Stake Read online

  Though fascinated by fantastic stories, Lexi didn’t consider herself to be on the fringe. She was perfectly happy to accept evidence that debunked any wild theory, but she didn’t automatically scoff at strange notions either. The world held some things that couldn’t be explained … yet.

  Back in Iowa, her parents had said she possessed an overactive imagination, but Lexi called it a sense of wonder. She felt humility in accepting that she didn’t know every answer to every question about every aspect of the world. Her mission statement on HideTruth said, plainly, ‘There are still discoveries to be made and questions to be answered.’

  Two years ago, bored with her regular online work and unwilling to admit her lack of friends – before Blair had moved in – Lexi started HideTruth to find like-minded people, interesting new friends, to discuss the unknown. She was curious to make connections, to see what kind of interesting debates she could have. She chose the site name as a kind of reverse psychology to elicit exactly the opposite response. On her website, she had no intention of hiding the truth. Would the readers?

  If every curious person pulled together in a concerted search for the truth, what might they uncover? After all, a network of amateur astronomers pooled their resources to search the night sky for new asteroids; others had combined their personal computing power to run SETI searches for extraterrestrial signals. Why not pool the knowledge and resources of countless truth seekers who wanted to explain the world’s unsolved mysteries? Lexi was deeply interested in the answer, for her own reasons.

  She had no idea what a can of worms she was opening.

  HideTruth took on a life of its own, and Lexi found some of the speculations, connections, and obscure facts to be thought-provoking (although some were admittedly silly). The more popular her site became, the more her fans donated to keep her going. And the more donations Lexi received, the more bills she could pay, and the more bills she could pay thanks to HideTruth, the fewer hours she needed to waste on regular jobs. One of these days …

  Through the half-open door of her bedroom/office, she could smell the exotic spices of whatever Blair was making for dinner – Indian food maybe – and she was sure it would be delicious. He always took care of her.

  The commentary about the Bigfoot assault would pick up after dinner as more users got online. While waiting, she browsed other pages on the site, individual forums that covered a wide range of mysteries and speculations. Most of it wasn’t true, she knew that, but anything was possible. She read it eagerly, looking for the precious kernels of truth, or even a deeper mystery. That was what kept her spark burning. Even if only one bizarre theory proved to be valid, that would change the world. And she would know.

  Monster sightings, classified as ‘cryptids’ by the true believers, generated less interest than conspiracy theories – dire warnings about vapor trails and microwave manipulations. The vampire thread remained particularly active, as always. Vampire legends were remarkably persistent and endlessly interesting. She had presented many such claims, feeling an affinity for the passionate die-hards, rather than the curious goth blood drinkers and over-exuberant Twilight fans. She knew how to tell the difference.

  She saw that one of the most earnest vampire believers had posted again. Despite his sometimes disturbing intensity, Stoker1897 also offered careful, rational compilations of subtle evidence. He was quite convincing.

  ‘We can’t let down our guard,’ Stoker1897 had posted that morning. ‘Vampires are smart and devious. They know how to manipulate our beliefs, our doubts, and our fears. Don’t let them fool you into thinking they’re just a superstition. That’s what they want you to believe. That is how they’ve remained unnoticed in human society as they feed on us. I have seen them. I have investigated their vulnerabilities.’

  Lexi knew the rant would go on for a dozen more postings. No, not a rant – a sermon. This man wasn’t irrational. Unlike many others, Stoker1897 provided documentation, connecting dots in ways that no one else had seen. By tracking detailed inventories of blood bank supplies, studying expiration dates and disposal records, he presented a convincing pattern of lost receipts as well as untraceable paperwork that reduced hospital blood stockpiles for no apparent reason and no indication of where the supplies had gone. He also flagged suspicious suicides in which bodies were drained of blood that conveniently went down the sink. Or had it? The answers were impossible to ascertain, leaving only questions.

  Stoker1897’s conclusions banked on an uncomfortable number of coincidences, yet there was a chance he was on to something, however small. When she started HideTruth, Lexi had dedicated herself to giving that ‘small chance’ a real chance. Let the users decide.

