by Hal Bodner
At Troy’s comment, Becky snorted, trying to muffle her laughter. But Troy was oblivious to the irony.
“Through the heart,” Chris told them. “Make the first blow as hard as you can. Becky, you should probably be the one to do it. Scotty might flinch and Troy doesn’t do very well with things that require precision.”
“Hey!” Troy protested.
“If you don’t pierce the heart with the first blow,” Chris continued, “he may wake up. Do not look into his eyes. Some of us have the ability to mildly hypnotize normals. Troy,” he turned to his lover, “if Becky freezes, you’ll have to finish him off.” He explained to Becky, “Troy’s nature makes him slightly immune to the effect.”
Becky sighed. “You know,” she announced to the room at large, the stake and mallet in her hands, “this is definitely not what I had in mind when I went to med school.”
“You’ll do fine,” Chris assured her. His tone grew grim. “You don’t have any choice.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Forty-five minutes later, Troy pulled the Cabriolet to a screeching halt in front of the coroner’s office. Becky uttered a silent prayer of thanks as she released her death grip on the dashboard, which was the only thing that had prevented her from bursting out of the seat belt and sailing out of the car each time Troy had rounded a corner; his driving had to be experienced to be believed. She and Scotty got out and stood watching as Troy, who had forgotten to set the parking brake, leapt back into the car and stamped down on the break pedal to keep the car from rolling downhill onto Melrose Avenue. He quickly rejoined his companions.
“What do we do now?” Scotty asked.
“Exactly what Chris told us,” Becky said firmly.
Standing outside her office, prepared to enter and do battle, Becky was having second thoughts about calling Clive. But confronted with Troy’s obvious impatience to get inside (he was mentally playing the brave Scarlett O’Hara as she escaped through the flaming ruins of Atlanta) and Scotty’s evident desire to bolt and hide at the least provocation (he was still not quite convinced that Becky wouldn’t whip out a scalpel and attack him with it), she put her thoughts of obtaining additional help aside and unlocked the door.
The front hallway was quiet and dimly lit with a few shafts of sunlight streaming in through the small glass transom over the front door. The trio’s footsteps echoed off the linoleum as they made their way down the hall and into Becky’s office. Once inside, she closed the door and flipped on the light over her desk. She plopped down in her chair, motioning the other two to the threadbare love seat against the far wall.
“God, I’m starved.” She pulled an individually wrapped cherry pie from the top desk drawer and began munching.
“Now that’s what I call nauseating,” said Scotty, shuddering. “Vegetables and fruit. Eating things that grow in dirt. Yuck!”
Troy sat gracefully on the couch after first lifting an imaginary hoop skirt and smoothing out invisible wrinkles.
“Where do we start?” he asked, his Southern accent more pronounced than normal.
“That depends on where Scotty saw him going into the building.” Becky daintily wiped cherry juice from her chin.
“The double door in the back. The beige one,” said Scotty.
“That leads to the autopsy room,” she mused.
“Ain’t that a little bit obvious, sugar pie?” Troy asked.
“Yeah,” said Becky. “Too obvious. But let’s check it out anyway.”
She quickly finished her pie and, grabbing another, blueberry this time, she led the boys down the hall toward the autopsy room.
“Why’s it so empty?” Scotty whispered as they were walking down the hall.
“Lunchtime,” Becky told him sarcastically.
“Oh,” Scotty said, and brightened visibly. “Do you think someone’s saved us a leg or something?”
“Will you cut it out already?” Becky implored, not knowing whether to be irritated or disgusted. “It’s too early. No one’s come in yet.”
Scotty looked suitably chastised as the three stopped in front of the door to the autopsy room. In a hurried whisper, Becky warned the other two to be quiet. She slowly pushed open the doors and flipped on the overhead lights as they entered.
Scotty fidgeted uncomfortably at the sight of the stark white walls and the large stainless-steel cabinets. He gingerly reached out and touched one of the three shiny metal tables in the middle of the room, shuddering at the sight of the drains located at the base of each table.
