Underground Vampire (22 page)

Petru watched him with no interest,
unconcerned because there was no threat.  Jesse lifted the pistol and
Arabella closed her hand around it, whispering in his ear, “It’s alright. 
You are safe; give me the gun.”  He released his hand from the grip and
she took the weapon. “Petru has that effect on Humans and Vampires alike, he is
a very scary being.”  Whether he agreed or not was of no importance or
concern to Petru, who stood waiting to leave, and Jesse understood that if Petru
decided to kill him, then he would be dead. 

Arabella steered him to the
elevator, they rode down, the three of them, and once on the street she slipped
his gun into his pocket, whispering, “Are you alright?”

“I can do it,” he whispered,
recovering now that he was out from under Petru’s sight.

“Petru and I will lead; we have
fought together before.  You follow close behind, protecting our backs.”

On the walk from the Smith Tower not
much was said, pedestrians shying away from Petru, Arabella transforming to
combat mode.  Mr. Finkelstein saw Arabella at the doorway to the
bar.  The Indian was in his customary spot at the shuffleboard, helping
himself to a stevedore’s dollar bills. 

Beckoning Mr. Finkelstein over, she
said in a low voice, “Will you grant entry to him?”  Finkelstein looked at
Petru thinking, “No, never,” but said “Why?”

“Hunting.”

Mr. Finkelstein nodded at Petru
and, stepping back, wondered if someday he would look up to see this death come
for him.  Passing through, Petru stopped at the Indian.  The
stevedores shrunk back and, setting their schooners down, filed out the
door.  The Indian held his ground, oblivious to Petru’s threat.  “Do
you hunt me, Human?” asked Petru, as always skipping the ‘hello, how are you,’
part of the social contract.

“He’s with me, under my
protection,” said Mr. Finkelstein, invoking his privilege as the host. 
“Leave him be.”

“He wants to kill me,” replied
Petru, “I taste it.” 

Intruding between them, Mr.
Finkelstein said, “You are on the same side now; later you can settle.” 

Petru considered.  Familiar
with European realpolitik, he acquiesced.  “I will kill you when this is
over; until then you may live.”

 Negotiations concluded, he walked
to the back stairs, following his nose to the Vampire smells wafting from the
basement.

The Indian looked at
Arabella.  “Welcome aboard,” was all she said. 

Jesse stuck out his hand and they
shook, falling in behind Arabella.

“What happened?” said Arabella when
they reached the basement.

“They were able to breach the
protections,” said Finkelstein.  “They reached in and took one of us.”

“Without an invitation?”

“They seemed mindless, they just
kept pushing forward.”

“How did you stop them?”

Mr. Finkelstein hesitated, thinking
of what happened.  “We said the prayers, sacred words unheard for
centuries, and held the parchments containing the secret names of God lettered
in numbers.”

“And that did not hold?”

“No, they kept pressing forward as
if they were alive but not really, more Golem than man, more demon than
Vampire, maybe another bastard race.”

“But you stopped them
finally.  How?”

“Not us, him.”

“You keep turning up,” said
Arabella, stepping toward the Indian.

“Just trying to help,” he said,
standing firm as they all examined him.

“How’d you do it?”

In answer he produced two large
knives from under his shirt, the one in his right hand held tip out for
stabbing and slashing, the other in his fist tip down blade out.

“Whatever they are, they die,” he
said, “when their heads come off.”

 Petru likes that, thought
Jesse, watching his lips pull back exposing sharp teeth, like he filed them to
points.

“He was there,” said Mr.
Finkelstein, “directing them somehow.”

“Oliver?”

“I thought he was dead.”

“He’s not,” she said, turning back,
“that’s why we’re here.”

Without another word, Mr.
Finkelstein stepped aside as Arabella led the group to the door.  Petru
stepped forward and began to snuffle about, drawing deep breathes into
himself.  Bending over at his waist, he thrust his face into the cones of
ash from the dead, flicking his tongue about then rising and, without another
word, set off down the tunnel.

Jesse and the Indian stared after
him as he trotted off, like a pig after truffles snoggling his nose to the
ground.

“Charming, isn’t he?” Arabella
laughed looking at their faces.  “Just don’t get in his way,” she
admonished, “he can be indiscriminate.”

She handed the .45 to Jesse, “Use
this, and don’t shoot us.”

“You, try not to cut me when you’re
waving those knives around.”

Finished, she turned and flashed
off following Petru.  They looked at each other then called out, “Yes
ma’am we’ll try not to hurt ourselves.”

“If either of you get hurt I’ll be
upset, so watch out,” echoed down the passage.

