Authors: Ken White
The next morning, the Tour Guide from Hell arrived. He was human, fairly young,
wearing an Army uniform with captain’s bars. Very upbeat, almost jovial. Everything was
going to be fine. We were going to an internment facility temporarily, until we could be
processed and released. We’d be safe there. I don’t think anything he said turned out to be
the truth. Which was okay because nobody believed him anyway. But his patter kept us
occupied until they had us on the buses and heading for Camp Delta-5.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” Jimmy grumbled from the passenger seat of the Jeep.
“Sorry,” I said, looking back at the road. “Guess I drifted off there for a few seconds.”
“More than a few,” he said. “I didn’t want you to take us into that Humvee coming
in our direction.”
We were on the two-lane perimeter road the Vees had built to provide access to the camp.
The chainlink fence around the huge camp was still there, and I could make out the Trench of
Death on this side of the berm, but the rest of the camp was hidden.
The Humvee Jimmy mentioned was almost on top of us. It was painted sky blue, and
had the red-eyed raptor insignia on the door. A pair of Security Force troopers were in the
front seat, with another behind them. They passed slowly, all three men watching us. In
the rearview mirror, I saw it turn around and move up behind us.
Jimmy glanced back at it. “Guess they don’t get a lot of sightseers up here.”
“Not exactly someplace to take the family on a picnic,” I said. The Humvee was about
twenty feet behind us, keeping pace, but making no move to pull us over.
“Lot of memories, huh,” Jimmy said.
“Yeah. Not many of them worth having. I guess you’d feel the same if it was Bravo-16.”
He shrugged. “Bravo-16 was a lot smaller than this place. Maybe eighty, hundred
thousand people max. I’m not saying it was homey, or that I’m interested in seeing how it
looks today, but it could have been worse.”
“I don’t think this place couldn’t have been worse,” I said softly.
The cutoff to the gate was coming up on the left. I made the turn and maneuvered the
Jeep through the staggered concrete barriers between the perimeter road and the gatehouse. In
the mirror, I saw the Humvee stop, blocking the road behind us.
“Wonder what they’re so worried about,” I muttered as we approached the gate.
“Nutjobs,” Jimmy said. “Or Resistance maybe. I’m sure there are plenty of people who
have real strong feelings about this place.”
Sandbag-shielded pillboxes sat on either side of the gatehouse. Machine guns tracked us
through the slits in the front of the pillboxes as we rolled to a stop.
A Security Forces trooper stepped out of the gatehouse and walked toward us, automatic
rifle cradled in his arms. I rolled down the window and waited.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, this is a restricted zone.
Please state your identity and your business here.” It had the sound of something he’d said a
hundred times.
“Charlie Welles,” I said, holding up my ID holder. “You’re expecting me.”
He leaned forward and studied the ID for about thirty seconds, then straightened. “Yes,
sir, Mr. Welles. Lieutenant Margolis is waiting to brief you. And your guest is . . .”
“Captain James Mutz, Metropolitan Police Department,” Jimmy said, flashing his badge.
The trooper hesitated a moment, then said, “Very good, sir. I’ll make a note that you’re
on the reservation.” He looked back down the road and waved. In the mirror, I saw one of the
troopers in the Humvee wave back. A moment later, it turned around and headed back down
the perimeter road.
The trooper also waved at the gatehouse. A soldier came out and climbed behind the
wheel of another Humvee that was parked on the far side of the road, behind one of the
pillboxes. The trooper pointed to the vehicle. “Mr. Welles, if you’ll follow that vehicle,
you’ll be taken to Lieutenant Margolis. Please do not leave the roadway, stop, or attempt to
exit your vehicle until you reach your destination. Thank you for visiting Camp Delta-5.”
Before I could reply, he turned and started back to the guardhouse.
“They sure take security pretty goddamn seriously,” Jimmy said.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Almost like they have something to hide.”
The bunker-like guardhouse was about half a mile down the road. Lieutenant Margolis
was waiting for us outside.
