Dead Men (and Women) Walking Read online

  Underneath it, in the same handwriting, although much smaller, was written: Last Christmas together.

  Holly stood and wiped the tear from her eye. She put the photo into the pocket of her jeans, and vowed to bring it wherever she went from here on out, as Walt before her once had. It would represent her lasting memory of the kindred spirit who delivered her from evil.

  BIRTHRIGHT

  By Aurelio Rico Lopez III

  The crowd cheered as the DJ spun a new track. The beat pulsed, and scores of red and green lights erupted from the ceiling onto the hundreds of people below. The dance floor was a sea of men and women dancing and swaying to the music.

  Carnan sat at the bar and toyed with his drink absent-mindedly, turning the glass on the counter, between his thumb and index finger.

  "Hey, buddy! You gonna drink that?"

  Carnan hadn't taken a single sip from his drink, and the bartender was eyeing him suspiciously. Carnan reached in his breast pocket, pulled out a hundred dollar bill, and tossed it in the man's direction. "Get lost."

  The man took one look at the money and snatched it off the bar top. He walked away, muttering something under his breath.

  Pity. Carnan had half-hoped the guy would have lost his temper and tried to beat him senseless.

  He returned his attention to his untouched drink. He wanted to try the amber fluid, but he knew it would only taste vile and disgusting. Carnan had often wondered what brandy really tasted like. It was one of those trivial things he wished he knew.

  A familiar sensation came over him like an unpleasant, early morning chill. A hand tapped him on the back.

  "Mingling with the food again, Carnan?"

  He turned around on his stool. The source of the voice was tall, with a fair, almost pale complexion and shiny hair combed backward.

  "Hello, Isaac," said Carnan. "Has anyone ever told you that the Bela Lugosi look is out of fashion? Seriously, it's so last century."

  Isaac gave a humorless grin, but couldn't hide the contempt in his eyes. "Your father has summoned you."

  "My father can get a tan for all I care."

  Isaac grabbed Carnan by his shirt and pulled him to his feet.

  "Easy, easy! It's a silk shirt."

  Isaac snarled. "You will speak of your father with respect!"

  Carnan did not flinch. He looked Isaac straight in the eye, and his voice took on a dark, serious tone. "Careful, Isaac. You may be loyal to my father, but unlike him, I have absolutely no qualms about killing you."

  Isaac let go as if he had burnt his hands on Carnan's shirt. He stepped back, stunned by what he had just heard, shocked that Carnan had said it, afraid because Carnan had meant every word. He looked as if he couldn't decide whether to flee or beg for his life. Instead, Carnan put his arm around his shoulder like an old high school buddy.

  "I'm bored," Carnan said, as if nothing had happened. "Come on. Let's go see what's on the old man's mind."

  #

  In contrast to the club, the inside of the limousine was a vacuum. The silence bore down on him like a dead weight. Carnan looked out at a thousand neon lights, signs, and billboards. The sun was supposed to be a sign of awakening, but it was at night when the world truly came alive.

  His father's estate was a forty-minute drive away.

  "Where have you been? The heads of the families left hours ago! They expected to meet my son, my successor, and their future leader. Do you have any idea how foolish you made me look?"

  Carnan sighed as he collapsed on one of the chairs in the den. "I have no interest in leading the families."

  In one quick motion, his father grabbed his shirt and slammed his back against a bookshelf.

  "Great! Now look at what you've done. You tore my shirt. What does everyone have against my shirt?"

  "Now see here!" his father roared. "Tomorrow evening, you shall take your place as head of the council. There are many who would like nothing more than to find one, single excuse to deny you of your birthright, so you better get your act together."

  "The same way you got your act together, Father? Before you became top dog?"

  His father's grip loosened. "Why do you hate me so much?"

  Carnan's fingernails raked the side of his father's face, tearing off chunks of tissue. His father staggered backward. "How dare you ask me that question!" Tears began to blur his vision. He turned to leave the room.

