Tales From The Belfry Page 4
Harvey spoke up.
"Folks, this is Gordon MacNeil. He's new to the game."
The others nod, and mutter half-hearted "hello's" and "welcome's."
Harvey continued, pointing out the various people around the room. "That's Bill Cunningham, he's night watchman at Beckford Industries. Stephen over there by the door is a pastry chef at La Romaine."
I stuttered my own greetings and wondered what the hell I was doing there, and what the hell kind of place this really was. Harvey resumed the introductions.
"Wendell here doesn't work at all; he's convinced the government that he's bedridden and just collects a check by mail every month."
The group all had a good laugh at that; apparently it's nice to victimize someone in a non-fatal way for a change.
Harvey again: "This is the doc, Dan Peterson."
Peterson rose and shook my hand. He was a small man, sad-eyed like the rest of us, but there was a zeal behind the sadness. He had a crusader's eyes.
"Doc's working on a cure," said Harvey, with a touch of reverence.
I looked around the room. The others stared at Peterson hungrily, not unlike refugees watching the truck that delivers the rice.
"What luck?" I asked.
Peterson shook his head. "Still have a long way to go to find even a cause for it. But I've got access to a lab, light duties as a nighttime emergency room staffer. I do what I can."
Harvey showed me to a chair, and whispered softly. "Doc's got a way to get plasma if you have trouble—but don't tell any of the others. They don't know about it."
I glanced around the room. All the others were smiling. There wasn't a one of them who hadn't heard the same story.
A small blond woman sat apart from the others, staring into space. I gestured at her and raised my eyebrows to Harvey.
"That's Carrie," he said softly. "She's still got family, and she's finding it hard to handle all of this. She's new, like you."
I studied her, noting the droop of her shoulders and the listless way she had dressed herself in a nondescript sack of a dress. Her hair was oily from lack of washing, and her eyes were red-rimmed and filled with tears. Harvey was right; she didn't seem to like being a vampire. I didn't blame her.
I'd been introduced to everyone in The Belfry except a dour-looking sort who sat in the corner reading a magazine. I stopped Harvey before he had drifted to his own chair.
"Who's that?" I asked, indicating the loner.
"You don't want to know him," Harvey replied.
"Why not?"
"Keeps a Cow."
Once again, there was a familiar word, but with an unfamiliar emphasis. The capital letter was evident, and that changed things.
"Cow?"
"Got a 25-year-old kid tied to a bed in his apartment. Feeds him enough to keep him alive and producing Juice. Once a month, drains the Juice like milk. We call it 'keeping a Cow'."
"Oh."
The dour man looked at me with a mixture of apology and hatred mingled with contempt. I returned the look; Harvey was right. I didn't want to know him.
Gus returned from his shop after shutting off the lights in the cutting room. "Okay," he said, "let's get down to business."
"Got a new fish, Gus," said Harvey.
Gus looked me over. "Jeez, what a mess. Just off the boat, too, by the look of him."
There was general laughter. I took it to mean that I didn't have the bearing of an experienced vampire.
Harvey gave me a glance, then could hardly subdue his mirth. "Tried to nick me, too!" he crowed.
You'd have thought Jay Leno was there, doing his monologue. I didn't find it particularly humorous.
"An honest mistake," I said, to the accompaniment of more hilarity.
The one called Stephen, a huge black man with a gentle face, stopped laughing. "Don't let it get to you, Brother. We was all there before."
"Thanks," I said.
Gus stopped smiling, too. Almost instantly, everyone's faces became serious as well. How haunted we all look at this moment, I thought.
"A lot of new Brothers showing up lately," Gus said.
Harvey nodded. "Too many, to my way of thinking."
There were nods of assent from the rest of the group.
Stephen turned to me. "Any idea who nicked you?"
"Nicked?" I was puzzled by the strange jargon.
"Yeah, nicked. Poked, Can-opened," said Stephen.
The dour one in the corner spoke up. He had a strange accent, reminiscent of some Slavic language.
"He means, who made a meal of you? Drained your Juice? Bit your neck?"
A wave of disgust swept over me as I looked at the creature, thinking of what he had been doing. "At least he had the decency to let me go. He's not using me as a- a- Cow!"
