Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation (35 page)

L. T. Getty

They say you can’t tell the difference between a holograph and the real thing when it’s being streamed digitally. It’s more than easy enough in real life; the holograph behind the counter just morphed from generic white girl to ambiguously brown male. “Is the coffee hot?” I ask.

“
I’m sorry, I didn’t get that.” The holograph flickers. “Can you repeat the question?”

“
Do you have any fresh wraps?”

“
You want a bag?” asks the holograph.

“
Nevermind. Two coffees, cream and sugar on the side.” I waive my card in payment, but he keeps smiling until I’ve gotten two cups of java before pleasantly fading out of existence. I grab a vacant bench that has a good view of the holo-projector; they’re showing the Stegarzki interview. The time reads 04:02, 04/10/32; I think it was streamed live midnight. I think you can tell she’s not real when the journalist keeps getting younger and can’t shake the guest’s hand.

“
My guest tonight needs no introduction,” says the holograph of Vivian Poeger. “Wilbur Stergarzki, long-time Undead Rights activist and first outed Vampire to hold a chair in provincial riding joins us. Good evening, or is it morning for you, Wilbur?”

“
It would normally be considered my morning, Vivian.” He’s too good-looking to be human, but that doesn’t mean it’s him, they could both be holographs. It’s hard to tell with vampires.

One of the nurses does a search for the weather – I should tell him it’s been raining all night. Someone else starts streaming in – some trashy soap, so I dawdle to the truck, pick up my cylinders, and then head to the oxygen bay. I don’t even have to fill up the cylinders, so it’s an easy job while I the real girl behind the desk does it for me. I stream into their wireless with my handheld, do a search for local news, just to see what they’re telling the populace about the barricade around Winnipeg. It’s too depressing, so I see what they’re deciding for us in Ottawa.

This one’s a real journalist, but he’s had plastic surgery. No one’s got a chin like that. “We can’t confirm nor deny that Minister Chakowruk’s family was flown out of the city just before the ban, however if anyone was flagged from Winnipeg, they are under quarantine.”

He goes on about the localized outbreak. Kyoli-4: a respiratory disease wreaking havoc in the nursing homes, viral last I checked. I get to bank extra vacation being a shuttle to the morgue. People like me are weathering through it, but they still make us walk around with masks on, and any time there’s any respiratory emergency, it’s Kyoli until proved otherwise. I overheard our supers talking; most think it was from that microbiology lab downtown, and in almost forty years, this would be the furthest leak. I can’t help but think that we keep pumping in the antibiotics, and get evolved superbugs. Maybe that’s a little cold-hearted, but I can’t look too far without seeing people stabbing one another over nothing. What can I expect from bacteria?

I stream back to the interview with my handheld while I restock the ambulance. My handheld is supposed to be for scanning ID chips and streaming building layouts, but it gives me a good enough holograph and the show’s been uploaded onto countless servers. Vivian and Wilbur are talking about the long struggle for vampiric rights, akin to racial segregation and the old arguments against polygamy.

I know Henri’s there because the radio changes. Talk radio. “This coffee sucks,” he says. “You clean?”

My hair’s still damp. “Think we can grab a bite on the way back?”

“
Eat when you’re off shift,” he says. “I ain’t having you throw up again.” Henri checks the weather, and goes back to the interview.

“
All I’m saying is that it would be selfish of us not to try to help,” Wilbur says.

“
But you yourself don’t quite understand vampirism,” Vivian says. “It’s origins, and what exactly vampirism is, is still up for debate.”

“
Just as humans are still arguing whether or not they have a common ancestor,” he said, “or if aliens had to seed you. Perhaps we should talk about the many mythologies of human origin.”

“
You were human, once.”

“
That was over two hundred years ago. The statue once had to be marble, but no one goes up to Michelangelo’s David and admires the raw beauty of the stone.”

“
Beatrice, are we almost ready?” Henri asks. He makes no effort to check, so I roll out of the bay into light drizzle clouding the skyline. Time reads 04:27. Henri says he hates technology, but he’s got my handheld. I think he’s doing a search on lottery numbers, but he leaves the audio interview on for me.