  "Carnan, wait!" his father called out to him. His face was already mending. Blood platelets were already aggregating, and cells were dividing at incredible rates. In a matter of minutes, there wouldn't be even a hint of the damage that had been inflicted on him.

  Carnan paused at the doorway.

  "If you don't do this," his father said, "I... we... will lose everything."

  Carnan left the room, closing the door behind him.

  #

  The following evening, inside his room, Carnan donned his best suit. He wore the diamond cufflinks his mother had given him as a gift over two centuries ago. He wondered how she would have reacted to the recent turn of events. He steadied himself against a torrent of memories and emotions.

  He could not lose control. Not tonight.

  His jaw still hurt. It was odd; his kind could recover from almost any form of injury, but they could still feel pain even after they had healed. No one could understand it.

  Another wonder was their inability to cast reflections. There were a lot of theories and speculations, but Carnan chose to believe that God -- or whomever it was who created their species -- had realized that he had made abominations so unworthy of creation that he robbed them of their reflections.

  A knock on the door signaled that it was time.

  Carnan picked up the objects he had set on his dresser -- a small cloth pouch the size of a matchbox and a black leather box roughly the size of a pencil case. He slid both items into his suit pocket.

  The knocking came again, a little louder this time. Carnan opened the door. Two of his father's errand boys awaited him in the hallway. They bowed slightly when they saw him.

  "Sir, your father requests your presence," the dark-haired one spoke.

  "Really? And here I thought you two dropped by to borrow a cup of brown sugar."

  The two escorts looked at each other with blank expressions. Carnan sighed and stepped into the hallway. "Lead the way, Tucan Sam."

  The three of them headed to the function room. The carpeted floor cushioned their footsteps. They were only halfway there when Dark Hair spoke again.

  "Tonight is a great night, Sir. Marcus and I were just discussing it."

  "Yes, Sir," said his companion who Carnan assumed was Marcus. "It will be an honor to serve under you."

  Amazing. Carnan had not even assumed his position, and already these two were kissing his ass.

  "Swell," he replied.

  They arrived at the door at the end of the hallway. Dark Hair opened it and held it ajar to let Carnan through. Then he and Marcus closed the door and stood watch outside the room so that nothing would interrupt the meeting.

  Inside, the large room was cool and dark. In the center, dimly lit, was a long table. Carnan recognized those who sat around it as the heads of the twelve families. They all stared at him, looking him up and down. They're sizing me up, Carnan thought. Most of them were at least three times as old as he was. He could detect resentment in their cold gazes. Why should they take orders from someone so young? The silence was broken by his father's voice.

  "Welcome, Carnan. We are glad you could join us." He sat on the far end of the table and gestured to the opposite end. "Please, take a seat."

  Carnan slowly approached the unoccupied chair. Carefully, he pulled it out and sat down. In front of him, on the table, lay the Book of Blood and a golden chalice from which he was supposed to drink. The cup contained blood from the heads of the vampire families. As the incoming leader of all twelve families, Carnan would drink the contents of the chalice during tonight's ceremony, symbolizing the
reunification of the vampire race.

  Carnan's father's voice carried to the far corners of the room. "Carnan, it has been the decision of this council that you shall succeed me as leader and protector of our glorious race. Do you accept the council's decision?"

  Carnan stood up.

  "I do."

  "Do you swear to look after the welfare of our glorious race?"

  "I do."

  "Are you fully aware of the duties and responsibilities you will assume as caretaker and defender of our glorious race?"

  "I am." His father smiled. Carnan grit his teeth. A throbbing headache started to build up, and he tried to relax.

  "Very well," his father continued. "Then let the ceremony commence..."

  "Before we begin," Carnan quickly interrupted, "may I address the council?"

  Those in attendance glanced and whispered at each other. Carnan's father raised a hand, and order was restored.

  "Speak."

  Carnan reached in his pocket and retrieved the two items he had brought with him. He arranged them beside the chalice and the Book of Blood. He cleared his throat.

