The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis -- Part Six

Serial time!

Say, are you reading this? Enjoying any of it? Drop me a comment and let me know.

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5


"The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis"
By L.L. Heberlein
(copyright 2015, all rights reserved)

CHAPTER SIX:

It slowly began to sink in. I was screwed.

I thought about calling my employer and accusing her of setting me up, but a fat lot of good that would do. If she had set me up, it would do no good accusing her. And, if she hadn’t, I’d only be in more trouble.

I thought about that package, and about my options. And I thought about it a bit too long, because before I could figure out what to do next, dawn began to stretch across the sky. It was too late now to do anything for the day. I was dead, maybe in more ways than one.

I didn’t even have time to find a nice hotel and check in before the light stopped me. I didn’t want to die on someone as I signed the hotel register. I couldn’t stay in the car; if anyone found me, I’d be a dead guy in an expensive car. I’d be on the news.

My only hope, and I was pretty sure I was right, was the Dumpster. It hadn’t been full, which meant that tomorrow couldn’t be recycling day. It just couldn’t be. If I was wrong, I’d be that dead body found in the back of the recycling truck.

You know, I’ve been around for a long time, doing this non-living thing. And in all that time I have never had to sleep in a Dumpster. Oh, sure, lots of other nasty places. Holes in the ground, usually. Graveyards, old crypts. I even slept shoved inside a tree once. But tonight I was out of time, and out of options, and the Dumpster was my only choice as the sun came up. I had enough time to lock the car, climb in, and pull some cardboard over me before I went out. The last thing I saw in my mind was India’s face, laughing at me.

I awoke with a bang. Something hit the side of the Dumpster. I heard a loud truck rumble next to me. I heard it move forward, then the beep beep beep of it backing up.

Maybe it was recycling day after all.

I jumped out of the Dumpster to the blissful darkness of early evening. It had rained that day, but I’d stayed dry in the recycling bin under my pile of cardboard. And the truck wasn’t a recycling truck. It was a tow truck. I was about to lose my car.

“WAIT!” I shouted at the driver. He was positioning the truck in front of the BMW. There were three tickets on the window. I’d been in a loading zone, all day. Shit.

Well, I thought. Wasn’t my car. I threw the tickets to the ground, jumped in the car, and tore out of there before the driver could stop me. I felt pretty proud of myself for the quick escape, all hyped up on moxie and adrenaline. Yeah, I thought I was big stuff, until I got about to the Sea-Tac Airport, and realized I didn’t have the package.

Shit. Fuck. Shit. I hit the steering wheel and nearly drove off the road. Horns blared at me as I righted myself in my lane. Didn’t want to wreck the car and get in trouble.

Well, fuck. I was already in trouble. I couldn’t get the package, didn’t deliver it on time, and I’d probably been set up, which meant no paycheck anyway. But I did have a car, which was worth more than the money owed me, so I had that going for me. I knew of a chop shop or two that would pay cash on the spot for a sweet ride like this. Was I above grand theft auto? No, I was not. Not if I’d been set up.

Then again, maybe I was just a failure at the job, and after word got out, I’d never work in this town again.

Chicago, I thought. I’ve never lived there. Maybe I could give Chicago a try.

I thought about India, and how I’d miss just living in the same town, even if I never saw her. Then I remembered what she said, the package would find me. I’d have it today. If I did get the package today, and delivered it with all apologies, there was a chance I’d get paid my regular fee. I’d have to kiss that bonus goodbye, but I could still get paid. I’d still be in a good spot with that. I could pay Horseface the money, and he’d pay Barry, and we’d be back to square one, but at least we’d be safe. And we’d have electricity.

Maybe things weren’t so bad. I let the hope fill my chest as I pulled into the tiny driveway next to the house. We usually left it empty for clients, and I figured since I had a client, I might as well enjoy the privilege of the parking spot. Horseface’s car was parked out front – a good sign he was there. Bad sign was the lights were all out. I walked up the front steps with a strange feeling… a knowing feeling. Like I was about to encounter something bad. I hit the top step when I smelled the blood. I yanked at the door. Locked. I rustled in my pocket for the keys and dropped them twice before I could get the door open.

A package covered in newsprint and bound in twine...

I hit the lights, and the room was an explosion of red. Blood covered everything – walls, ceiling, books, the nice seating area. Horseface sat in his chair, sprawled out with his neck at a weird angle. No needing to check. I knew he was dead, and had been for a few hours at least. The carpet squished with blood as I walked up on the lifeless body of John Horesman.

There was nothing to be done. His stomach had been ripped open. It looked like something had clawed him to bits. I thought about what had happened to me the night before, and I knew that this is what I would have looked like if I’d been alive. No human could survive that. At least my stomach had remained intact. I looked at his guts on the floor, and lost it. Black coffee poured out of my mouth, thick like bile. I can’t remember throwing up, not ever. It was strange to see all that black liquid and feel the sensation of my stomach clenching and something forcing its way up. I wiped my lips, and everything around me grew more and more disgusting. The blood, the bile. Dead John Horesman. All of life, and everything around me, disgusting.

