Bite Club

by Hal Bodner

Gustav’s eyes widened. “Some of this is very rare. Not for the public. How...?”

  “Tomorrow, I promised him schnitzel.” She turned and, removing her coat, walked toward the kitchen as Gustav watched her retreating back with an expression of combined love and admiration. Then, yawning, he turned back to his screen and, within moments, was so enmeshed in his research once again that he completely forgot his fatigue.

  An hour later, emerging from the kitchen, Hanna found him, slumped over his keyboard, quite literally dead to the world. With a snort of annoyance, tinged heavily with affection, Hanna wrapped her arms around her husband’s corpse and, thanking her god for the increased strength of the undead, she hauled Gustav’s body off to its coffin in the bedroom.

  By the time Gustav awoke that evening, and aided by the documents provided by Hanna and the unwitting Mr. Eisenstat, Sylvia had managed to come up with a tentative list of seventy-three names. These were vampires, either once personally known to members of the community and not seen for a while or named in records and diaries throughout the ages and for whom the dates of true death were unable to be determined.

  Proceeding on the theory that the culprit must have, at one time or another, come into contact with at least one surviving member of the community, Gustav and Sylvia realized how huge the task they had set for themselves really was. Using the information they’d amassed, they would now have to abandon the computer and rely on Sylvia’s extensive social contacts to establish a huge network with two purposes in mind. First, they would have to track down every vampire Sylvia had ever known and instruct them to immediately contact her in New York if they had noticed any of their older friends or acquaintances exhibiting strange behavior. This could be a clue that someone had recently gone rogue. If this line of inquiry were ruled out, they hoped the murderer was someone who was once known but had dropped out of sight, as some vampires were periodically known to do, so that at least an identity could be established.

  The search was underway.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  By the following night, with Gustav’s assistance, Sylvia’s information network had already expanded. But it was becoming apparent that none of the vampires living in major cities had any clues to offer as to the rogue’s identity. Still desperately hoping someone would come up with some positive lead and thereby making her upcoming meeting with the werewolves moot, Sylvia prevailed upon some of her oldest friends to leave the comforts of their urban homes and head for the hills and countrysides in an effort to discover something useful.

  The tension in West Hollywood, on the other hand, had begun to ease. The weekend had come and gone without any more drained corpses popping up. Although the press continued to milk the “Boys’ Town Killer” for all it was worth, the lack of new bodies seemed to inspire West Hollywood’s nighttime denizens with new confidence in their safety.

  Slowly at first, and then in greater numbers as each corpseless night followed the next, the hustlers began to resume their accustomed posts along Santa Monica Boulevard. In the La Jolla district the residents were being rapidly driven mad by the seemingly ceaseless revving of engines and blaring of car stereos as drivers in search of anonymous sex drove repeatedly up and the avenue, around and around the block, passing through the parking lot behind the Gold Coast Bar as they cruised.

  The drag queens on the east side of town regained their confidence and small groups clustered on the street corners, gossiping and trading beauty tips until the wee morning hours. The foot traffic between the Eagle, the Spike, and Rafters increased as young men began to bounce from bar to bar in search of a better-looking crowd.

  Clive and Becky, however, were veritable basket cases. They were familiar with serial killer patterns; both were certain the murders would resume with a vengeance according to some unfathomable inner schedule of the killer’s. It was only a matter of time before another bloodless corpse would make its startling appearance. The tension built as they read and reread the various reports, desperately searching for a clue that would allow them to stop the killer before he resumed his activities.

  The night after their visit to the Brombergs, Chris and Troy began to comb the city on a nightly basis, hoping to catch a glimpse of the killer as he stalked a victim. Troy considered their little jaunts to be eminently successful, having broadened his circle of attractive acquaintances. Chris, for the most part, sat back and watched, shaking his head in puzzlement as he tried to figure out how each of Troy’s new friends was able to finance expensive gym memberships, exorbitant wardrobes, and truly impressive bar tabs without ever admitting to having any gainful employment or viable means of support.