  "First of all, I would like to thank all of you for being here tonight. You have traveled from afar, and I know that the trip was an inconvenience that you, under normal circumstances, would not have chosen to undergo.

  "I would also like to give recognition to my father who has led our race for two centuries. He, too, succeeded his father before him."

  Carnan's father shifted uneasily in his chair.

  "My father had always dreamt of becoming our race's protector and guardian. But when his time finally came to succeed my grandfather, there were questions concerning his dedication."

  Worry cast on his father's face, and he raised a hand to silence his son. Carnan ignored the sign and continued. The council had begun to grow restless; they could sense something was wrong. There was no turning back now.

  "Afraid that his dream of being leader was slipping away, my great father gave the council something..."

  "Silence!" Carnan's father knocked over his chair as he stood up. "Enough, damn you!"

  Tears streamed down Carnan's cheeks. "...something that would once and for all erase all doubts regarding his loyalty and dedication..."

  "I command you!"

  "...something that would ensure his place as leader."

  "Carnan!"

  "My mother!" Carnan screamed. He pointed an accusing finger at the vampire leader. "That bastard murdered her!"

  His father bowed his head in defeat or shame. Perhaps both. A hush descended on the room and its occupants.

  "We call ourselves a glorious race, but we are nothing but filth! Nothing more than a society of murderers. Where is the glory in that?"

  The council was speechless.

  Carnan picked up the cloth pouch on the table and stared at it. "My mother's murder was my father's offering to the council. Here's mine."

  He tossed the pouch to the other end of the table. It fell short but continued to slide. His father caught it before it could fall off the edge. With trembling hands, he fumbled with the drawstring. When he had finally managed to loosen it, he held out his palm and emptied the bag onto it. Suddenly, he jerked his hand back and something clattered onto the table.

  The council leaned forward to get a closer look.

  Teeth!

  One member wailed; and another jumped back, tripped on his chair, and fell on the floor.

  Carnan threw his head back in laughter. Even in the scarce light, the council could finally see that which they had failed to notice.

  Carnan's canines were gone.

  "Disgrace!" one of the twelve heads cried.

  His father was in anguish. The vampire leader, son of the great Dracul, held out his hand pathetically, as if he could reach out to his son from across the table. "My son, what have you done?"

  Carnan never stopped laughing, even as tears rolled down his face. He opened the last item -- the leather box -- and drew out a knife. The council watched in horror as Carnan raised the blade up high and drove it through his heart.

  Carnan wasn't sure whether there was a heaven or a hell. But if there was, indeed, life after death, he hoped that no matter where he was headed, Mina would be there to welcome him.

  SEARCHING FOR DR. HARLOW

  By Michael A. Kechula

  "Do you believe in zombies?" Winston Dithers asked the moment he sat.

  "About as much as the Tooth Fairy," I said.

  "My friend, Dr. Rolf Harlow, believes they exist. In fact, he took a sabbatical from the university and went to Haiti to find one."

  I chuckled at Harlow's stupidity. "A zombie hunter, eh? What's he gonna do if he finds one?"

  "Bring it back here to Chicago. To conduct experiments. Problem is, I haven't heard from him for several months. I've inquired with the US Embassy and Haitian government, but their replies have been ambiguous. I'll pay you twenty thousand plus expenses to find him. Ten thousand in cash right now, and the balance when you deliver him."

  Sounded like easy money. I agreed to find Harlow.

  Two days later, I arrived in Port Au Prince. I've been a lot of weird places in the world, but none have ever made me feel so creepy. Something about the atmosphere seemed unholy. Ethereal sounds of jungle drums rode on humid breezes, fading in and out. Wretches meandered aimlessly, looking stupefied. Weird voodoo symbols festered on graffiti-covered walls. For the first time since I was a kid, I found myself getting the willies.

  Nevertheless, I got to work immediately. I showed Harlow's photo to taxi drivers and street vendors. Everyone shrugged indifferently.

  Harlow's letters to Dithers had mentioned Hotel Balzac and Bahody, a middle-aged chambermaid who'd befriended and mothered him. I headed for the hotel to find her.