  As she read Stoker1897’s latest series of posts, she heard pots banging in the kitchen, and delicious smells wafted through the air. She knew not to ask when dinner would be done. Blair insisted that a good meal took as long as it needed to. Who was she to complain? Pop-Tarts, Top Ramen, and Checkers Pizza got boring after a while. She drew in a deep breath now, trying to identify the scent. Vindaloo?

  ‘You need to be ready. We all need to be ready,’ Stoker1897 had posted that morning. ‘Here is a list of tried-and-true methods to slay a vampire, which I have compiled despite a great deal of misinformation spread by vampires themselves. If you want to save humanity, you will need to use these techniques if you should encounter a real vampire.

  ‘Pound a wooden stake through the heart. Everyone knows that. Alternatively, cut off the vampire’s head and stuff its mouth with garlic. This can be messy, but it leaves no doubt as to its effectiveness. Vampires can be burned, or drowned in running water. Though reputed to be effective against werewolves, thanks to Hollywood disinformation, silver bullets are deadly to vampires and are particularly useful because they can kill a vampire from a distance.

  ‘Keep your eyes open to the danger around us. I am willing to do what is necessary, but I must not be alone in this.’

  Lexi frowned. Alone in this?

  He concluded with, ‘I know that some of these methods work, because I have killed vampires myself.’

  THREE

  The Rambler Star Motel was a known sanctuary that members of the Bastion could use. Helsing noted the hidden mark on the low brick planter in front of the office and knew he would be welcome here. He needed a safe place.

  In an older part of Colorado Springs on South Nevada Avenue, the Rambler Star was one of several nondescript motels with 1950s architecture. The ancient sign boasted Color TV and Air Conditioning as selling points. The red shake shingle roof was faded, and the turquoise color of the doors to the outside rooms was more unsettling than cheery. Despite the half-empty parking lot, the flickering neon light insisted there was No Vacancy.

  Helsing knew that wouldn’t apply to him.

  As darkness fell, the motel office shone with garish fluorescent lights. He lurked outside long enough to make sure there were no other customers before he went inside. The bitter smell of old coffee roiled from a glass urn on a hot plate, and a game show droned at low volume from a TV in the lobby.

  The night clerk sat behind a high desk that served as a barricade against disgruntled customers. The nameplate said Daniel Gardon, Manager. He was a thin man in his late forties with black hair and Asian features. He barely looked up when Helsing entered. ‘No rooms available. Sorry.’

  Helsing walked to the desk. ‘Not even for the Bastion?’

  The manager’s demeanor changed. He looked up, met Helsing’s eyes as if double-checking what he had heard. Without further comment, he reached into the cubbyholes in front of him and removed a key. ‘Room forty-one is always available. Take what you need. People usually don’t stay more than a day.’

  ‘That’s long enough.’ He accepted the brown plastic fob. ‘I’m familiar with the process.’ He didn’t thank Gardon or make additional eye contact, simply melted back out the door.

  Room 41 was the last in the line of turquoise doors, offering extra privacy at the end o
f the building. An old tow trailer was propped up on a cinderblock in the adjacent parking spot, which kept other cars away from the last room. Gardon had taken care of everything. The Bastion helped its own.

  Most of the people lived in a main camp out in the national forest and they moved often, like gypsies and ghosts. The million acres of remote wilderness was a safe haven right on the doorstep of Colorado Springs. Members of the Bastion were off the grid and covered their tracks, and with their resourcefulness and ingenuity the group would survive the coming apocalypse.

  Though the Bastion camp was self-sufficient, from time to time members made trips into the city for food, clothing, specialized tools, medicine, or other supplies. Some of the new generation had never even seen civilization and were rightfully terrified of it. Others, though, chose to make occasional visits to remind themselves of what they had left behind, and why. Many of them blended in with the homeless population in the city, people who tended to be invisible, which was what the Bastion liked. Their leader, Lucius, had worked for years to establish a secret support network at strategic spots throughout Colorado Springs. The Rambler Star Motel was one such place.