The sensory glands embedded in
Petru’s mouth picked up residue in the sidewalk beyond the Blue Anchor, and
they marauded through the Underground tracking the Vampires who assaulted
Humans.  Finally tracking them to a dim portion of the Underground they attacked,
Petru and Arabella leading the assault, the Indian close behind staking the
fallen while Jesse proved adept at protecting their flanks with deadly accurate
firepower. 

When the brief savage encounter was
concluded and they stood among flickering mounds of smoldering Vampire bones,
Petru acknowledged the big Indian’s prowess, saying, “I look forward to killing
you; worthy adversaries are rare these days.” 

Without buckling, the big Indian
met Petru, “You won’t have to look for me, I’ll be coming,” he said with a
smile.

 “What about me?” asked
Jesse. 

“Human, you are hers,” replied
Petru inclining his head toward Arabella, “I would not kill you without her
permission, it would be wrong.”

Glancing at Jesse, Arabella
giggled, “So behave.” 

Jesse laughed, weakly.

The incursion of the four into the
tunnels marked a vicious turning point in Oliver’s return.  What had been
a localized problem became a full-fledged war, with the Queen unleashing her
forces to eliminate, no prisoners taken, any opposition. 

Where Oliver had been a
disrespectful underling, a disobedient subject casually breaking the law, he
was now a heresiarch, the traitor who must be killed lest the exalted Crown be
weakened and others encouraged to flout God’s authority. 

“Stalemate,” said Jason, “we lose.”

Oliver continued to drink at the
throat of the Human.  Kneeling at his feet, the young man whimpered at
Oliver’s greed. 

“Easy,” counseled Jason, “That’s
the last one, the cupboard is bare.”

Lifting his face, Oliver confronted
Jason’s unspoken reproach, “There are more where he came from.”

“Yes, there are,” Jason replied as
Oliver returned to the neck, jaws sawing at the unfortunate throat, “but they
are hard to acquire.”

Ignoring him, Oliver fastened onto
the work at hand, violently chewing at the neck, till the sallow youth
stiffened, twisted in his arms and expired.

“Send out for more,” ordered
Oliver.  “Tell them to bring back more Humans, enough to fill my craving,
I am still hungry.”

Jason watched as Oliver threw himself
upon the couch.  Blood covered his face and dripped down on his
couch.  “Perhaps you should see the physician,” suggested Jason, “maybe he
can give you something to slake your thirst.”

“Not him,” snarled Oliver, rising from
the couch, “no more of him and his talking. I need blood, Human blood, not his
questioning.”

Jason nodded, hoping Oliver’s needs
would subside as his most recent feeding took effect.  Placating his
master, he explained, “It is difficult as matters stand to access the city.”

“Not your excuses again,” raged
Oliver, “I am sick and tired of failure.”

“As we all are,” soothed Jason,
“but our access to topside is limited, thus limiting our access to Humans.”

“What do you suggest?” suddenly
rational, Oliver said, “I mean as field commander, counsel me, advise me, tell
me what I should do.”

Jason took a moment, thinking how
far he should go, how much truth and reality Oliver could accept and handle; it
was increasingly difficult to accurately gauge his moods.

“I’m listening,” snarled Oliver, no
longer reasonable, “and I’m hungry, so make it short, please.

“Why don’t I see to replacing the
Humans,” placated Jason, striding to the door.  “We can discuss strategy
once I’ve fixed that problem.”

“Must I do everything,” moaned
Oliver at his back, “can’t you do anything?”

Jason cringed. Oliver’s isolation
in his hidden bunker sealed him from reality, leaving his paranoia free to
develop grand plans and devious strategies; plans and strategies that
accomplished little but cost dearly in lives and territory.  Continuing,
he slipped into messianic Oliver, his vision far away on a grand scale that
would turn the rebellion on a single stroke. 

Inwardly, Jason groaned, cursing
boredom, the fatal flaw in his character, emotional ennui that compelled him to
follow charismatic fools.  Thankfully Oliver, fully invested in his dream,
did not notice his momentary indiscretion.

Rising, Oliver crossed to his desk
and, removing a document, spun back to him proclaiming, “Here, here is how we
will do it,” he waived the sheets of paper in Jason’s face.

“What is it that we are doing?”

“We are leaving; enough of living
in tunnels, eating rats and fighting for dirt.  I returned to be a King
not to live in a hovel.”

“Hardly a hovel,” commented
Jason.  But truthfully, Oliver had slowly and inevitably turned his
quarters into a disheveled mess bordering on psychotic disarray.  

“I need a place with a view, a home
on a hill, something with an address, a pedigree,” mused Oliver.

“Lots of people want to live in
those houses,” said Jason.

“Yes they do, that’s what makes
them desirable.”

“And defended.”

