Underground Vampire (9 page)

“Of course,” nodded Ortega, “forgot
about them.”

 “We keep track of the forces,
both good and evil, and study, always study, so that we are ready.”

“Yeah, but ready for what?” said
Ortega, “Monsters?”

“Yes,” said Finkelstein walking to the
front door, “down there,” pointing down the gloomy sidewalk, “you will find
them in the shadows, living in darkness.”

The sidewalk stretched away along a
series of old storefronts to the corner where another sidewalk
intersected.  Ortega couldn’t see past the corner and wished he’d brought
his flashlight.  But, he said to himself, it’s not my fault; I didn’t know
I was going down a dark tunnel looking for Monsters.  Colored light from
the overhead glass provided not enough light to see lurkers in the gloom,
alternately casting yellow, green and purple across the walk. 

“Is this part of the underground
tour?” asked Ortega.  “I’ve never been on it.”

“Nah,” scoffed Finkelstein, “that’s
a couple of blocks over.  The city condemned most of the underground as
unsafe, which is ok with us, and the night people discourage anyone from
pushing in.”

“Night people?”

“Go on,” Finkelstein urged, giving
Ortega a push, “Take a look.” 

Ortega took a few steps down the
tunnel.  The old sidewalk was rough and uneven, the pool of light from the
bar was behind him and the glass blocks overhead just made the scene
creepy.  He pulled his service revolver out of his shoulder holster as he
got to the intersection and peeked around the corner.  It was darker down
there without the light from the bar, and a strong odor floated his way. 
He turned around and walked back.  Finkelstein was standing where he left
him.  “Back so soon?” he said, “You didn’t get very far.”

“I’m going to need a light and some
backup,” Ortega said. 

“No, no one else,” said
Finkelstein, “Just you.”

“Look,” said Ortega, “I’m not going
down there alone.  You say there are Monsters, hell, there could be anyone
down there.  People are getting their throats torn out; we should send the
whole precinct in there.  I’m not going in without backup.” 

“So now you want to follow
rules.  You must do this alone; if you call in the police there will be a
war; hundreds, maybe thousands, will be killed,” hissed Finkelstein.

“I am the police, we’re already
here, and the two guys who helped you before, remember the guys up on the wall,
one of them didn’t do so good; the files say he got his throat ripped out,
too.”

They turned back from the door,
Finkelstein wondering if Ortega could possibly be the one and Ortega ready to
go back to the station and rearrange the papers on his desk.  As they
started across the room, a figure in a long leather coat became visible under
the stairs.  She stepped forward and Ortega went for his gun. 
Finkelstein said, “Welcome,” as Ortega barked “put your hands where I can see
them.”  She stepped into the light and he recognized her from the medical
examiner’s. 

Finkelstein’s face beamed with
delight, “Look, your backup is here.”

“Well hello,” said Ortega,
emphasizing the ‘hello’ in a cheesy come on, “look who’s here.”

“Why are you here,” she demanded.

“Like before,” answered
Finkelstein, “he is the one, it is in the book, we predicted and here he is.”

“No,” said Arabella, looking at
Ortega, “go home.”

“She’s gonna back me up?” Ortega
asked, completely baffled.

“No, you misunderstand,” said
Finkelstein.

Ortega looked at her and started
laughing, “If she’s the backup, we’re in trouble.  What are those?”
pointing at her feet, “What did you do, put on the Pomeranians this morning?”

“Brian Atwood’s,” she replied,
holding out her ankle so he could get a clear view, “Pazza pumps, very
stylish,” explaining culture to a savage.

“They look ridiculous,” Ortega
scoffed, “You are wearing purple shoes, who has purple shoes.”

“Not purple, Fuschia.  I have
them in Leopard Print Pony, but a print seems over the top for stomping the
crap out of Monsters, don’t you think?” she explained.

“What is sticking out of the top,
are those feathers? You have feathers stuck on your shoes!” he exclaimed
bending over to get a closer look.

“Why is he here?” she said to
Finkelstein, who scurried between them making nice.

“Fuschia is a color?” bored,
condescending attitude oozing from judgmental ignorance belittled her wardrobe.

“He has been called, the crisis brings
the savior, the times make the man,” intoned Finkelstein, trying to save the
moment.  “He is necessary.”