Troy looked around in awe. “Wow!” he whispered. “How do you keep all this clean?”
“We have a straight boy who comes in twice a week to polish the silver,” Becky hissed back. “Now will you please keep quiet!”
She motioned toward the twelve steel doors of the large refrigerated unit set into the far wall, where bodies were usually stored. The three gathered round expectantly.
“Which one?” asked Troy.
“I don’t know. One of the bottom ones probably. We never use them.”
“Good,” said Scotty. “How about we start at the top and work down?”
The other two glared at his cowardice.
Becky grasped the handle of a bottom drawer firmly, sweat beginning to trickle off her forehead. “Ready?” she whispered.
“Just a sec, Doris,” said Troy. He and Scotty withdrew their crosses and held them out in front of them. Troy took the opportunity to warn Scotty. “If it’s a real stiff in there, don’t you go getting crazy on us or anything, you hear?”
Scotty gave him a withering glance and opened his mouth to reply. Becky slapped him gently.
“On three,” she said. “One, two, three!”
She pulled the drawer open, sliding it smoothly on its rollers. The drawer was empty. Without fully realizing it, each of them breathed a sigh of relief.
“One down. Eleven to go,” Becky said. Her bravado increasing with each drawer, she rapidly opened the three remaining bottom drawers. Nothing.
“Go for the gusto, I say,” said Troy, and he yanked open the top left-hand drawer to reveal an elderly Asian woman, the features of her face wrenched to one side.
“She’s naked,” Scotty remarked as he examined the corpse closely. “What are you? A necrophiliac or something?” He pulled down the sheet before Becky could stop him. “You see!” he said, indicating the autopsy marks. “Cut, cut, cut!” He bent closer and inhaled deeply, then suddenly sneezed and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Ugh! Formazine!”
“That’s Mrs. Noguchi. Stroke.”
“Yeah, and you keep your pearly whites off her,” Troy said sternly.
“Puhl-e-e-eze!” said Scotty haughtily. “Look at her. Gotta be eighty if she’s a day. Much too tough.” He turned to Becky. “Got anything younger in here?”
Becky interrupted before the conversation could deteriorate further. “What a minute. What’s she doing in number one?” She grabbed a clipboard hanging from a nail in the wall next to the refrigerator. “She should be in eight.”
The trio looked at each other.
“That’s this one?” Troy asked, indicating the far right center drawer. Becky nodded. With a slight curtsey and a wave of his hand, he added, “Ladies first.”
Becky wrapped both hands around the handle, took a deep breath, and pulled open the door. Although they had all been prepared, each exhibited varying degrees of shock at hitting pay dirt.
There, hands crossed on his chest, lay an olive-skinned, dark-haired young man wearing black jeans and a black silk shirt.
“That’s him!” whispered Scotty excitedly.
“No kidding,” Becky replied sardonically. “We usually strip them before we put ’em in the fridge.”
“And I thought you were a lesbian necrophiliac,” quipped Scotty, nervously.
“Nice shirt,” commented Troy. “I have one like it at home.”
“Don’t tell me—it’s red. To match the living room.”
“Will you t
wo shut up?” Becky held out her hand, waggling her fingers. “Gimme the stake.”
“The stake?” asked Troy blankly.
Becky turned to look at him, expressions of horror, rage and disbelief fighting for prominence on her face.
“The stake!” she hissed.
Troy turned accusingly to Scotty. “You were supposed to hang onto the stake.”
“Me?” said Scotty, outraged. “I’ve got the holy water. You were supposed to take the stake.”
“I’ve got my hands full with all this stuff!” Troy began to pull crosses and the now useless mallet from his pocket. “I’m wearing shorts. Where the fuck am I supposed to carry a stake?”
He flung one of the crosses at Scotty, who ducked.
“You left it in the car?” Becky was floored.
“He left it in the car.” Troy pointed and threw another cross.
“I did not! It was your responsibility. You see!” said Scotty, turning to Becky for support. “You can’t trust a renfield to do anything right!”