It had all been pointless. The job, the money, seeing India again. Everything. There was no point to it. Nothing mattered.

I turned to walk away. I planned to just keep walking.

Then I saw the pictures. The stupid art on the walls, untouched by the blood bath. Lucy’s art. And I thought of sweet little Lucy, that wonderful girl who knew more of the underworld than a human should. Tough as she was, she was still a human. Still quite the innocent. Something like this would break her. Someone had to keep her from dealing with this. I would deal with it for her. I had to. For Lucy.

I turned back, and walked slowly toward the desk. I focused on the phone and tried not to look at John as I dialed. And it was in trying not to look that I looked even harder, and saw the thing clutched in John’s hands. A package, about eight by eight inches square, covered in newsprint and bound in twine. It sat in his lap, soaking up the blood on bottom.

It was the package. I’m not sure how I knew it, but I was certain that this was the thing I was supposed to pick up last night, the thing I had to deliver to the vampire-dame Clara. Whatever it was, this was it.

I’d have it today, India had said. And here it was. And John was dead.

The cabinet door of John’s desk was open. He always kept it closed, and locked. While everything else was torn apart, that door was still on its hinges, the key still in the lock.

The phone picked up. India’s voice again. After hearing my hello, she said, “This had better be good.”

I could hardly speak. “John Horesman’s dead,” I said. “Big bloodbath. Call the authorities.” And I hung up before I could answer any questions. They’d be here soon enough, and I had one thought. I needed that package. I had to hide it, quick. I grabbed the package and shoved it into the hole in the wall that worked like a mail slot. John used it to shove notes and bills down into my place when I was sleeping. It came with the house, and might have been used as something else at one time -- a call tube between floors, maybe. It was just big enough for the package to slide down and land with a thud at the bottom.

I looked around at the room, and then at myself covered in blood and bile, still wearing that stinky, discarded sweatshirt. I was desperate for a shower, but cleaning up now would only seem guilty. So I sat on the less-blood-covered seat in the little sitting area, and waited for the authorities to arrive.

They arrived looking as they always did. Tall, leather clad beings with serious faces. Among them was at least one vampire, the only one I ever trusted even a little. His name was Schwartz, but everyone just called him “Sir”. He was in charge of the operation; in charge of most everything, actually. He was the head of the council, the top guy in underworld law enforcement. He was brutal, but fair. I never saw him get angry, or smile. I never heard him raise his voice. I’d seen him kill, and that was enough. Everyone respected him. Most of the smart ones feared him.

The team of leather-clad enforcers scoured the room for clues. They looked over everything, making notes, saying almost nothing. They concentrated mostly on the body. The guy in charge concentrated on me.

“You found him this way.” It wasn’t really a question. He would know a lie, so he knew I wasn’t lying. “Do you know who did this?”

“I know that he owed Barry some money.”

He looked around the blood-soaked room. “This isn’t Barry’s work. Not his M.O.”

I agreed. It wasn’t. Barry wouldn’t have left anything edible lying around.

Schwartz looked me in the eyes. His were brown and deep, almost totally dark, like staring down into two black pits. “What aren’t you telling me?”

I swallowed. “I threw up.”

“Yes. I smelled that. Coffee,” he said. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

I shrugged. “That’s it.”

Schwartz took a step closer. If my blood were warm, it would have turned cold. “I’ve never trusted you, Davis.”

I stared him down. It was the bravest thing I’d ever done.

His jaw clenched. He kept staring at me as he spoke. “Okay, everyone. Let’s clean it up.”

The job was done with magic. The body was wrapped and removed, taken away for evidence. The room was cleaned, all the blood removed with some spell cast by a buxom brunette in tight leather pants and very high heels. A purple swirling light flowed through the room, and the blood was gone. Things were set back to right, cushions mended, books back on shelves, but not in the right spot. The whole thing wasn’t right. Clean and tidy, but just not right, like the room remembered what had happened and refused to return to normal so easily.

One by one, his people left, but Schwartz stayed. He just kept looking at me.

“You’re hiding something,” he said. “There’s something to this that you’re not telling me.”

“Well, you know, it’s kind of embarrassing, but John did owe a lot of people a lot of money.”

“So you’re not surprised to see this?” Schwartz asked.

“Well, yeah. I mean, who wouldn’t be surprised by all this?” I gestured, like the blood was still there, forgetting for a moment that it had been cleaned up.

He took another walk around the room, examining it like he could still see all the blood evidence lying around. Then he headed for the door. “I have my eye on you,” he said, then shut the door behind him.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

What. The. Fuck.

Thoughts too long for Twitter: Slowly, but surely

My writing is getting better. Slowly, but surely (There, a cliche and double-adverb all in one. If I were editing this, I'd take that out. See! Getting better!). The more I write, the more I read, the better I get. But in drops. Not all at once.

I've been reading some really good writing lately. Horror writing, which I'm starting to believe is the most difficult type of writing. You're not just trying to tell a story-- you're trying to elicit a specific emotion, to make people's skin crawl (and there, see! Another cliche I'd wipe out, were I editing this). Nightmare magazine has some of the best short-story horror anywhere. Gorgeous writing. Every word, carefully chosen. Every metaphor, crisp and new, a perfect image playing in my head, scary as hell.

