THE UNDYING | TWILIGHT

19. Housekeeping

Suddenly, the cellar doors slammed shut with a bang!

"No!" shouted Christopher as he blindly clambered up the stairs. With both hands, he gripped the rusted iron handles and shook the doors with all his strength. The heavy steel chains jingled and jangled, cruelly reminding Christopher that his efforts were in vain. He was trapped, sealed away in a dark tomb with no visible hope of escape.

Beating his aching hands against the wooden doors, Christopher slowly sank to his knees. "Dammit!" he cursed in between pants. "I'm screwed. I'm gonna die down here."

Just beside him lay his old, tattered messenger bag, home to a decade's worth of notes and footage that he'd painstakingly collected throughout his young adult life. Since the age of eighteen, he'd dedicated his life to the paranormal, to the search for the truth. Even if it meant facing imminent death, he couldn't — and wouldn't — stop that fight, so Christopher grabbed his messenger bag and descended the stairs once more.

Upon reaching the bottom, he took out his dying camcorder and pressed RECORD.

"If this is truly the beginning of my end," he said to his audience, "then I will die knowing that I have uncovered the truth about this city. Vampires are real, and they're right here in Volterra.

"All around me, you can see the bodies of the dead stacked on top of each other like they're restaurant leftovers, like they're garbage! Bodies of men, women, and even little children. Don't shield your eyes. Don't look away. This is not fiction anymore. Open your eyes and see the faces of the slaughtered innocents. This is no hotel. This is a feeding ground for vampires, and Michele Distefano is the proud owner."

Just then, Christopher heard voices in the distance, followed by the thudding steps of heavy feet. At the opposite end of the room, a steel door swung open, filling the cellar with light. Two short, burly men entered the room, rolling between them a large metal cart on which several dead bodies lay. Before they could spot him, Christopher ducked behind a stack of corpses and filmed them from a safe distance.

"Let's put 'em over there," said the one in back, his voice muffled by the white cotton mask which covered his nose and mouth. Together, they wheeled the cart to the predetermined site and then began to carefully unload the bodies one after another.

"I hate the stench of this place," said the other man, who was new to the business. "It's like the smell never leaves me, you know? I can take ten baths and still smell like death. I think my wife is starting to notice."

"You'll get used to it," replied the veteran. "I've been doing this for almost eight years now, and I barely notice the smell anymore. But you definitely don't wanna linger here. It'll give you nightmares."

"What sorts of nightmares?"

"The sort that'll make you never wanna sleep again. That's what happened to the guy before you. He couldn't handle it, so one day he just snapped and ran screaming through the lobby. Said we're all going to hell for what we do."

"What happened to him?"

"They sent him away to some nuthouse. Can't have some lunatic spoiling business. Last I heard, he bit off his own tongue and bled to death."

The rookie shook his head. "Damn, that's crazy."

After hauling the last body onto the pile, the rookie doubled over like he was about to be sick. "It's not right," he said, spitting out the words as if they carried a foul taste. "A mother and her unborn child? Who does shit like that?"

"They each have their own preferences. The hotel doesn't discriminate."

"But it's sick!"

"And it's none of our business," said the veteran, and then he grabbed the cart by its handle and started pulling it away with him. "We just do our jobs and keep our mouths shut. Simple as that. If I were you, I'd keep your thoughts to yourself. If the higher-ups catch even the tiniest thread of dissension, the whole spool will unravel, and then I'll be seeing you on one of these carts. It's not worth it, man."