing off the books,” she said. “I arrested a vampire hunter once, in Denver. He was one of the last we knew of. He was working for a vampire coven, just as I know you are. Somehow, one of the master vampire’s lieutenants got into the federal building, into my office. He was a very articulate fellow. I got the message, and released the hunter the next day.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” I said.

  “I’ve looked into your background, and besides a passing association with a domestic terrorist named Robert Toomey, there was nothing. And I mean nothing at all. It’s like you don’t exist.” Angela looked back at her car.

  “Yeah, I try to do as little as possible.” I sat back on the Mustang and thought about drinking with Bob. I still had the AK-47 I’d dug up from one of his caches. “Really? Domestic terrorist, Bob? You guy’s are still looking for him, eh?”

  “Maybe you were lazy once,” she said, ignoring my question, “but these days I doubt you get much rest.”

  “You got me there,” I said.

  “I’m sure you have heard of the mass suicide that took place not far from here,” she said. “Nearly two hundred, wealthy, cult members burned themselves alive.”

  “I think I heard something about that,” I said. “Mass suicide,
huh?”

  “That’s the official narrative,” she said. “But, there are powerful people who need to know why. So, I need to know why. You and a vampire named Sarah Jane Hartmann were seen near the cult’s temple. In their temple in fact. I interviewed the local officers who responded to a shooting not long after you would have been there.”

  My heart jumped. “Did, uh, you search the place?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “All of it?” I said.

  SAC Angela grimaced. “The hidden passageways have been filled with concrete.”

  “You’ve seen things like that before?” I said.

  “Yes.” She checked her sidearm.

  “The Society, the cult, or whatever, stole something,” I said. “The real owner wanted it back. That’s what we were doing there.”

  “Give me a name,” she said, playing it tough.

  “Fine,” I said. “Marcello. And I hope you guys go looking for him.”

  Angela’s stern, make-up free face fell. “Of course. We know he has a residence a few hours from here.” She squeezed her eyes and groaned. “No one in their right mind would go looking for Marcello.”

  “Marcello’s a real interesting guy,” I said.

  “I guess I have my answer.” She turned back to her car. “Stay out of trouble.”

  *****

  Heather and Misty had cleaned the basement while I was gone, with vampiric obsessiveness. Everything was re-arranged and dusted. They’d re-discovered furniture previously buried under piles of Heather’s junk. Posters and flyers for bands like Joy Division, The Breeders and Sonic Youth covered the walls, right next to heavy metal groups that ranged from Black Sabbath to Iron Maiden to Megadeth. “Looks like Misty picked out some of the decorations.” I ran my fingers over something that had to be from Misty’s collection, an original flyer for pre-fame Nirvana. Impressive. There were old school movie posters and cardboard video store stand-ups too. Milk crates full of LPs had been carefully organized along with all kinds of assorted physical media. The clashing smell of assorted scented candles hung in the air and the plastic coffins were gone, so were the latest victims. Heather sat on the couch, buzzed. Misty was, somewhere.