“I wasn’t thinking about making a
purchase offer; I’m moving in.”

“And the current occupant?”

“She has to go.”

“She won’t like that.”

“They never do.”

“Relocation benefits for the
occupant?”

“A quick death.”

“How do we get in?”

“Through the front door, of
course.”

“It’s locked.”

“Someone will open it.”

“That only leaves Petru and
Arabella?”

“Ah, Jason, finally you reach the
problem.”

“Well?”

“I have plans for them, personal
plans, something special.”

“With them gone we have a chance.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Jason,” replied Oliver, returning
to the couch where he pointed at the dead Human on the floor, “get me another
one of these, would you? ”

“Of course,” was his reply, his
mind already wondering.

“Yes that would be nice, see to the
Humans,” Oliver went languid on the couch, waiting for his next feeding, “and
while you are at it, remind the troops that I am disappointed in their efforts,
deeply disappointed.”

Walking to the barracks, Jason
considered options.  The rebellion stagnated; it was only a matter of time
till the Queen won the battle of attrition.  Their only hope was to seize
the initiative with a single bold stroke. With a secure gateway, they could
wage war on her turf and access a blood supply. As it was, they had actually
gone backwards trapped in the Underground, their access to blood gone, the only
topside access what they could force through the Queen’s forces. 

Oliver was always on hand when one
of the raiding parties was successful, first in line to feed, first to select
plump Humans for himself.  If that wasn’t bad enough, the damnable
Arabella with her pet Human and the Indian continued their Underground sorties,
picking them off in ones and twos and sometimes fours and fives until many of
the insurgency refused to go into the tunnels, preferring to hide behind the
barricades.  

Even if they reached the streets,
the double damnable Petru had taken to patrolling the dark City.  Arabella
by day, Petru by night was wearing them down.  Whatever Oliver planned, it
had better be good and quick; they couldn’t last much longer.

Entering the barracks, he grimaced
at the fear in his Vampires’ faces.  They no longer viewed him as the War
leader but as their executioner, picking and choosing which should go into the
tunnels, raiding to the topside. Gone were the dreams of unlimited feeding upon
Humans; now they only tried to stay alive waiting to escape. Trapped between
the implacable hatred of the Queen and the deepening insanity of Oliver, they
had few choices and little hope.  He knew that he must, one more time,
inspire them to hope for victory.

Clustering around the mesh cage
situated on the long table, they crowded forward like soldiers always had at
chow time.  Looking around, Jason counted many more Vampires than were
rats in the cage.  Again, some would go hungry.  Even the rats, once
so plentiful, had gone away.  It was almost as if even they, the rodents,
were being directed what to do, a ridiculous thought that Jason pushed out of
his mind to concentrate on the problem at hand.

“Is it food you want,” he asked of
the circling, crowding Vampires, “real food, I mean?”  None of them
answered, too smart for that.  The days of volunteering were long gone he
knew.  These were all survivors and knew better. “Or do you want to keep
eating rats?”

That got their attention; all of
these had tasted Humans and longed for another taste.  In spite of
themselves, they were drawn to him, so powerful was the memory of real
blood.  In the cage, the annoying vermin squeaked about, poking their
pointed noses into the mesh, scrabbling for an escape. 

“Oliver has a plan,” he lied as
honestly as he could, “a way to even the odds, to win and to feast.”  The
carrot better than the stick in these situations, he thought.  He could
see he had their attention.  Most of them were no longer eyeing the rats,
who had settled down hiding in the litter at the bottom of their jail.

“Before we start, who’s up for a
snatch and grab, something to stock the larder before the hard work.”

They all perked up for this. 
A snatch and grab meant Humans, meant blood, meant renewal.

Jason purred, “you will be bringing
back a Human for Oliver, who will be sure to reward you.”  Unspoken and
implicit was the converse, that Oliver would be very disappointed and unhappy
with no Human to slake his desires.  Several of the Vampires nodded their
assent, stepping forward to surround Jason.  Spreading the city tunnel map
he’d brought on the table, he outlined his plan.

“Remember,” said Jason, winding up
his presentation, “snatch and grab, we need Humans to replenish our
stock.”  The work finished, he reached into the cage plucking out a fat
wriggling rat, which he handed to the leader of the team.  “Here,” he
said, “the next time you feed it will be on Humans.” 

The rest crowded around, the sight
of the one feeding too much for them.  Holding up his hands, Jason
screamed, “Hold it,” and the Vampires all stopped lunging for the crazed rats
running about the cage.  “Only those on the team will feed, it is only
fair.”  He stood as the team gorged on the rats.  The others will
learn, he thought, you eat what you kill and if you are not willing to fight
you will not eat.