I can't write that well. Not yet.

And it KILLS me. I've spent a lot of time lately throwing myself off metaphorical cliffs, slamming my own head into metaphorical walls, screaming at myself to STOP WRITING, because you're just NO DAMN GOOD AT IT!

Did I tell you about that thing I read somewhere recently, about the only difference between published writers and unpublished writers is confidence? Not quality of work. Confidence. Hm.

I've also found myself slogging through the slush-pile that is independently published writing. Forget your preconceived notions about authors who publish their own works-- there's a lot of GOOD stuff out there. There's also a lot of crap. Some of it got published. Crap. Published. Just the other day, I downloaded a free book to my Kindle from an indie author of urban fantasy. Sounded good. She had so many books available. So many published, some for free, some for pay. Two pages in, and it's crap. Laughably bad. And it's not the genre and it's not the premise and it's not the topic or even the over-arching plot. It's the damn writing. Adverbs. Cliches. Too much telling and not enough showing.

But, damn. I've got to love this author's confidence.

For the record (a cliche record!), I've been reading some really good stuff, for free, off Amazon, from indie authors. If you are interested in this sort of thing, check out Kindle Scout. They call it "reader powered publishing" and it's a great place for new authors to offer up some really great stories.

Maybe someday that's where I'll go. When the writing's good enough. It's not there yet. But it will be.

Until then.

Enjoy,
LLH

Girl Superhero Project Prompt 5: Smart, Rich, Super Suit

Girl Superhero Project Prompt 5:
Ironman is a superhero because he's totally rich and smart and made his own suit so he could fly and stuff. This girl superhero who is also smart and rich made herself a super suit. What does it look like? What does it allow her to do?


At our last meeting, our super-awesome kick-ass women's writing group did a thirty-minute write-in. I used this superhero prompt, wrote for the full thirty, and this is what I came up with. Formulaic, cliche even... but so fun!

And so, with very little editing, I give you...

 

The Moth
By L.L. Heberlein


Sally picked up the phone. "Yell-ow," she answered, though not really enthusiastically. Her mind was far too occupied by more important things--physics, molecular chemistry, the wingspan velocity of an unladen swallow.

"Mizz Rex, your package has arrived," a man said in a crisp British accent. "Special delivery. Shall I send it up?"

"Of course," she said, then added, "Right away, Halloway"--always her little joke with her long-suffering butler.

When the box was wheeled in, it took up most of the door frame. Halloway had to tilt the box sideways, almost losing the entire load. Sally ran to grab the corner of the box before it fell. "Careful," she aid. "This is delicate material. Doesn't come cheap, either."

"If it is so delicate," Halloway said, raising an eyebrow, "then why bother with it at all?" He was always a little skeptical of her inventions. Rightfully so. Sally hadn't come up with anything truly functional since the creation of the wrinkle-free, wipe-clean fabric she invented three years ago. The always-clean, dirt-repelling nature of the fabric came with another interesting side-effect--it was also invisible to radar. Stealth fabric, imagine that.  Between fashion designers and the military, Sally had added millions to her already ample trust fund.

The fabric--LightSweep, she called it--had made her more than enough money to invent the thing she really wanted.

"Behold, Halloway," she said, busting through the cardboard. "My latest, greatest invention--FeatherLight."

"So brilliant, Mizz Rex," Halloway tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he studied the gray bolt of mesh-like material. "But what does it do?"

"Ye of little faith." Sally rolled her eyes. "FeatherLight is the product of years of research into the molecular structure of moth wings. It is light as a feather--lighter--yet stronger than steel. It is soft as down, yet slices through metal with its razor-sharp edge. It's water-repellant, bullet-repellant. And once I get it on my framework--"

"Oh, that thing in the corner," Halloway sighed.

"Yes, Halloway, that thing. Once I apply this fabric to that frame--"

"Don't tell me you think you'll be able to fly."

Sally scowled. "I'm sorry, but don't you have some sort of butler-type-thing you should be doing?"

He tilted his head. "Yes, miss. Much butlering to be done downstairs. Is that all, Mizz Rex?"

"Yes, thank you." She nodded at him, then dove for the contents of the box. "Oh, and bring me a ham sandwich. Rye. No pickles."

"Of course, miss." Halloway bent his head forward and backed out of the huge ballroom that Sally had long ago transformed into her laboratory.

Ten minutes later, Halloway returned with the sandwich to find Sally applying strips of very thin, iridescent fabric to the metal frame. "Your sandwich, miss," he said, trying not to watch over her shoulder. He knew how much she hated having him watch her work.

"Thank you," she murmured through a mouthful of pins.

But the sandwich sat untouched, even hours later, when Halloway returned to clear the plate and turn off the lights he assumed she'd left on in the lab. He found her working feverishly on the project that looked to  him like a cross between a gray circus tent and a complete disaster.

"Goodnight, miss," he said, knowing better than to remind her of the time. It was well after midnight, and Sally hadn't stopped. She wouldn't stop now--not until the project was finished.