“
But there have been studies, and it shows that people who get, as you put it, ‘marked’ by vampires become somewhat subservient,” Vivian says.

“
It’s symbiosis,” Wilber says. “You can’t expect two organisms to go back to the way things were before they started working together. Besides, it’s not like it doesn’t have an effect on the vampire.”

“
No wonder he keeps getting elected,” Henry said. “Probably had every soccer mom in his riding offering herself up as a beverage.
Inoculation.
More like less objectionable snacks. They better find out what caused it before those pencilnecks in Ottawa push it forward.”

“
They’ve only been studying vampires for what, ten years?” I ask. “I heard there’s like ten different things streaming through them. If the government can’t control it-”

“
Vampirism goes back in every culture,” Henri said. “Science can’t explain everything.”

“
Science seems to do a good job so far,” I say, before radioing into dispatch. “This is Beatrice Tenaeus, reporting Car 57 clear, en route back to Home Base. We are ready for next assignment.”

There’s only two choices as to when we’ll get our next assignment. Cities under siege go squirrely fast, and Winnipeg’s default is nuts. “Location?”

“
Leaving the St. B; coming up to Portage, on Main,” I say.

“
Mugging on Balmoral, near the University. We’ve got fire and an ambulance on scene, they need back up. Scene is secure.”

I flip on the lights but not the sirens. There’s not enough traffic to warrant waking the dead of downtown.

“
What are you trying to do, kill me?” Henri asks, grabbing the panic bar before taking over the radio.

Lights flashing. No blue, just red and white. “Would it kill the cops to show up? Slow down!” Henri shouts, but as soon as I slow down he’s out of the ambulance and arguing with whoever’s in command. It’s an alley between two buildings – at least the overhead keeps us from getting too wet, but there’s still the spaces in between the roofing where the drizzle and runoff look like rain. “How many are there?” he asks the captain.

“
Two.”

Henri swears something in French. The medics who arrived first have their hands full with the nearest body; he’s pale and his throat’s messed up – you can smell the iron in the air despite the rain. He’s trying to pull the tube out of his throat, so if they’ve chemically restrained him it hasn’t kicked in yet.

“
He’s good, the other one!” one of the firemen say, pointing to the two young firemen a few feet away.

The scene doesn’t make sense; six firemen and two medics are busy working on the guy, there’s someone wearing stilettos being looked after by two. A blonde with a purple leopard-print skirt with blood and skin in her teeth. She’s gasping, and the younger of the two firefighters is trying to ventilate her.

“
Knock it off,” says the other, “they don’t need to breathe.”

Henri’s by her side. “Ma’am, we’re here to help you,” he said. “That is, if the rookie can grace us with some vitals.”

I put down the bag and Henri keeps encouraging her to cough as he checks her over. “What’s your name?” I ask.

She tries to talk, but all she does is wheeze out a few half-words. She’s not cyanotic but pale – like that’s a surprise. I can’t tell if it’s dark lipstick or blood on her lips. I can’t detect an ID chip, so I can’t access her medical history, and her jewellery doesn’t sing me any hints. The firemen say that they’ve already checked her for injuries and have broken a few needles on her skin. Henri instructs her to inhale as best she can as he gives her a nasal spray, and yells at one of them for trying to put an airway in.

I can’t get a pulse, but her blood pressure – my sphygmomanometer doesn’t even go up that high. The only thing they mentioned in class about this is that vampires laugh when faced with our trauma, aren’t effected by diseases, so unless they’re stuck in the sunlight or have been decapitated or impaled with silver or your holy item of choice are they in a bit of a pickle, and then there’s not much we can do – some will even regenerate from that.

“
Bee,” Henri barks, “give me vitals.”

“
I can’t detect a heartbeat.” I heard someone say that their hearts beat, but it’s so fast that we can’t detect it. “Skin is pale, diaphoretic.”