“When I eat fast food or wear
plastic shoes then he might be necessary, but until that pedestrian day, I
don’t want him or need him.”

“Lady, these are expensive,”
retorted Ortega, pulling up his warm ups to show off a pricey pair of running
shoes with bright orange slashed in plastic inserts down the sides, “in case
you didn’t know.”

“Have your neon shoes take you
home,” she sniffed, “if they can find the way.” 

“He’s the one. You must help each
other,” Finkelstein explained, as if that would settle it.

“Wait a minute,” interjected
Ortega, “I’m not helping her and she’s not helping me.  She’s some kind of
a doctor.  I need back up, not a physical, not that I wouldn’t let her
examine me, if you know what I mean,” leering at her.

Suddenly, she was behind him with
his gun in her hand, “I don’t want to examine you, I don’t want to talk to you,
I don’t even want to look at you.”  

“Hey,” was all he could manage as
he reached for his gun, “you can’t do that.”

“You are in over your head and I
don’t have time to teach you, so take your toy and go home,” she whispered in
his ear as she ejected the magazine from his gun. 

Ortega scrabbled across the floor retrieved
the magazine, saying, “You can’t do that; I’m SPD.”  

She handed the empty gun to Ortega
saying, “There, now you can’t hurt yourself.”

As Ortega stood waving his gun,
Arabella turned to Finkelstein, making a point of ignoring Ortega and sweetly asked,
“Have you seen the Ratman, I would like to talk to him.” 

“He should be here.  I sent
word through his relatives,” replied Finkelstein, his eyes flickering to an old
heat register in the wall.

Arabella glided across the room,
ripped the grate covering the heat duct out of the wall, dropped to her knees
and stuck her arm up to the shoulder into the wall.  A high pitched squeal
pierced the room and a furious banging started up.   “Hold still,”
Arabella yelled over the commotion, “you’ll only make it worse if you keep
squirming, and stop that squealing.”  Instantly, the racket stopped and
she withdrew her arm from the hole in the wall.  Clutched firmly in her
hand was a mass of greasy grey black hair attached to the head of the filthiest
person Ortega had ever seen.

“Still sneaking about and spying on
people, I see,” Arabella said as she held the dirty ragamuffin up by his
hair.  “Good, that’s exactly what I’m looking for,” she grinned. 

In response, whatever it was
started his high pitched keening again, a sound similar to a mixture of
ululating siren and fingernails on the chalkboard.  Covering his ears,
Ortega yelled, “Put him down,” for Arabella was still holding him so that the
long scratchy toes wriggling from out of his decrepit boots barely touched the
floor.  She lowered him slightly, just enough that he could support
himself on his tip toes, and whispered in his ear, “I’ve been looking for you.”

The words had a profound effect on
him and he started skittering his feet on the floor trying to escape, and when
he began squeaking she shook him by the hair, thundering “Silence.” 
Instantly he froze and calm descended on the room.  

Ortega finally got a clear view of
the creature, for that is what he most resembled: a half man, half animal
creature.  He appeared to be less than five feet tall with round
protuberant ears poking out of sleek greasy hair.  His face was pointed
with a bristly sparse moustache that resembled whiskers as much as hair,
thought Ortega, as he stared fascinated at the creature’s sharply chiseled
teeth. Continually wrinkling its nose he appeared to be taking in the odors of
the room and Ortega had the distinct impression when its beady black eyes
focused on him that he was being smelled by the creature.  Covered in
dirty rags, Ortega wondered if the creature ever changed or if it just added
more scraps to the pelt as it went along.

Arabella held him at arm’s length
with no effort, casually inspecting first his front then his left side then the
other side.  His legs and feet swung out as she twisted her wrist, so that
he resembled a raggedy Ann doll shaken by a terrier as much as a living person
as she spun him back and forth.  All the while he squeaked softly and
chittered his teeth as his toes stretched for the floor.  Finished with her
inspection, she released her grip and he tumbled to the floor.  Quick as a
rat he scrabbled across the cement floor towards the wall, trying to make his
escape. 

