Red Tide: The Flavel House Horror / Vampires of the Morgue (The Ian McDermott, Ph.D., Paranormal Investigator Series Book 2) (25 page)

Ian, with little hesitation, said, “Okay, Clayton. I think I get some of … that is to say … Ah, hell. I’m just going to ask and see if I understood any of it or not. Exactly how is a human transformed into a vampire? And is there a power of three involved in the transformation?”

Clayton once again smiled at Ian. He truly enjoyed Ian’s company and his inquisitive mind.

“Yes, Ian. The law, or power of three, does have its governing over transforming a human into a vampire. One: If a human is bitten three times by a vampire over the course of not more than three days, that is sufficient enough introduction of infection, for lack of a better word, to kill a human and give such a human rebirth into a new life as a vampire. That is enough infection to overcome a human’s natural antibodies devised to fight off infection. Two: Should a vampire bite you and suck your life’s essence, your blood, from you to the point of killing your mortal body, you will resurrect in three days fully infected, or possessed if you’re so inclined, into my world. Three: Should you ever drink the blood of a vampire, the concentration of infection is so great that it would nearly instantly kill your mortal self, and again in three days, you’d arise as one of us. I hope that sufficiently answered your questions?”

Ian nodded but then quickly spoke up once again. “Okay. All right, I’ve got that. But what is the lasting result, if any, of biting someone, a human, once or twice?”

Clayton frowned slightly. “Alas, that is a bit of a mystery in the sense that the results never seem to be exactly the same. As an example, let us say for the sake of this conversation that I chose to bite you once or twice over the next few days. You might become my wanton follower, obsequious to my wants and needs in every way. Or you might develop nearly superhuman strength as well as enjoy unnaturally good health for the duration of your perhaps somewhat extended lifetime. Or of course, much worse could occur. You might become horribly disfigured from the infection and quite possibly go completely insane. Insane, for instance, with a bloodlust primarily for lesser carnivora like, say, that of the character Renfield in my … in one of my favorite novels, Dracula, who desired to eat spiders and flies or any small animal if given the opportunity. The effects are largely unpredictable. You could even wind up with a combination of the aforementioned symptoms, or experience different symptoms altogether. I know this from personal experience. Though rare, a human initially bitten, even twice, can end up neither having nor suffering any symptoms at all. They have some kind of genetic immunity. But even they can be changed if sucked dry or bitten three times. No one is completely immune.”

All at once, Clayton cocked his head sideways. His ears to Ian looked as though they suddenly perked up, much like a dog’s does, when hearing something.

“Ah, finally. Here he is.” Clayton got up from his chair and went to his front door. A couple seconds later, the doorbell rang. Clayton let the bell ring three times before he opened his door. A delivery man handed Clayton a small box, then returned to his van and promptly sped away.

Clayton, box in hand, went directly to his kitchen. He grabbed a knife from his kitchen silverware drawer, then sliced opened the box and removed its plastic-bagged contents. He opened his refrigerator door and placed the bags onto the top shelf and closed its door. Clayton sat the box, empty except a sleeve of dry ice, on the kitchen counter He then left his kitchen, returning to his favorite chair.

“Ah, FedEx. When it absolutely, positively, has to be there overnight.” Clayton laughed at his recitation of their catch-phrase slogan. Ian smiled slightly at the irony of it all.

Ian decided to speak. “But I don’t understand. I saw you eat pizza!” Clayton laughed while he responded.

“Yes, well, we ancients have evolved, Ian. We require a certain amount of human blood to sustain us, that is true. Blood that is typically harvested and re-sold through black market channels that the council controls. Harvested by our farmer-dealers from society’s dregs. The homeless, prostitutes, runaways, and the like. Already lost souls. Persons that when they go missing, nobody much cares. But we, unlike those who have been turned in a time span of less than three centuries, have learned to tolerate, even enjoy on occasion, other foods. I’m especially fond of, as you know, a good pizza pie. But my favorites are steak tartare, and I do enjoy a properly prepared very rare prime rib.”