It was sometime around sunrise when Halloway heard the scream.

The noise had come from the foyer--not a frightened scream, but one filled with joy. The sound of absolute elation.

"I did it!" Sally screamed. "It works! Oh, Halloway! Come here! It works! It works!"

"What in the world..." Halloway stepped into the foyer and found Sally perched on the edge of a railing, several feet above the hard marble floor.

"Watch this!"--And then she jumped.

Halloway let out a scream as his employer--more like a daughter to him since her parents died--plunged off the high railing--and flew.

She wasn't gliding, wasn't parachuting. Sally was actually flying.

"It works perfectly, Halloway! Look!" She landed at his feet, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then launched herself back into the air. "What do you think of that!"

"I... I... I..." Halloway was at a loss for words.

"Brilliant, isn't it!" Sally beamed. "Do you know how long mankind has been trying to invent actual, functional wings like these?"

He coughed. "The mind recalls the story of Icarus, miss."

"I mean, forget the military applications for a moment, and just think of what this means for all of humanity." She smiled. "What's Icarus?"

"Icarus, of the wax wings, miss," he said. "An ancient myth of a boy with wings made of wax. He flew too close to the sun, and plunged to his death, I believe."

Sally did a summer-salt in midair and laughed. "These are no wax wings, Halloway. These are made of pure FeatherLight. Even the base is made of an alloy similar in structure to the FeatherLight fabric. Both are patented to me, of course."

"Of course," Halloway said, feeling his chest tighten as he watching Sally fly to the highest point of the ceiling, some thirty feet above. "But will they hold?"

"Of course they'll hold. I invented them for military  as well as civilian applications. Here--" She dove from the ceiling to the ground, swooping to a stop at the last second. She landed softly at Halloway's feet, then took a gun from a holster at her side. "Shoot me!"

"No!" Halloway screeched in a voice that was quickly losing its proper deference.

"Yes!" Sally answered. "Not me, of course. I meant the wings. Try to shoot one off."

"Miss... I don't think that is such a good idea..."

The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis -- Part Five

Welcome back,

Here is the fifth installment of my little web serial.

It's been a difficult week in this writer's mind. Full of uncertainty, doubt... lack of confidence, which I know, is the one thing you really, really need if you want to be a writer. While I battle through my personal demons, it's nice to read over something I wrote just for fun once.

Good luck battling your own demons.

Enjoy,
LLH



Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

"The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis"
By L.L. Heberlein
(copyright 2015, all rights reserved)

CHAPTER FIVE:

It wasn’t an hour later that she arrived. India Blackwell walked into the restaurant dressed in tight black pants and a red leather jacket. Every head turned and looked. She was what can only be described as a spitfire; fiery red hair falling in curls around her shoulders, sharp green eyes and a cute button nose, cupid-bow lips with a dash of red gloss, only a touch of makeup to play up her eyes and tone down her freckles. Damn, how I loved those freckles. I loved everything about India Blackwell. She was my height when she wasn’t in heels, and just as thin. We made a scrappy pair, India and me.

It’s only fair to say that I’m madly in love with her. I always will be, and it felt like I always had been. India, I knew, would always be madly in love with me, too. Love was never our problem. It was the whole rest of the goddamn world, and all the stuff involved in “relationships” that was the problem. We weren’t together anymore, and it was for the best, but... damn, it was nice to see her.

I gave her my best wry smile. She smirked. “You look like shit, Davis.” She sat down next to me and gestured at the waitress for another cup like mine. “What’s the plan?”

Right to business. “Well, I was thinking… magic?”

India filled her mug from my carafe. “That’s it. That’s the plan. Magic?”

I didn’t speak. I drank from my mug as I tried to think.

She tapped one red-painted fingernail against her lips. “I guess I could talk to the guy at the place. See if I could charm him. Maybe get him to bring it to me. Maybe.” She tapped her finger some more. “You know, Davis, I could get in a lot of trouble for this. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, staring into my mug. “I know.” India is in underworld law enforcement these days. You could call her a cop for the supernatural. She works for the council, keeping an eye out for the bad little boys and girls.

India is, or was, human. Like me, she’s not any more. Though, unlike me, she’s not dead. She just doesn’t age; not like a regular human, anyway. I knew she was well past thirty, but you’d never guess a day over twenty-five. She just didn’t age any more. Maybe she never would. Maybe she was immortal. At least she was very, very hard to kill, I knew that much. And, skinny and scrawny as she was, India was immensely powerful. A tough pill for a powerless guy like me to swallow.

India paid for her share of the coffee, plus a huge tip. At least one of us had money these days. Must be nice to have a real job, I thought.

The warehouse wasn’t far, and India sat in silence for most of the drive. She did say “Nice car” as she climbed into the passenger seat. I didn’t mention it wasn’t mine.

I parked in a different alley, not too far away. As we walked up to the gate, India put her hand on my arm. “Go back to the car and wait,” she said. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, come in and find me.”

I nodded. I knew I owed her a lot for this.

She walked a few steps, then turned back and said “Bad sweatshirt, by the way.”

“I know.”

“It smells like vomit.”