“Hey,” shouted Ortega lunging from
across the room hoping to block the exit.  Without haste, Arabella stepped
across the room and stomped the heel of her pump down between his legs, pinning
him, or some part of him, to the floor where he thrashed about until she said,
“if you break the heel on my new shoes or even scuff them I will be very angry
with you.” 

Instantly, he stopped thrashing
about and became still as a mouse, only his eyes darting this way and that,
hoping for freedom, looking for escape.  “I’m going to release you and you
will crawl into the center of the room.  If you try to run, I will have my
friend shoot you, do you understand?”  Vigorous nodding of the head
signaled that she had his attention and cooperation. 

“I’m not shooting anyone,” said
Ortega.

 “If I say shoot, you shoot
him,” said Arabella, rolling her eyes at Finkelstein.

The creature slowly stood, furtive
eyes darting from one to another until finally he settled on Arabella, waiting
like he was next in line for hanging.  In turn, she said nothing,
scrutinizing him until the tiny beads of perspiration on his forehead turned to
drops and ran down his face, revealing tiny furrows of pink flesh below the
grime caked on his skin.  “Ratman meet Ortega, Ortega meet Ratman. 
You know Mr. Finkelstein; he’s been feeding you, I’m sure, and of course you
and I are old acquaintances.”

“I haven’t seen anything,” Ratman
blurted. 

Arabella waited still as a statue
in a park.

“If anyone’s broken the Law I don’t
know anything about it,” he whined, servile and pleading. 

Finally, she blinked to show that
she was alive. “Broken the Law,” she said, surprised at the prospect. 
“What do you mean, broken the Law, has something bad happened while you were
crawling through the sewers, did you come across something, hear
something?”  

The sweat was pouring from Ratman’s
hair until it looked like he would melt; it was so thick, thought Ortega, that
a mudslide might start on his face dissolving him into a puddle on the
floor. 

“Tell me,” she barked, “what have
you seen sneaking around under the City, rooting in the trash?”

“Gathering, assembling,” he
squeaked out like the air leaving a balloon when you pinch the valve, “deep
underground, I myself haven’t seen them; my brothers told me.”

“How many,” she asked, nonchalant.

“They are eating us, Ratman
blurted.

 Arabella’s face displayed
revulsion at the news. Recovering her composure she asked, “How do you know
this.”

“Driven from the depths, my
brothers and sisters have come to the surface to avoid being eaten,” he
replied, his face flashing defiance. 

“Abomination,” blurted a disgusted
Finkelstein.

“That explains how they’ve stayed
hidden,” observed Arabella.

“What are you talking about,”
demanded Ortega, shoving forward to get into Ratman’s face, “Are you claiming
that there are cannibals here or what?”

“No, you idiot, the Vampires are
eating the rats; they’re killing them to drink their blood, to survive,”
pushing Ortega back from the cowering Ratman.  “Please be quiet, you are
frightening him.”

“Excuse me, Lady, but from the
sounds of things there’s some kind of crime going on here.”

Arabella looked at Ortega and then
turned away, pointedly ignoring him, his concerns and conclusions. 

“How many?” asked Arabella, gently
this time.

Stepping close to Ratman, Arabella
took his grimy hands in hers, holding him until he finally brought his face to
hers.  “I know we have not always been friends,” she said.

“Not you,…her,” the shriveled
little man whispered, “but you are hers.”

“Yes, that is correct, I have
always told you the truth, have I not,” she continued.

Rather than speaking, the Ratman
nodded his head a curt assent.

“I will help you save your people,”
she said, “but you must help me.”

The Ratman considered the statement
and began to tremble, which, thought Ortega, resembled a trash pile tossed in
the wind, finally managing a, “What do you want?”

“I need you to tell me how many
there are.  You can count can’t you,” she inquired in a straightforward
manner so that Ratman wasn’t offended by the question.

 He began reciting his numbers
proving he could do it.  Arabella let him get to twenty-three and when he
next said twenty-five she stopped him, congratulating him on his skills and
inviting Ortega and Finkelstein to applaud his prowess.

Mr. Finkelstein gravely pronounced
the counting as the best he’d ever witnessed, worthy of the highest university
in the land; Arabella glared at Ortega until he forced out, “Yeah, good job.”

“Send out your family,” she
exhorted, “find them, count them, tell me where they are, where they sleep.”