  Helsing opened the door with a creak. Drawn drapes darkened the room into a safe haven, and he flicked on the light to reveal low shag carpeting, two double beds, a round laminate table, and a desk with a large old computer and a laser printer. The air held a faint undertone of old cigarette smoke, cleaning products, and air freshener. He turned up the thermostat, and the wall heater hummed loudly as the fan kicked in. This place would be perfect for his needs.

  He locked the deadbolt and hooked the chain, just in case. It was dark outside, and the lampir might be out. He didn’t think the creatures knew who was hunting them, but he always kept his guard up.

  Helsing stripped out of his clothes and sorted the ones that needed washing. The bloodstains that marked the sleeve of his plumber’s shirt might not entirely wash out, but who would notice a few extra stains on a plumber’s shirt? Other spots of Stallings’ dried blood covered his arms and neck, and he was anxious to scrub it off, never certain just how contagious vampire blood might be.

  He ran the shower so hot it steamed up the bathroom, and when he emerged afterward, he felt fresh, energized, ready to continue the fight. Helsing had known it wouldn’t be easy, but someone needed to fight for the human race. Vampires were everywhere.

  After he dried off with the bleached white towel, he opened the closet to find shirts of all sizes – long sleeve, short sleeve, sweaters – along with a selection of women’s clothing and even some children’s clothes. Eight pairs of shoes were neatly lined up on the floor. The dresser drawers contained socks, underwear, bras. Stacks of pants, mostly jeans, were ordered by size.

  In the bottom drawer, a Tupperware container held neatly rolled twenty-dollar bills, almost a thousand dollars. On the lid a handwritten note said: ‘Take what you need.’ Helsing peeled off sixty dollars. The Bastion had plenty of resources, but its members were not greedy nor extravagant.

  Next to the microwave he found a selection of canned chili, stew, and soup, and he heated chicken noodle in a plastic bowl. While the microwave hummed, he found underwear and socks, pulled on his old jeans again, and chose a warm flannel shirt.

  This refuge was exactly like other Bastion sanctuaries he had used before. When the manager at the previous motel began to recognize Helsing after frequent visits and even tried to chat with him, he knew it was time to go somewhere fresh.

  The Rambler Star manager was a former member of the Bastion who had decided to go back to the city. Lucius insisted that Daniel Gardon was trustworthy, and Helsing had no reason to doubt the assessment. Sometimes, new Bastion members just didn’t adapt well to the forest, but they could still serve the overall cause. In a sense, the manager was working undercover deep within enemy territory – like Helsing was. They each had their job to do.

  Through careful analysis and observation, pulling together scattered details that normal people wouldn’t notice, Helsing had concluded that a powerful and manipulative king vampire resided in the city. Surprising, since Colorado Springs was the headquarters for numerous Christian organizations and missionary training centers. But vampires thrived on misdirection, and a king vampire might have chosen the Springs exactly because no one would expect to find such creatures here.

  He turned on the old monitor and computer, waiting for them to warm up. Going online, he went directly to the HideTruth site, which was another sort of community for him. Helsing had an affinity for these people and their exuberant, if often irrational beliefs. It was a place where he could speak the truth, and some would even embrace what he said. But he doubted he could ever dispel the fog of confusion spread by the lampir. For centuries, the underground secret society of vampires had spread insidious misinformation, rumors, and ridicule, and humanity had swallowed it up.

  In the earliest days of his fervor, Helsing had studied a variety of vampire exposé websites, but most were sensationalist garbage. There, vampire lore devotees shared their stories as if telling tall tales in a bar, and Helsing easily spotted the poseurs. HideTruth was different, and the site administrator accepted possibilities so long as some evidence backed them up. He saw HideTruth as a way to recruit other crusaders, or at least open a few minds.