“Mr. Welles,” he said, rushing forward as I climbed out of the Jeep. He stuck out his
hand. “Randy Margolis. It’s a pleasure to have you here, sir.” He glanced at Jimmy. “You
too, Captain Mutz, of course.”
“Of course,” Jimmy repeated with a half-smile.
I shook his hand. “You run a pretty tight operation here, lieutenant,” I said. “I’m
surprised this kind of security is necessary.”
“Bandits, sir,” he said. “They’re always snooping around, and they’ve launched a couple
of attacks against us in the past six months. We’ve learned to be prepared.” He paused.
“Would you like to come into my office, sir?”
I shook my head. “No, I’d like to get on with what I came here to do.”
“I see, sir,” he said. “Might the lieutenant ask what that is?”
“No, it’s none of the lieutenant’s business,” I said. “Your man at the gate said you
needed to brief us?”
“Yes, sir,” Margolis said. He ignored my rudeness. Very military of him. “Miss Takeda
instructed us to give you total access to the base. Do your plans include a visit to the hospital,
sir?”
I nodded. “That’s my next stop.”
“And the outpatient barracks?”
“I doubt it.” I paused. “I was in one of those barracks, lieutenant.”
“As were we all, sir,” he said with a smile. “My platoon was assembled and assigned
here because we knew the camp.”
“Does it bother you?”
Margolis shook his head. “No, sir. No point dwelling on the past.”
I didn’t reply.
He was silent for a moment, then nodded. “As you know, the hospital was formerly the
camp administration building. As you also know, when the camp was occupied, one wing of
the ground floor was blacked-out for vampire use during daylight hours.”
“That’s right,” I said. “The east wing.”
Margolis nodded. “At this time the entire facility, other than the lobby, is blacked-out
and generally human-restricted,” he said. “I have two troopers on duty at the hospital, and
they’ll be notified that you’re coming. There is also a small medical staff of human nurses
and a doctor stationed in the lobby. For your own safety, you’ll want to talk to them if you
plan to enter the restricted portions of the facility. And if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I
strongly suggest you follow their advice.”
“Just what the hell is going on in that hospital, lieutenant?” I asked. “It sounds
dangerous. Not exactly what comes to mind when I think ‘hospital’.”
“It’s a specialized facility, sir,” he said. “The vampires being treated here suffered severe
injury to the brain, either during the war or since. Some are not quite in control of their . . .
urges.”
“You’ve seen these vampires, lieutenant?”
He shook his head. “No, sir. My men and I provide perimeter security. We do not enter
the human-restricted portions of the facility. I understand the night security force allows some of the
patients access to the grounds in the evening, and certainly those in the outpatient barracks are
permitted to exercise after sundown. But I’ve not personally been here to witness that.”
The driver Eddie Gee sent here with the stolen truckload of blood had witnessed it. So,
apparently, had Sam Klinger, though I wasn’t sure how, unless he’d somehow broken into the
camp after dark.
“Anything else I need to know, lieutenant?”
“I think that covers it, sir,” he said. “If you would, please stop here on your way out so I
know you’re off the reservation.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
The administration building was nearly a mile down the road from the guardhouse. The
Humvee had again led the way, pulling into the small parking lot when we got there.
Apparently the driver was going to wait until we left, then lead us out.
They’d added a third floor to the long, rectangular building since I’d been in the camp.
Unlike the first two floors, the top story had been constructed without windows. Heavy steel
shutters, painted black, covered all the windows on the second floor, as well as the windows
on both wings of the ground floor. The one-story lobby was in the middle, between the east and west
wings.
I parked the Jeep in the road, directly in front of the lobby door, and we climbed out.
“You never told me what you expect to find here,” Jimmy said as we walked to the door.
“That’s because I don’t know,” I replied. “This place is connected, to the murders and to
everything that’s been going on. I guess I’m hoping to get some answers out of somebody.”