“Well, Clayton, since you’re not going to kill me or have me killed, where do we go from here?”

“As with this story, Ian, I’m confident in time, you will trust me enough to give me the details of your experience around the township of Harmony Falls. I smell a best-seller in that. I’ve already come up with a title for our little story here as well as a new pseudonym that I plan on using when writing supposed fictional accounts of your adventures.”

Ian’s curiosity overcame his residual fright and nausea. “Oh, yeah? Well, Clayton, what’s the title you’ve come up with?”

Clayton paused for a couple seconds as if to build drama. “I thought I’d already told you ... but perhaps not. Anyway, the title I’ve come up with is, ‘Red Tide.’”

Ian thought about the title and all of its intended metaphorical references before he responded. “Clayton, though in more ways than one, I hate to admit it. You’re right. You may have a best seller on your hands. I’m not sure, beyond blood, what’s on mine. By the way, what made you decide on ... your present name, Clayton Collins?”

Clayton smiled as he replied, “I’ve taken or given myself so many names. I came up with Collins from occasionally watching a very entertaining daytime television show back in the 1960’s called Dark Shadows.”

Ian immediately silently made the connection.
Of course. Barnabas Collins, the vampire.
With confusion resonating in his voice, Ian asked, “But how is it that Zoey’s your niece? And aren’t you supposed to be a cold-blooded killer? You know, demon possessed and all. You don’t seem to fit that description. But somehow, I don’t think you ever gave me all the facts regarding your kind.”

“Ah yes.” Clayton said. “Well, when you first asked me of my kind, I was to you just a man. Just a writer of horror fiction. It’s true, I haven’t told you all of our trade secrets, but I’ve told you more about us than most humans will ever know or certainly would ever believe.” Clayton smiled and laughed a small laugh. “I had to tell you only that which you could, how should I say, swallow. But those are good questions now that you know what you know. She’s my adopted niece, so to speak. But understand this with empirical clarity. That fact must never be revealed to her or to anyone, for that matter. Believe me when I tell you this. No good would come from such an enlightenment. I have made arrangements that when I decide it’s time for the demise of Clayton Collins, Zoey will become the beneficiary of a sizeable inheritance. I have looked after her for nearly her entire life. Her parents fell victim to one of Salizzar’s many serial sprees of Machiavellian malevolence. That one was principally focused around the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco. I was directed by the council at that time to curtail as best as possible the perpetuation of his predatory proclivities. And clean up … tie off … all loose ends. While doing so, I came upon a baby girl who had been discarded, left to die in a dumpster behind her dead parents’ apartment. For some reason that I may never completely understand, I simply could not bring myself to tie off that particular loose end. The council knows nothing of her, nor can they ever.”

Ian spoke up. “I understand and agree. There’s no reason for Zoey to ever know anything different. You’re her uncle.” Clayton nodded, taking Ian at his word.

“As for being a cold-blooded killer, as you put it, more correctly phrased would be a warm-blooded killer. Only we ancients have the ability to somewhat control our urges. Over many centuries, we have learned with varying success to keep bottled up the devil inside. But Ian, imagine if you would, a lion. One who has recently feasted to the point of satisfaction. It stands to natural reason that it would not pose near the imminent danger as one that hungers. Yet one would be foolish to take lightly or to ignore its potential to follow its most basic instinct.”

Hearing that triggered Ian’s memory. Ian vaguely remembered something that at the time, he’d paid little attention to. He thought that he’d very briefly heard what sounded like a microwave running each time just before Clayton would return to the living room with wine-glass in hand. Ian mused to himself,
Missed that one. The devil is in the details.
Ian blurted out, “You reheat the blood you consume in your microwave.”

“Yes, Ian, that’s how I do it. Others have their own methods. Regardless of what method of heating a somewhat civilized vampire uses to warm his fix of sustenance, one must take great care to not actually cook it, especially when using a microwave.”