I sniffed my arm. It did smell like vomit. I shrugged.

She shrugged back, then turned around and kept walking.

I waited in the car. Five minutes, ten minutes. The time crept up on fifteen minutes, and still I heard and saw nothing come from the warehouse. Right at fourteen minutes and forty seconds, I saw India walk out, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in her pockets. She walked quickly, almost at a run, and got in the car.

“Drive,” she said. Her face was all red, the way only a redhead can get.

“What about the package?”

“You’ll have it tomorrow,” she said. “I promise. Just drive.”

I started up the car, put it in gear, and drove off.

“What happened?”

India turned to me with those green eyes lit up like emerald fire. “You really, really don’t want to know,” she said.

“Did you get the package?”

She shook her head slowly. “Nope. I’m sorry, Davis, but that item is absolutely stuck there until tomorrow. And I do mean stuck, as in magically stuck there. You couldn’t move it if you wanted to.”

It took me a moment to answer. “I was set up, wasn’t I?”

“Looks like it,” she said, nostrils flaring. “You want to tell me who your employer is so I can go beat her up?”

I laughed. “Not a chance.”

She glared. “Fine. Drop me off back at the restaurant. I’ve done more than my share for you tonight.”

“What did you do?”

“I said don’t ask,” she got out of the car and slammed the door. I rolled down the window.

“India? Indy, I’m sorry,” I said. She kept walking. “What am I supposed to do about the package?”

She turned back. “Whatever it is, it will find you,” she said. “But not until tomorrow. Go home, Davis. Get some sleep.”

“But I need that package!”

“Davis, that package does not exist for you until tomorrow,” she said. “Go home.” She kept walking, and I let her.

Girl Super Hero Project Prompt 4: The Librarian

Girl Super Hero Project Prompt 4: The Librarian
Some super heroes/super villains are super smart. The Librarian is totally book smart. How does she use that to her advantage?


I’m no poet. I’m not, really. But I like this for some reason, so gosh dern it, I'mma post it. You’re welcome.

Enjoy,
LLH




Fundamental Power
By L.L. Heberlein


Armed and ready
book by my side
pen poised to take notes
I listen, and wait
day, and night
for the knowledge to pour into me
perched over pages like a raptor ready to strike
I spread my wings and take flight.

The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis -- Part Four

Serial time, kids!

Here is the fourth installment of my web serial. Action! Adventure! Monsters and Magic and Mayhem!

Enjoy,
LLH


Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3

"The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis"
By L.L. Heberlein
(copyright 2015, all rights reserved)

CHAPTER FOUR:

I had no idea where to start looking for this thing. Or even what I was looking for.

I hit Tacoma much faster than anticipated.

Traffic slowed on the outskirts of town and crept along into the city as I made my way through downtown toward the waterfront. The shipping center was easy enough to find. A high metal fence topped with barbed wired surrounded a series of warehouses and large shipping containers stacked like colorful blocks on top of each other.

I kept driving, circling the block a few times before I found just the right dark alley to park in. It meant walking a few blocks, which was perfect. Call it an underworld habit or something, but I like to give the illusion that I appear out of nowhere. Besides, you never want to let them know where you parked your car. There’s safety in paranoia.

The night was cold and damp, perfect for fog. I walked through the dark and appeared like a specter in the light of a street lamp. I tried my best to glide through the parking lot, using years of practice in making no noise. I walked through the door and stepped up to the counter. It took the man a few minutes to look up from his little computer screen and notice me. He jumped.

“Dammit,” he wheezed. “Did NOT see you there.” He gasped for breath and clutched his big barrel of a chest with one meaty hand. The man was big – six foot something and overweight. His frizzy red hair was tied back in a long ponytail and his unkempt red beard made him look like a Viking. He turned his attention to me, trying to make up for lost professionalism. He sized me up for a moment, taking in my dead-guy complexion and all-black apparel. Drawing the obvious incorrect conclusion, he straightened. If he were a dog, I’d say you could see his hackles rise. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to pick up a package,” I said, and handed him a signed slip of paper that Clara had given me.

He looked down at the slip of paper, back up at me, down at the paper again, and then dialed the phone next to him. It sounded like he was using a sort of code instead of actual words. “Twenty three. Yes. No. Twenty three and then fourteen. No. Fourteen and fifteen then. Yes. Thanks.” He hung up the phone and looked down at the slip of paper again. “Is this your name here?”

“No,” I answered. “That’s my employer’s name. She signed the slip, and asked me to pick it up.”

“Have you got identification?”

I raised an eyebrow. I had identification, but I didn’t feel like flashing it. “What’s the problem?”

He stood from his desk. He was taller than I’d estimated, pushing seven feet tall. He leaned toward me, placing both hands on the counter. “There’s no problem. I just need to see some ID. Standard procedure.”

I handed it over with a sigh and he snatched it from my hand. Both of us were growing impatient. He copied everything, every date and number and bit of information, even something on the back which I figured was inconsequential. Handing it back to me, he said, “Just a minute or two. Why don’t you have a seat over there?”

He gestured toward two very hard plastic chairs against the wall. I took my seat, crossed my legs, and waited.