There were two blue-uniformed Security Force troopers in the anteroom of the lobby,
waiting for us. The one with three stripes on his sleeve stepped forward and saluted. “I’m
Sergeant Jones, Mr. Welles. With me is Trooper Haines. The lieutenant advised us you’d be
coming.” He paused. “He also advised that you might be entering the restricted areas of the
building.”
“That’s quite possible, sergeant.”
He nodded. “That being the case, sir, the lieutenant wanted me to make it clear that if
you get into any trouble in the restricted areas, Trooper Haines and myself will be unable to
assist you. We’re under strict orders to stay out of those areas. Those orders were directly
confirmed by the lieutenant when he called.”
“So we’re on our own.”
“That’s about it, sir,” he said. “Before you decide to go in, you might want to talk to Dr.
Faraj. He can brief you about what you might encounter.”
“Thanks, sergeant,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”
“Very good, sir. We’ll see you when you leave.”
Jimmy and I went through the double doors into the main lobby. They’d gutted the room
and remodeled. What had once been a government-issue office lobby, with an information
counter and rows of straight-backed chairs, now looked like the nurses station of any modern
hospital, complete with white-uniformed nurses. To the right and left were revolving blackout
doors, leading to the east and west wings of the building.
I walked to the chest-high counter and looked down at the black nurse sitting behind it.
She smiled at me. “You must be our visitors,” she said. “I believe Dr. Faraj is expecting
you.” She nodded toward the back of the counter. “He’s at his desk.”
I followed the counter to the end. There was a small desk there, with a small man sitting
behind it, feet up, flipping through a pre-war issue of Time magazine. “Dr. Faraj?” I asked.
He glanced up and tossed the magazine on the desk. “Yes, I’m Faraj,” he said, swinging
his feet to the floor. His face was thin, slightly feral, and he had two or three days worth of
stubble. His accent had a slight hint of both England and the Middle East.
“Charlie Welles and Jimmy Mutz,” I said.
“Yes. They told me you’d be dropping by. I’m given to understand that you’re some sort
of very important person to our vampire overlords. If you intend to go into the black rooms,
however, I must conclude that as important as you
may be, you’re also quite mad.”
“I’m a detective, doctor,” I said. “Investigating multiple homicides. I go where the case
takes me.”
He nodded. “Then I take it I’d be wasting my time trying to talk you out of going in,
yes?” He stared at my impassive expression and nodded again. “I thought so. Oh well, had
to try.”
Faraj stood. “I’d suggest you enter via the east wing. The patients there are not generally
so...” He smiled without humor. “Ambulatory. In the east wing, most of the interior walls
have been knocked out, turning the wing into one vast ward, a row of beds on either side, that
sort of thing. At the far end of the ward is an orderly station, in an enclosed room with a nice
thick door and windows onto the ward made of inch-thick clear plastic. There’s always an
orderly on duty, and often a doctor as well. If you can reach the orderly station, you should be
safe.”
“Safe from what?” Jimmy asked.
“The bloody patients, of course.”
“Doctor, everybody is acting like the patients are dangerous, and I guess I don’t understand why,” I said. “Lieutenant Margolis said they suffer from severe brain injuries. When I
think of somebody with a severe brain injury, I think of somebody confined to a bed, docile,
not much of a threat to anyone.”
“Only if that brain-damaged somebody is a human being,” Faraj said. “When a vampire
suffers a brain injury due to, oh, say a copper-jacketed bullet tearing through the right
hemisphere of his cerebrum at supersonic speeds, he suffers brain damage. The portions of
his brain destroyed by the bullet’s passage are gone, never to return.”
He smiled. “But unlike the brain of a human under similar circumstances, the rest of the
vampire’s brain continues to function perfectly. Some of the patients have nearly full
mobility. Some can even speak, though they rarely say anything worth hearing. And they all
have one overwhelming need. Blood. Human blood. The same blood that is flowing through
your veins, Mr. Welles, Mr. Mutz.”