  Then again, there were the inevitable catastrophes, all of which were directly attributable to Troy’s failure to watch his tongue. Between extricating his lover from a series of potentially disastrous encounters and their lack of success in spotting the rogue vampire, Chris found himself growing more and more frantic while at the same time fighting a burgeoning depression.

  Unbeknownst to any of the people trying to locate him, Rex had never intentionally stopped killing; he’d simply decided to vary his diet and was, once again, feasting on the homeless population of Hollywood Boulevard. It was while reading one of the West Hollywood newspapers that he realized that the normals were not only looking for him, but were stymied by the dearth of clues to his identity. Amused by the fact that the lack of obvious corpses was driving those searching for him crazy with worry, he decided to resume his hunting in West Hollywood.

  Thursday night, he’d been wandering in and out of the various bars and nightclubs along Santa Monica Boulevard and had finally settled into the Mother Lode, eager to choose the evening’s victim. He’d just caught the attention of a deeply tanned, blue-eyed little muscle stud and was mentally eviscerating the lad. He admired the definition of the youth’s bared chest and shoulders and wondered idly if there might be a secluded spot nearby where he would be undisturbed as he slowly stripped the skin from the boy’s body. But suddenly he was distracted by a commotion by the front door of the bar.

  A harried young man with reddish, dark brown hair had just entered, accompanied by a short, slim blond boy wearing an outlandishly provocative outfit that seemed to be entirely constructed of narrow strips of plum colored leather and zippers. The blond boy was smiling broadly and chattering ceaselessly as the darker youth bent his head in an effort to hear. Since the blond was apparently trying to make eye contact with every single one of the bar’s hundred or so patrons at the same time, his head was in constant motion, his neck craning to get a better glimpse of anyone who caught his attention. His flood of conversation, however, never stopped. He would speak, looking in the exact opposite direction from where his companion was standing, and then turn with irritation to repeat himself as the darker boy repeatedly demanded, “What? What?” with increasing frustration.

  Recognition had been instantaneous. Rex immediately pegged the two as vampire and renfield. Obviously, word of Rex’s sloppy eating habits had somehow gotten back to the rest of the vampiric community. The only explanation for the sudden appearance of the vampire and his renfield, therefore, must be directly related to the putting down of one Rex Castillian. Rex had no intention of making their task easier.

  Furious at the audacity of any other member of his race’s attempts to instruct him on how to comport himself, Rex had quickly hidden himself in the men’s room to avoid being spotted. But the bathroom was already occupied; a bleach-blond man of about forty-five was standing at the urinal. He turned in mild curiosity as Rex came bursting in and made the mistake of meeting Rex’s eyes.

  Rex had taken great pleasure in exercising his formidable mental control over the unfortunate gentleman, paralyzing him so that the flood of urine cut off painfully in midstream. Grabbing the man and thrusting him out the door, he released his control and grinned maliciously as the man suddenly began to urinate once again, splattering his shoes and the floor as another gentleman who was using the telephone loc
ated just outside the rest room looked on in astonishment.

  Alone now, Rex slammed the door and angrily brought his fist down on the worn plastic of the lavatory sink. He grunted with satisfaction as the fixture cracked down the middle and chunks of imitation marble flew off in every direction. He began to pace back and forth across the stained tile floor.

  First he had to get out of the bar without being seen; the dark-haired boy would recognize Rex’s nature as easily as Rex had identified his. The renfield was also likely to be able to pick out another supernatural creature at a glance and, the way he was carefully perusing the bar, Rex was leery of being able to escape undetected. The front door was the only obvious exit, but he was certain a rear door must be hidden somewhere. After all, Rex had reasoned, the bartender couldn’t very well cart the garbage out the front past the customers.