  "And if you find Dr. Harlow, will you arrest him?" the rotund woman asked when told her that I was a detective.

  "I'm not a police detective anymore," I said. "I retired and opened my own detective agency in Chicago. One of Harlow's friends hired me to find him and take him home. His friends miss him."

  "I miss him too," Bahody said, eyes filling with tears. "Every full moon, I sacrifice a chicken, begging the gods to bring him back, even if it be from the dead."

  "Don't worry. You'll see him again. I promise I'll find him."

  "You'll never find him. My sister speaks to voodoo gods. They say he's lost forever. Zombies stole him."

  "Nonsense," I said. "Zombies don't exist."

  "Is that what they taught you in Chicago?" she asked. "If so, they teach lies."

  "Zombies are nothing more than characters from overactive imaginations. They were invented to scare people into complying with laws, especially in remote villages where police are nonexistent. Chances are, people won't molest kids, rape women, or kidnap if they think they'll be turned into zombies when caught. Haiti isn't the only place in the world where phony tales control the population through fear. I could name a dozen other nations that have legends just as goofy. Hey, it works. I'm all for law and order. Call them zombies, vampires, werewolves, or whatever. Keeps people home at night and off the streets. The more scared they are, the less likely they are to commit crimes."

  "That's not what Dr. Harlow, believes. He's a very intelligent man who knows the truth about zombies."

  "He may be highly intelligent, but he was a fool to come here to search for something that doesn't exist."

  "Don't you dare call my white son a fool!" She folded her arms and added, "I have nothing more to say."

  I pulled a twenty from my wallet and laid it on the table. "Tell me what happened the last night you saw him."

  Grabbing the money, she said, "It was the night of the full moon. The air was foul. The drums spoke of doom. I begged him not to walk to Café Blanc alone. He wouldn't listen."

  "Why did he go there?"

  "I don't know."

  "Where is it?"

  "Don't go there," she said. "You'll lose your soul."r />
  "My soul? When will all this lunacy end? Zombies. Souls. Stop talking nonsense and tell me how to get to Café Blanc!"

  "No. It's an unholy place. Even rats die when they get too close."

  "Then I'll get directions from the concierge."

  "If you must go," she said, "take this for protection." She tried to push a small, black, red-eyed statue into my hand.

  I called her a stupid, superstitious woman and stormed out.

  A waiter at Café Blanc remembered Harlow. "He drank much rum with a voodoo priest, a dangerous man from Destrudo. They left together."

  "Where's Destrudo?"

  "In the jungle. They say it's a terrible place with zombies and terrifying voodoo ceremonies."

  I couldn't find anyone who'd risk driving me anywhere near Destrudo.

  "Perhaps Mulu will take you," someone whispered. "They say she's from Destrudo. A strange woman who talks slowly like a zombie. Some say she's wife of a white zombie. There she is now."

  I approached her battered jeep. "Take me to the white man who lives in Destrudo," I said, waving twenty dollars.

  "You...do...not...fear...to...ride...at...night...with...a...zom-bie?" she asked. Her breath reeked of jungle rot.

  "Save the baloney for gullible tourists," I said boarding the jeep.

  "You...do...not...believe?"

  "Nope. Let's go. I don't have all night."

  "Foolish...American," she mumbled.

  I snickered at her ludicrous words and slow speech. Ten minutes later, I was on the verge of screaming. While driving manically through jungle paths, her skin took on a greenish glow. Before I could jump from the jeep, she slammed the brakes.

  "There's...the...white...man," she said, pointing to a jungle clearing.

  Something with a greenish glow approached. It had Harlow's face!

  "Dr. Harlow," I called. "I'm Oscar Brown. From Chicago. I'm a friend of Winston Dithers."

  Moaning, he approached and touched my face. His fingers were icy. The stench sickened me.

  As I tried to grab and cuff him, putrid teeth ripped flesh from my cheek. The pain was horrendous. I tried to get away, but tripped. Suddenly, both were biting my face like mad dogs.