  Today he ignored the threads on UFOs, alien abductions, and an active new forum on Bigfoot; instead, he went to the section on vampires. Many of the postings were ill-informed, but Helsing knew how to sift through the deliberate misinformation to find that kernel of truth.

  The site admin, a young woman named Alexis Tarada, curated the postings and added her own responses. She even posted well-considered essays on the homepage if a subject interested her enough. Her writings were even-handed, and she was not some starry-eyed convert who would go chasing a different conspiracy at a moment’s notice. She winnowed out the silliness, highlighted the most convincing arguments. She confessed that she couldn’t refute most of the evidence on missing hospital blood supplies that Helsing himself had presented. She wrote, ‘We have to at least admit the possibility.’

  Scanning the discussions now in the motel room, he was anxious to respond, but restrained himself. It wasn’t safe to do anything but read from this computer. Earlier, Helsing had offered his list of proven techniques for killing vampires, hoping that others would assist in his crusade. Whenever he posted as Stoker1897, he used a public terminal at the Pikes Peak library. As a safe house for the Bastion, the Rambler Star Motel probably had solid firewalls, and Helsing was comfortable enough to search and browse, but he would never post from an IP address that could be traced.

  He knew that Alexis Tarada was local to Colorado Springs, although she was careful to keep her personal details hidden. That was wise, considering some of the oddballs who frequented the site. Thinking she might be a valuable ally, he had tried to track down where she lived, but she was too adept at covering her tracks. Smart girl.

  He was tired but satisfied. Today was a good day. He had this safe motel room. He felt clean, refreshed. He’d eaten a satisfying meal. And he had eradicated one more vampire.

  He rinsed out the plastic soup bowl in the bathroom sink and decided to get a good night’s sleep. It was dark outside, nearly midnight, and that was when prowling vampires were strongest. Right now, he was protected.

  Helsing would wait until sunrise to continue his mission.

  FOUR

  Detective Todd Carrow hated crime scenes. He had seen plenty of them in his thirteen years on the force, and he would see plenty more before he retired. The intentionally gruesome ones were the hardest to understand.

  He climbed the concrete steps to the external door of #220 in the Serenity Hedge apartment complex (who thought up those names?), ignoring the gawking residents. Uniformed Colorado Springs Police Department officers talked with men and women from adjacent apartments, and crime-scene techs wearing masks and latex gloves moved in and out of the door. The coroner was al
ready inside. Everybody knew everybody, and Carrow mumbled a greeting as he passed the techs on his way into the murder scene.

  Though the lights had been switched on, the place held an intrinsic gloom, an austere loneliness. Sadly, it reminded him of his own townhouse.

  The main thing he noticed, as usual, was the smell. Sometimes, if the body remained undiscovered for a while, the reek could bring tears to his eyes, and he would put a dab of VapoRub under his nostrils. This time it wasn’t too bad. The body had only been there for two days or so, and the weather had been cool, but the odor of old, dried blood still twisted the back of his throat.

  Carrow made his way through the main area down to the bedroom. In a flurry of bright lights, techs photographed the body, collected samples, measured angles. He paused to drink in the circus, then turned his attention to the sprawled corpse. ‘Crap almighty, that’s something you don’t see every day.’

  The victim – one Mark Stallings, age forty-two, white male – lay supine on the bed, arms flopped out at his sides. His dark pajama shirt was open, the fabric stained with blood that had erupted from his chest. The techs had pulled down the blood-soaked sheet to reveal a pair of pajama bottoms. That was a relief. Carrow hated to find victims who slept commando.

  A wooden stake protruded from the middle of his chest, like a toothpick in an appetizer.

  ‘Guess I don’t need to ask for cause of death.’

  The coroner busied herself, humming while she inspected the body as if it were an interesting roadkill specimen. Dr Orla Watson was tall, thin, and bookish with round glasses and a detached, studious air. A hairnet covered her curly ash-blond hair, and a paper mask covered her mouth and nose. Her eyes told him she was smiling as she looked up at him. Watson truly enjoyed her job as medical examiner.