There are only so many hours in the day for me. More so in the winter, when the sun rises late and sets early. But, still, I am limited as to how much I can get done in a day. Imagine if you had to lie immobile for all daylight hours, and see just how valuable your time becomes. Time ticked away on the old wall-mounted office clock across from me. Eleven twenty. Eleven twenty-five. Eleven thirty. By eleven forty-five I was done waiting and ready to jump behind the counter and find the package myself.

I stood at the counter, and it took a minute for the guy to notice I’d moved from my chair. He jumped again. “Jezuz!” he said.

“What’s the holdup?” I asked, then noticed the clipped-on name tag on his shirt. “Edward.”

Edward’s eyes shot open. “How did you…?”

I pointed toward his chest, and he gave an “Oh” as he saw his name printed there. “Right. We’ll, see. It’s like this. We have the package, but there’s a moratorium on it. I can’t release it to you until tomorrow.”

I looked at the wall clock. “So, what? Like, fifteen minutes from now?”

“No, ‘fraid not,” Edward said. “It’s the twenty-four hour kind. This package came in a crate from China, and we’ve got all this paperwork and shi… stuff. We have it, but we can’t give it to you. I mean, not yet.”

“Then why did you make me wait? Are you giving me the runaround, Edward?” I turned up the charm, feeding into his notion that I was what he thought I was. Sometimes it helps to come across as a vamp. I even avoided smiling at him with all my teeth showing, hoping he’d think I was hiding some fangs.

Edward swallowed hard. “Look,” he said. “I’m just doing my job, okay? I’d love nothing more than to hand this thing over to you, really I would. It’s just that I can’t, see? I was told… I just can’t. So come back tomorrow, okay? Come back then, and we’ll see if we can’t work things out.”

I glared at him. “But Edward,” I said. I was betting he didn’t go by Edward. This guy was definitely an Ed or Eddie. “I need it now. Tonight.”

Eddie glared back. Maybe he didn’t like getting bossed around by pale-faced scrappy looking vampires. “Can’t. Sorry.”

I wasn’t ready to give up, but I wasn’t prepared to take Eddie on. I’m strong -- supernaturally strong. But Eddie had the size advantage on me. When it came down to it, I didn’t think I could beat him without doing some serious damage, and Eddie didn’t deserve that. He was just trying to do his job, like me.

We stared each other down for a moment. The tension built, and I almost thought Eddie was going to jump the counter himself. After a long pause, he spoke. “Look, I could have it delivered. Tomorrow. During the day. Would that do?”

“No,” I answered quickly. “I need it tonight.”

There was another tense moment of not talking. “Let me call my manager,” Eddie said. He picked up the phone and dialed a number without looking. “Yes, sir. This is Ed. Yes, I have that twenty three here still. No…. yes, I understand. Fourteen and fifteen….. Yes, that’s what I said. No, he didn’t. Yes. Yes. Okay, I understand. Thank you.”

He didn’t take his eyes off of me the entire time he spoke. When he finally put the phone down, he was seething. “Look, buddy. I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re shit out of luck tonight, got it?”

I sighed. “Ed, I’m just trying to do my job. Just like you. I’m not sure what this thing is, but I need it. Right away. Or I’m more than shit out of luck, got it?”

“No!” he shouted. “No, I’m not doing this! I’m not getting involved in your freaky underworld politics and shit. If you’ve got shit on your side, I’m sorry. But I can’t help you out, man.”

I sighed again, and nodded. I was getting nowhere with this guy, and he was right. He didn’t need to get involved in this. I left as quietly as I came, and made sure to  walk all the way out of the lit parking lot and into the dark roadway before turning around and coming up the back of the building. I hopped from shadow to shadow as I made my way around the edge of the fence and found the back entry. There were security cameras there, I’m sure, but I couldn’t see where. I don’t have that mystical vampire ability to make myself invisible for cameras, but I can move very, very slowly.

I slunk along in the shadows, moving inch by inch,  so as not to draw any attention. I stayed hidden as much as I could until I made it all the way to the loading dock. The big loading door was closed, but I could see light pouring out from under the crack at the bottom. I tried the door to the side entrance, and was surprised when it came open. The warehouse was huge and brightly lit, filled with boxes wrapped in white plastic and brown paper. I had no idea where to start looking for this thing. Or even what I was looking for. I had a plan, though. I read the numbers on the large stacking shelves until I came to aisle twenty three. I made my way down the row, looking for sections fourteen and fifteen. Everything was nicely labeled, so it didn’t take long to find the section. Right in the spot between the numbers fifteen and fourteen sat a wooden crate, about five feet across, with rusted metal hinges and a latch that had been opened. As I put my hand on the crate, I had this feeling of foreboding.  I wasn’t supposed to open this chest, I thought. Whatever lay inside wasn’t meant for me.

But this had to be it. Whatever was inside, this was the thing I was supposed to deliver.

I opened the chest.