Ian interjected, “To not break down the food value or, in cases like yours, its life-giving qualities as well as its addiction-satisfying, euphoric effects.”

Clayton smiled, “Very good!”

Ian suddenly looked confused. “Clayton, a few things still remain unanswered.”

Clayton grinned, “Perhaps it’s best that you not know all my little secrets. But ask away.”

Ian rapid-fired his questions, “What about the bite marks on your neck? And the razor-blade wounds on your wrist? How many of your kind make up the council? And how many of your kind would you guess there are worldwide?”

Clayton smiled as he spoke, “Yes, those are good questions. The bite marks on my neck. Theatrics, Ian. All smoke and mirrors devised to deceive and convince you that I had fallen victim to Salizzar. The neck bite was performed at my request by another of my kind. The leader of the council. She shall remain nameless. The wounds on my wrists I inflicted myself just as you assumed. The number of councilmen? There is the leader plus her twelve.” Ian instantly thought,
Of course. The antithesis to Jesus and his apostles.

“As to your question of our numbers. By comparison to the human race, we are few. But if one was to count my kind and our closely-related lycanthropic cousins and others which even I will not speak of, suffice it to say that it has been written in the Gospel of Mark in your Christian Bible that my name is legion, for we are many.”

Ian’s curiosity was piqued regarding Clayton’s mention of other entities. But the way he’d said that not even he would speak of them was unnerving enough to keep Ian’s mouth shut on the subject.

Clayton then showed Ian his neck and wrists. There was no sign of any injury. Clayton shifted in his chair then continued, “I have learned, besides exercising to the fullest my own personal will, to control such, shall I say, socially unacceptable impulses. It helps to consume blood in small quantities as frequently as practically possible. As you probably noticed, I do so enjoy mixing it with a fine Chianti.

“Ian, what I am is an apex predator. I make no excuses for it nor do I ask for your pity. I will be walking this planet long after you are dust.”

Ian suddenly became fascinated by the sheer amount of knowledge that a person could accumulate in a life that nearly transcended time. He was still confused regarding whether vampires were alive or the living dead. Even though Clayton had touched on the subject when they’d first met and discussed such matters, Ian felt compelled to know more. He couldn’t help himself from asking, “Clayton, help me better understand. Are you … Are vampires … I don’t know, the living dead?”

Clayton was surprised by the question. He’d felt that he’d adequately answered that for Ian days ago. But he maintained his calm, collected composure and decided to answer the question yet once again.

“Ian, all things are either dead or in some way or another alive. If we were dead, we could not be killed. And though difficult, we, as perhaps you have seen for yourself, can be dispatched. If our heart or our brain were instantly and utterly destroyed before any effectual regeneration could occur, or should we find ourselves in daylight for an extended period of time non-protected, we are finished. And fire in sufficient quantity and intensity will also do away with any vampire. So you wonder, what are we then besides the predators of man? I, and those like me, would best be described as the byproduct of an unholy resurrection. We have died and have been reborn as a parasitic predator, hence, we are living vampires. I told you the truth the other day when I said that vampires, our metabolisms, are much, much slower than that of humans. By comparison, a year in the lifespan of a human represents no more than minutes of mine. I have nothing if not time on my hands, which I assure you can be more curse than blessing when you have lived as long as I. Anything less than modern medical tests would reveal no detectable heartbeat, no breath, and would measure a body temperature far below that of a living human being. If poked or prodded, if need be, we can endure much more pain than you could possibly imagine. All that is truth, yet I assure you that our hearts do beat, and we breathe the air, just at a pace so slow as not to be readily detected. It is this slowness of heartbeat and breathing that accounts, at least in part, for our extremely prolonged lifespans by comparison to humans. You must accept that my kind are humanoid but are absolutely not human. Are we demons in part or whole? Perhaps. This much is understood by all who share my … shall we say … affliction. We are, above all, damned. Cursed to lurk in the shadows. Forever barred from crossing over into the light. That is, as your kind is so fond of saying, the down side. But on the up side … Membership has its privileges.”