“I told you not to call me that!” Troy shrieked and let loose with a volley of crosses and small bottles of water.
“Shut up!” Becky told them. “You want to wake the son of a bitch up?”
“Too late,” said a cultured voice with a slight accent. “Much, much too late.”
Arguments forgotten, the three cowered together as Rex swung his legs over the side of the drawer and stood up menacingly.
“My, my, my,” he leered. “Company. If I’d only known you were coming,” he shook his head in mock dismay. “I’d have baked a cake.” He began to with measured steps toward the other three.
In a burst of desperation, Becky grabbed a jar of water from Troy’s limp grip and, twisting off the top with lightning speed, flung it straight into Rex’s face.
There was a shocked silence as the three waited for Rex to collapse in an agony of pain. A moment passed.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Rex commented absently, wiping his face with a sleeve.
“Oh, shit,” said Scotty, backing behind one of the autopsy tables. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” And then he added, “Shitty shit” for emphasis.
“Look,” said Becky, trying to gain some control of the situation, “couldn’t we all just sit down and discuss this like rational, intelligent human beings?”
“Certainly we could.” Rex flashed her a charming smile. He paused, as if considering and then said with great sorrow. “But that wouldn’t be quite fair, would it? You are the only human being in the room. And, if you’ll excuse my eaves-dropping, the earlier conversation between your two friends leaves me with serious doubts as to whether they actually are intelligent.”
“We’re sorry about the stake,” Becky said, lamely. “We never really wanted to hurt you. We just want you to stop killing people. If you promise to behave, maybe we can work something out.”
Rex threw back his head and laughed; his laughter bounced off the high ceiling of the morgue and echoed. With each passing second, he made Scotty more and more nervous until finally the poor ghoul opened one of the glass-fronted chemical cabinets and tried to force himself inside, knocking bottles and jars to the floor.
Rex finally caught his breath and the laughter stopped. With a theatrical flourish, he wiped imaginary tears from his eyes.
“I haven’t laughed like that in decades. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Troy, politely.
“But you make one mistake, young lady. I don’t kill people. I kill cattle.”
“You killed one of us,” Troy protested, “And dropped off his head, and tried to kill Chris.”
“Correction,” said Rex sternly. “I made one of us for the express purposes of killing him. As for your boyfriend...” Rex’s voice dripped disgust, “he’s competition. All’s fair in war, as they say.”
“But why?”
Rex’s tone became low, hatefully intense. “It was the night I first saw you and your friend. I dislike my territory being invaded. You should have heeded the warning.”
“But this is L.A.,” said Becky, hoping she could appeal to Rex’s reason. “There are three million people here. There’s not room enough for two?”
The vampire’s eyes grew cold, dead. His voice went flat. Where before he had been urbane, even witty, all traces of the civilized creature that had stood before them vanished. Now Becky could clearly see the monster behind the facade. He spoke a single, immutable word: “No.”
Becky’s mind was racing. She knew they were all in mortal—or immortal—danger and she also knew she wouldn’t be able to count on Troy or Scotty to get them out of it. She could see the only thing stopping Scotty from trying to make a break for the door was Rex standing in front of it. Or maybe he had gotten himself so firmly wedged into the cabinet that it would take a crowbar to get him back out.
Troy, on the other hand, was amazingly calm. So calm, in fact, that Becky feared he had gone into some kind of shock. He seemed to be either unable or unwilling to seriously consider the danger they were in; his attitude became airier and airier with each passing moment. Right now, he was looking around the room, seemingly unfocused, imagining he was god knew where else.
She tried to steady her scattered thinking. Keep him talking, she thought. “But you killed the first ones before Chris and Troy even got here.”
“Only partially correct, my dear.” The sophisticated mask was back in place. “The first ones I killed died long before your friends were born.” Becky opened her mouth to protest but Rex airily waved her to silence. “I know death isn’t necessary, strictly speaking. But actually,” he smiled evilly, “I find I enjoy it.”