  Escaping unseen, however, would do nothing to solve Rex’s greater problem. He had no intention of curtailing his activities in order to protect his fellow vampires’ misguided notions of secrecy and safety. Therefore, the offending creatures would have to be removed—permanently. Others might be sent out to take their place but Rex was fairly certain that, if he could make the destruction of the two in the bar violent and bloody enough, he could cow any other prospective hunters into fearfully avoiding the area until he had decided to move on.

  Then again, he thought devilishly, both of the hunters were young, male and attractive. The renfield, of course, wouldn’t last much longer than a normal human under Rex’s torturous ministrations. The other vampire, however, posed some intriguing possibilities; Rex could slice, hack and burn to his heart’s content, prolonging the other’s agony almost indefinitely. His fangs ached just thinking about it.

  His thoughts returned to the suntanned, blue-eyed fellow he’d seen at the bar. Perhaps the boy had additional uses than to simply provide Rex with momentary pleasure as he slowly relieved him of his skin. Rex grinned, baring his fangs slightly and opened the bathroom door.

  The bleached-blond queen was still standing by the telephone gazing at his soiled shoes in shock. He was so stunned that he hadn’t yet bothered to zip his fly; his shriveled penis poked out of his pants like some pathetic white worm. He looked up as Rex cleared his throat casually and, fear blinding his features, fled into the bar trying to get as far away from Rex in as short a time as possible.

  His flight caused a nearby group of young men, Rex’s potential victim amongst them, to look up. Rex caught the youth’s eye and smiled. The youth smiled back and, in so doing, permanently sealed his own fate.

  Rex beckoned to the boy and, as if in a trance, the young man walked slowly toward the bathroom door. One by one, Rex caught the gaze of the young man’s companions, planting a different image in the mind of each one of them so they would later be unable to identify him.

  As he led the young man through a back storage room, past the boxes of beer and crates of glassware, toward the rear door, Rex smiled in anticipation of the treat he had in store for his two new “friends.”

  Several hours later, back in his lair beneath the street, Rex stretched in contentment. It was close to dawn and Rex had spent the evening enjoying himself. It was a pity, he thought, that his plan hadn’t allowed him the luxury of spreading his most recent victim’s torment over a period of several days. But Rex’s hunger had been sated by the conversion process; the youth had writhed in agony quite nicely, and now the young man’s frightened blue eyes stared from where his head had been placed on a nearby shelf. Across the room, spread out on the floor, was the rest of the corpse. Rex had had ample opportunity to admire the poor boy’s fine musculature as his nails had slowly shredded the skin from his body.

  Rex glanced at his watch; he didn’t have much time left if he wanted his surprise to be delivered the following day. He briefly considered disposing of the remainder of the corpse before it started to stink, but the room was very cool. He decided that nature would probably take its course in a day or so and the corpse of the newly made vampire would disintegrate into ash long before the reek became offensive. He left it where it was and began searching for a cardboard box.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Pamela Burman was having a good day—for her. During her morning constitutional, she’d managed to locate, not one but two cars parked illegally. At the 7-Eleven on Holloway and La Cienega, she’d called in the violations to the Parking Department, pleased that she’d increased the city’s coffers by the price of two parking tickets. She hoped desperately that at least one of the vehicles would have outstanding warrants. She’d called Parking twice already, asking, and had been assured they’d call her back before lunch.

  As a result, she was in a remarkably good mood and had only yelled at her secretary, a neurotic, willowy young man named Carlos, twice. The first time had been because he’d tried to—intentionally in Burman’s opinion—bring her a cup of coffee that had been sitting on the brewer since the day before. She’d shrieked at him, thrown the cup across her office, and demanded the first cup from a fresh pot. She’d spattered a few drops of stale coffee on her hot-pink chenille sweater, but the alacrity with which the new cup appeared on her desk, along with the knowledge that she would be greeted with the choicest from the pot every morning for at least the next two weeks, made it well worth the dry cleaning bill.

  Burman was never intentionally mean. She merely set great store by efficiency and the strict compliance with rules and regulations. She was blissfully ignorant of Carlos’s hasty retreat into the men’s room to pop a Xanax and would have been horrified to know that she’d recently forced him to increase his therapy sessions to thrice weekly.