Darkness rushed out. A swirl of flapping wings surrounded me, lifting me up and slamming me against the opposite shelf. Tiny teeth nipped at me, tearing little bits from my leather jacket and jeans. Pin-pricks appeared along my hands as needle-sharp teeth bit into me. I screamed, and tried to brush them off. I rolled across the ground, swatting at my face and arms. They were everywhere. Little black creatures with slapping wings and sharp teeth. Bats with demon faces. And they laughed as I struck out at them. They laughed, and the kept coming.

I rose to my feet and ran as fast as I could for the door I’d entered. I reached it, turned the knob, and nothing. The door wouldn’t budge.

Then the lights went out.

Everything around me became squeaking and flapping darkness. I swatted at the air, trying to keep the things from gouging my eyes out. I hit one and grabbed it in my hand. I made a fist and squeezed. The thing let out a high-pitched squeal as it crunched under my fingers. I let it fall to the floor and the other creatures seemed to squeal even louder.

I ducked my head, using my jacket to shield my face, as I tried to move in between the shelves. I couldn’t remember seeing another door or entrance, except the large garage door of the loading dock. If I could make my way over there, maybe I’d be able to lift it and slide under. Maybe there’d be a button or switch of some kind to raise it. Maybe.

Or maybe I was out of luck.

A rumbling came from the other side of the warehouse. It started of low, and then grew in strength as the vibration rolled toward me. I grabbed hold of the nearest shelf as the room shook. Still in the dark, I couldn’t see what was falling around me, I only felt the boxes hit me, bashing my head. I fell on the ground hard. I’m sure a living person would have been knocked out. Something heavy covered me, which kept the flapping little bat demons away for a moment. I stayed under the heavy container as the rumbling continued. A wave of fear ran through me as everything around me swayed and rumbled. Then I heard a sound, like a hundred little paws clicking to a stop. I heard breathing, and growling, and then the sound of wood and metal being torn apart.

I lay there, too afraid to move as pieces of whatever it was that covered me were ripped away. Shreds of wood and metal slapped at me as everything was torn to pieces. There was a moment there in the dark when I dared to lift my head and look.

All I could see were bright red eyes. Hundreds of them.

Then the claws hit me. They tore at my leather jacket. I wriggled out of it, letting them have it. I backed up as fast as I could, and hit a metal wall with a rattling thud. The garage door! I dropped to the floor and felt for a latch or an edge… anything I could move to lift the door open. Claws raked at my arms, tearing my shirts into shreds of cloth. Something growled right next to my head. Teeth sank into my leg. I screamed, and just at the moment, I felt the latch of the door in my hand. I wrenched it with all my might and the door rolled open. I slid out, taking whatever it was that had sunk its teeth into my leg with me. The door slammed shut behind us with a bang. We fell together down the ramp and into the brightly lit parking lot. The thing looked more like a monster than a dog. Hellhound, I thought, as I wrapped my hands around its neck. I squeezed as the thing clawed and fought me. I wrapped my legs around its lower body, and used all the strength in my arms to wrench its neck around.

I heard a crack. The thing let out a whelp, and then went limp. I scurried away from the body of the dead hound, not waiting for it to jump back to life. Hellhounds have  a way of doing that.

A loud bang came from the loading dock door. I could see dents forming in the metal as the other hounds threw themselves at the door, trying to punch through. I ran as fast as my torn-up legs would go, down the block and toward the alley with my car. I flew at the thing, grasped the car handle, and found it locked. My keys, I remembered, were in my jacket. The jacket, I remembered, was lying in the warehouse, probably torn apart. My keys were either there, or in some hellhound’s belly.

Well, shit. I crouched down in the alley, behind the car, and waited. I listened, but the noise from the banging of the metal door was gone. Eerie silence crept over everything as I waited for something, anything, to rush after me. But there was nothing. Only silence as I crouched by the car, waiting. After a few minutes a car came by. The driver must have seen me, because it slowed. Headlights shone on me, revealing a pale, dead-looking man wearing ripped-up clothing. The car sped away.

I decided it was best to get out of the light. I found the nearest shelter, a metal Dumpster, and climbed in. It was filled with cardboard from disassembled boxes. There was very little odor to it, except for damp cardboard. It was the nicest Dumpster I’d ever jumped into.

I lay there for a moment and assessed my situation. Car locked. Keys, probably in the warehouse somewhere. No way of getting home otherwise. And no package. I had no choice. I had to go back to the warehouse. If I couldn’t find the package, I at least had to get the keys and return the car. Had to. Or I’d be out the job money, owe her one very nice BMW 3 Series, which I could never afford, and have failed her completely. Actually, I’d probably be out of my non-living life. There was no way I could fail a vampire so completely and come away whole.

I sat up among the recycled cardboard and thought about my next move. What did I have going for me? Not much. No magical powers to speak of. No guns, or weapons of any kind. Which, in hindsight, was extremely stupid. Why had I ever thought this simple pick-up-and-delivery would be simple?

Instead of thinking of things I didn’t have, I tried to think of the things I did have. My assets. And my strongest asset was also my greatest weakness, which is this: At times, I can be a real asshole.

I made up my mind, took a deep breath, and jumped out of the Dumpster. Yep, I was really going to do this.

I walked right up to the building, and went back in through the front door.

I didn’t wait for Ed to notice me. I knocked on the counter. He turned, and jumped once more.