Becky’s frantically roving gaze came to rest on the glass-fronted cabinet that Scotty had managed to vacate in favor of trying to hide under the autopsy table. She blinked. He hadn’t bothered to close the door. She blinked again, mind racing even faster.
“My kind frowns on that sort of behavior. When I saw another in the street, it was obvious he was here to hunt me and try to put me down, as they say.” Rex pulled out a chair and sat, facing the chair back, in front of the door. Becky took the opportunity to move closer to the cabinet. “I am very old, my dear. Much older than any other vampire I know of. I dislike being told what I can and cannot do by those with less experience than I.” He smiled a small, private smile. “I intend to get much older. Unfortunately for you and your vampire friend, you will not.” He leaned forward, as Becky managed to sneak in a few more steps, moving ever closer to the cabinet.
Rex fixed his gaze firmly on Troy. “Where is he? I want him.”
“Who?” asked Troy.
“Your master, little renfield. I want him. Dead.”
At the mention of the hated name, Troy’s eyes blazed with anger. He tensed, launching himself at the surprised Rex. “You prick!” he yelled. “Don’t you ever call me that!”
Troy’s shoulder caught Rex in the center of the chest. The vampire toppled backward, the chair scooting out from under him as it tipped over and clattered to the floor.
Without looking at the two wrestling bodies in the center of her morgue, Becky lunged the few remaining steps to the cabinet and thrust her hands inside. Knocking even more bottles and boxes to the floor in her mad rush to discover something useful, she seized upon a bottle of hydrochloric acid and pulled off the stopper.
She turned, bottle in hand, and yelled at Scotty, “Don’t just stand there! Break ’em up!”
Scotty hesitated, scooting farther back under the table. Becky grabbed a scalpel from the counter and thrust it under the table, waving it wildly back and forth in Scotty’s face.
“I never liked your kind,” Becky shouted. “Your mama was right!”
Scotty yelped and threw himself into the melee. Becky maneuvered for position as the tangle of arms and legs rolled across the morgue floor.
Finally, Rex landed a hefty kick to Scotty’s midriff, lifting him up into the air to come crashing down on the top of one of the
metal tables, his breath driven from him with a loud gasp. Rex managed to grab Troy by the back of the neck and stood, hoisting the still struggling Troy into the air, where he flailed about helplessly trying to land another punch.
Becky said a silent prayer, stepped right up to Rex, and threw half the contents of the bottle straight into his face. She backed up and stood, amazed and nauseated, as the flesh began to bubble and melt, huge droplets spattering to the floor.
The room became suddenly quiet; even Troy stopped struggling, watching in horror. A long moment passed, the only sound a sickening hiss as the flesh on Rex’s face continued to smoke and bubble.
“That hurt,” said Rex dispassionately. He shifted his grip so that both hands were wrapped around Troy’s throat.
“Put down the bottle or I’ll tear his head off.”
Becky hesitated, uncertain.
“I mean it,” he said, and began to squeeze. Troy started to turn blue and make strangled little yipping sounds.
Becky slowly placed the bottle on the edge of the counter, within reach.
“That’s better,” said Rex and relaxed his grip. He moved toward the door.
“You tell your toothy friend that I’d like to meet him. I’ll keep this one with me. Just to make sure he shows up.”
“Like hell you will!” Troy shouted and began to kick again.
Rex responded by shifting his grip and casually swinging Troy around so that he connected head first with the cinder block wall. Becky gasped as Troy fell limply silent.
“Are you crazy?” Becky shrieked.
“Don’t worry. I’ve done this enough times to know the difference between unconsciousness and dead. If I’d preferred the latter,” he said with another of the private smiles Becky was beginning to find intensely disturbing, “you’d be scraping his brains off the ceiling.”
He returned to the body drawer that he had recently vacated and removed a pair of dark blue leather gloves, a wide-brimmed hat, and a rubber Ronald Reagan Halloween mask, all of which he donned rapidly, never once taking his eyes off Becky and the ghoul. He re-crossed the room and opened the door with his free hand.