Henri wipes the drizzle off his brow. “Get the stretcher.”

I get the doors to the ambulance open but the young fireman’s already scooped her into his arms and he climbs in.

“
You know how to drive?” Henri asks the young fireman as soon as she’s on the stretcher. Henri tells me to calm her down and before I can ask how he’s got a mouthful of swears for a regular on dispatch.

“
Another vampire do this to you?” I ask as the other firefighter closes the back door to the ambulance and holds on to avoid getting thrown into the door.

She shakes her head and suddenly she seizes. She’s arched her back on the stretcher. “Calm down-” I start.

We suddenly lurch forward. “Watch the road, Glasses!” Henri shouts, manoeuvring back to us.

“
Can you tell me what happened?” I ask, trying to slip an oxymeter on her finger. She stops seizing, and doesn’t even make a coughing noise this time. The reader doesn’t work. “I need to take a blood sample,” I say. “It’ll tell me what’s going on in your body.”

She understands. I can’t hurt her, but she can hurt herself. She bites the back of her hand, and I do my best not to look too deep at the puncture, just draw and swab what I need and tell the other firefighter to put pressure on the wound.

Back in school, my instructor called the Blood Oxymation Test the Skin Sampler 3000 – basically your
glucometer, capnic-reader, blood-alcohol reader and gives us a general idea as to what’s going on with the body, including red blood cell oxygen level, white blood cell count, and more crap I’ve already forgotten. Henri thinks its too invasive – we can identify someone in the databank and know not only their current condition, and any medical past and some potential if we have their family on record. “All that, in thirty seconds,” Henri would say, “but what are you gonna do about it?”

Thirty seconds is a long time to someone who’s dying, looking at you for answers.

I wait for the little button to analyze – a minute passes, and it’s still reading. The fight’s leaving her. Henri’s in cold storage. Supposed to be for trauma, but most of the guys store their sodas there. Blood. He’s carrying blood-bags. “Here, eat this.”

Before I can object she’s unfolded her fangs. It’s the bag or me, so I wait until she’s bitten through the plastic and start to feed before I realize what he’s done. “That’s not-”

“
Sedated?” Henri asks.

She’s already drained it, and looks at us wanting more. We’re more. Her color’s improved, and I see the predator, her pale skin near transparent, her network of veins and musculature more visible as her skin draws back, her eyes appearing wider, but only for an instant. She slumps down, almost looking peaceful, were it not for the stained canines protruding past her lower lip.

“
That’s better,” Henri said. “Don’t bother with that machine. Bandage her hand.”

I thought vampires were supposed to self-heal, but there’s purple blood dripping onto the stretcher and floor, but it’s easy enough for me to bandage. We’re at the hospital and a cop opens the door. Three others point guns at us, and some cougar wearing thigh-high boots watches with a cross in hand. Every hospital has its own slayer – just in case anyone rises – some morgues have them too. They seem to come in two variations: someone who wears black lace and pretends to be French or Spanish, the elder, greasy sunnovabubba or the grande bubba herself who doesn’t speak a lick of English but can stake them before we have the proper documentation making it good and legal.

“
Back off,” Henri says, “unless you wanna work off that donut gut and help.”

I recognize the lead cop; I’m terrible with names but moustaches like that glow in the dark. “You got an ID on that?” he asks Henri.

“
Nothing so far.”

I secure her to the stretcher and the cops help me unload her. The nurses look anxious, and are waiting at the emergency doors for the other cops to make sure she’s secure with silver handcuffs before they move her out of the emergency bay.

“
Those could hurt her!” Henri says. “She’s in enough distress as it is.”

“
These things are tough,” says the slayer, “I’ve seen ‘em rip cuffs apart.”

My patient starts to vomit. I go to suction, but the slayer grabs my arm.

“
It’s her job,” Henri snaps.

I never thought I’d have to stick my fingers in a vampire’s mouth, even just to open it. She’s throwing up the blood she just ate. The fireman, Glasses by Henri, is trying to get her back on oxygen. “Do we need an IV?” he asks.