  It amazed everyone at City Hall that Carlos had managed to last as long as he had. Burman was famous for going through secretaries and assistants far more rapidly than a toddler goes through shoes. Carlos’s reasons, however, were his own and he held his cards very close to his chest. He’d angled for almost eleven months to get the position as Burman’s number two. Born and raised in West Hollywood, the only child of an unmarried immigrant mother, Carlos had always regarded Burman as somewhat of a legend. He admired her dubious style, her undoubted campiness, unconscious of it as she might be, and her ability to alternately charm or bully her way into getting what she wanted.

  Carlos worshiped Burman, although she reduced him to tears on many occasions, and he hoped one day to be just like her. He had, in fact, modeled his drag persona, Ms. Shanda Leer, after her. Luckily, his best “girlfriend” a drag queen known as Trampolina, a name descriptive of both her boisterous nature in bed and the frequency with which she exercised it, was a sales clerk at Mister Fred’s, the boutique where Burman purchased many of her outlandish outfits. It was scarcely an imposition at all for Trampolina to put aside copies of whatever Burman bought, in Carlos’s size, so that Shanda could be sure to match the city manager’s wardrobe.

  Unbeknownst to him, Burman had caught a glimpse of Shanda during the previous year’s Halloween Parade and, although at first angry at being mocked, had quickly recognized the obvious care and time he had put in to re-creating her. After making several subtle inquiries, Burman had uncovered Carlos’s odd form of hero worship and was secretly pleased. Since that time, childless herself, she had begun to look upon him as the son, or daughter—depending on whether she happened to be thinking of Carlos or Shanda—she’d never had.

  To compensate for the unaccustomed motherly feelings that grew steadily stronger, Burman was sometimes unduly harsh. She always made up for it, however, frequently taking Carlos to lunch or dinner at a restaurant he couldn’t ordinarily afford, in her own way desperately trying to make him feel loved and appreciated. Burman was a smart enough woman to realize that, should she ever push Carlos over the edge far enough to make him quit, the resulting emptiness in the office would have little to do with having to train a new secretary.

  Burman also made it a point to find out whom Carlos was currently dating. With a proprietary vengeance, she would arrang
e to swoop down upon the unsuspecting potential Mr. Shanda and grill him to within an inch of his life. After her first several encounters with Carlos’s future ex-husbands left each of them shattered in her wake, she had dismissed Carlos’s choice in men as self-destructive and counterproductive and had skillfully arranged to place young men of suitable caliber in his path. Unfortunately, as yet, she’d been unable to successfully make an appropriate match, which did nothing but cause her to redouble her efforts to find an acceptable son-in-law.

  There was a timid knock on her door.

  “What?” she barked loudly.

  Carlos peered cautiously around the door frame.

  “Oh for chrissake,” she said. “I’m sorry about the goddamn coffee.”

  Carlos didn’t move.

  “I’m not gonna bite you. If you want something, get your ass in here.”

  Carlos angled into the room sideways and, avoiding looking at Burman, deposited a package wrapped in brown paper on her desk.

  “What’s this?” she demanded.

  Carlos mumbled something.

  Burman began tapping her pen against the side of her desk, a sure sign that her patience was going to momentarily deteriorate. With a great show of even temper she asked, “Would it kill you to speak like a normal person?”

  Carlos shook his head rapidly, panic in his eyes.

  “Sit,” she ordered.

  Carlos all but fell into the chair, arms and legs stiff, perched as if prepared to bolt from the room at any moment.

  Realizing she might have gone too far, Burman relented, throwing the pen onto the center of her desk.

  “Do you think I’m an ogre, Carlos?” she asked calmly.

  Carlos’s eyes opened wider, like two Limoge saucers. Sweat appeared on his brow.

  “I promise I won’t yell at you. Just answer the goddamn...” She caught herself. “Just answer me.”