The dour one snorted in derision. "Decency? How many Drinks have you nicked? How many did you 'S' and 'B'? How many of those Drinks are new Brothers now? Tell me, new fish—how many Dinners have you had?"
"I don't know what you mean—"
"Two? Thirteen? Five hundred? How many?"
I didn't see what the man was driving at. The others were all looking at me as if I'd done something wrong, but hell, they were all vampires too; surely they'd been responsible for more deaths than I had. After all, I'd only attacked animals up to that point.
"Five or six, maybe more. I don't really know."
The man was merciless. "And how many got the Stake, New Fish? How many felt the Flame? Or did you leave them in the street at dawn to die the Real Death?"
"I- I don't know what you mean. They were all animals. Nearly dead. I've never attacked any people until tonight."
Gus saw that I was worked up, and glared at the man in the corner. "Lighten up, Von Somogyi. He's a New Brother. Doesn't know."
"I have not had a meal out in more than five years," Von Somogyi retorted. "There are no New Fish on my account. No Drinks dying the Real Death."
"Yes," said Gus. "We know how conscientious you are, Vartan."
"Tell it to that one," said Von Somogyi, pointing at me and then returning to his magazine.
"Look," I said, "if I've done anything wrong, I'm sorry. Mostly I don't know what the hell you're all talking about."
"Forget it, man," said Stephen, gesturing toward Von Somogyi."He just be pissed 'cause he so weak he can't get no fresh-squeezed Juice."
But Stephen's attempt at humor just left me feeling more desolate than ever. It occurred to me that I was in a room with seven other—creatures—whose only apparent purpose in life was to kill and drink blood. How many of us vampires really existed, anyway? I shuddered to think that this group was only a small example.
"Does it matter who—what's the word, nicked?—me?" I asked.
Gus nodded. "It matters that he didn't give you the Stake and Flame."
"Stake and Flame?"
"He made you a New Brother. That means he's irresponsible. He made a new vampire. The more of us there are, the more of us have to kill to survive. And the more deaths that are attributed to 'strange circumstances' or 'weird occurrences', the more danger all of us are in. Sooner or later, someone will be searching for us, and sooner or later, we'll all die the Real Death. That's why when we Drink, we put a Stake through the heart of our Drink, and put the body into the Flame—a fire. No New Brothers. No new vampires."
I thought about that for a minute. So these—people—were trying to ensure that the number of existent vampires would stay stable, or at least not grow too large. Maybe I needed to rethink my opinion of them. And 'Doc' was looking for a cure…
"It was at a party," I said. "A writer, named Pavel Sted. He was the one who 'nicked' me."
Gus frowned. "Sted? Never heard of him." He cast his eyes around the room. "Anybody? Pavel Sted? You know him?"
Von Somogyi gave a snort of derision.
"Wh
at is it, Vartan? You know the man?" asked Gus.
"Is anagram," said Von Somogyi. "Mixed-up letters."
"So?" I asked. "Who is it?"
Von Somogyi put down his magazine and turned to face the room, a glow of hatred burning in his eyes. "Vlad Tepes. Nosferatu. The Impaler." He practically spat out the words. "Dracula."
And that was my introduction to The Belfry.
In the weeks that followed, I learned all there was to know about being a vampire, from those who had gone before: how to stake a Drink after I'd fed; the necessity to burn the body, lest the victim become yet another undead bloodsucker; the need to sleep in a "coffin" filled with "earth from home." These latter "requirements" consisted of placing boards around me as I slept, and dusting my sleeping area with dirt.
I made my "living" by writing articles for a local throwaway rag. I received what little money I got at a P.O. box downtown. The editors of the paper never saw me, and I never saw them. All of our exchanges were by text or e-mail. I had to move from the apartment in Pasadena, and rented a small studio in Watts.
One of the "benefits"—if you could call it that—of being a vampire was an incredible increase in strength. I never worried about crime or being mugged; anyone foolish enough to attempt it was treated as a convenient meal.
So this was to be my life: an endless stream of death, filthy living conditions, and hack writing. I resolved that I would do everything in my power to change it—and that turned out to be the resolution of everyone in The Belfry. We all determined that the purpose of our existence was to either find an end to whatever caused vampirism, or find "Pavel Sted" and bring him to the Real Death.
So Doc Peterson continued his search for a cure, Von Somogyi milked his Cow, Stephen made fabulous desserts for the best restaurant