“WHAT THE HELL!”

A bit of a smirk crept across my face as I spread my arms. Bits of black-blooded flesh hung in ribbons. Parts of me looked like I’d been filleted. “I forgot my keys,” I whispered. “Would you be so kind as to get them for me?”

Ed shook as he stood. “I… goddamn. Sweetbabyjezuz.”

My hands came to rest on my hips. “I apologize for my appearance. You see, I went looking for that package in your warehouse. It was my mistake, and I paid dearly for it, as you can see. Now, would you be so kind as to go back into your warehouse and retrieve my car keys for me? And perhaps whatever else is left of my leather jacket?

Ed shot out of his little office, disappearing through a little door in the back. I felt more than heard a rumbling coming from the back warehouse. The whole building shook with a loud roar. A door opened at the end of a hallway, and something came flying out at me.

My jacket. Or what was left of it.

That beautiful leather jacket, the one I’d had since the 70s, had been worn to a buttery soft patina. All that was left of that fine, favorite piece of clothing was a front panel and a bit of zipper. But the panel in question did, in fact, have the pocket with my keys still inside. I lifted the bit of shredded leather to my face, and inhaled the scent of leather and age. It smelled like home. I took it with me. I’m not usually a sentimentalist, but that jacket was like an extension of me. It deserved a proper burial.

I walked out of the place without any problems. Ed was nowhere to be seen.

So, there I was, back in the car at least, but without the package. Certainly I couldn’t just walk up again and expect him to give it to me this time. And I wasn’t about to sneak back in the warehouse, not after the shredding I’d received. No, I needed something else. Or someone else. I needed a partner.

Horseface? No. Too human. He had no mystical powers, and only a little pea-shooter of a gun that to my knowledge he’d only fired once in his life. No, I needed someone else. Someone with magical abilities that I didn’t have. Someone with charisma…

Well, shit. I knew who to call.

She’d come. She always came to my rescue, especially in my moments of my greatest need, when she was in a prime place to laugh at me and make fun of my misfortune. Oh, she’d come and she’d love it. She’d roll in my misadventure like a dog rolls in dead fish, loving every minute of it.

Damn, I thought. She was the last person I wanted to call. The last person, really, that I ever wanted to see again. Not in person, at least. I just wanted her to go the hell away, move to the other side of the earth, and quit running circles in my head. But here I was, in need of serious help again, and she was the only person on this goddamn earth I could think of that had the skills-- and the willingness -- to help me.

I gathered what was left of my pride and made a plan. First, I doctored myself up -- I’ll spare you the gory details of that job. Then I did a quick cleanup, using what was left of my clothes to wipe away black splotches of blood. The gashes in my flesh began to heal over before I was finished. Once that was taken care I just looked like a naked, pale guy with a body full of scars.

Next up, the cure for the scars. Coffee. Very black. While not a complete cure, it would go a long way toward healing me. I drove for a bit until I found an all-night diner, one of those very greasy spoon places that caters to truck drivers. Still half-naked, I found a cold, damp sweatshirt sitting on a bench at a nearby bus stop, and put that on. I looked pathetic.

I drank the coffee down in one long, burning gulp. I didn’t even take time to taste it.

The woman at the lunch counter looked me over, then averted her eyes as she poured me a cup of coffee. I put down money to pay for it, and she seemed surprised. Middle aged and tired, the woman with “Ellenore” written on her nametag asked if I wanted anything else, without looking up. “No, thank you,” I said. “Just the coffee.” She turned and left me to myself.

I drank the coffee down in one long, burning gulp. I didn’t even take time to taste it. Ellenore refilled the cup without question, and without looking at me, and I took that one down as well. On her third pass, Ellenore left a large carafe in front of me. I put down another dollar.

You rarely find phone booths any more, but if you’re looking for a phone to use that isn’t someone’s cell phone, you can usually still find one at a greasy spoon. There was a phone in the little alcove by the bathroom. Not a proper pay phone, but just an old-fashioned landline with a big receiver and a curly cord. Acup next to it read “please pay 25 cents.” There was nothing in it.

I put in a nickel and a dime, which was all the change I had, and dialed the only number I knew by heart.

“Who is this?” a smooth, strong female voice answered. No hello, no this is so-and-so speaking. Just right to business. That’s my girl.

“Who else would be calling you from a strange phone in Tacoma after midnight?”

“Goddammit, Davis.” She sighed. “What the hell’s wrong now?”

I tried to laugh. “Hey, Dollface. Can’t an old flame just call you out of the blue to say hello?”

“Not you,” she said. “Not from Tacoma. You’re in trouble again, aren’t you?”

“Well…” I said, trying to sound casual. “Not as bad as usual.”

She paused for a beat, then said. “That’s promising. Go on.”

I gave her details. I explained the job, and the package, and sort-of played down the bit of trouble I’d had with Ed and played up the part where I got ripped to shreds. Sympathy might help. Though I did not mention the Dumpster. I have some pride.

I could hear her breathing on the other end, as if she had to think about whether or not she’d come. “Yeah, I’ll come.” I knew she would.