The steel gate closed with a crash behind the two corrections officers as they walked into the high-security ward of the county jail. They spoke with the desk officer who was assigned to control access to the wing, advising him that they were there to take Ralph Stevens to meet with his court-appointed attorney concerning the upcoming hearing to determine his fitness to stand trial. The three deputies agreed that since Ralph had already waived his constitutional right to representation that perhaps well enough should have been left alone and they should just sentence the man, the desk officer concluding that Ralph did not deserve the benefits of oxygen. However, they knew that the gears of justice ground slowly and that Ralph benefited from this, much to their dismay. The desk officer waved the two officers on, and they retrieved Ralph from his secured cell.
"So, my attorney wants to see me? I thought I fired his ass. It's not Espinoza, is it? It better not be Espinoza," Ralph said. He found working with the court-appointed legal-aid attorney frustrating, as he did not even want a lawyer. He wished the whole charade would end so that he could finally be shipped off to the state penitentiary, or the state hospital, as they chose, and he could get on with living the incarcerated life. At least it would be a life. He feared the consequences of his failure to comply with the demands of Scott Campbell.
"I don't know, sir," answered the female corrections deputy, a thin younger-looking white female, as her partner, a much larger man with a Hispanic last name and pale complexion whose physique resembled that of a bodybuilder, placed restraint chains and cuffs on Ralph and guided him toward the door. "All I know is that your attorney wants to discuss matters relating to your upcoming hearing."
Ralph accepted the deputy's explanation and went willingly with the two corrections officers out of the secured unit, past the desk officer, and through a maze of matte-gray halls. He was not familiar with this wing of the jail. "Hey, guys? Where are we going?" he asked.
"It's not much farther, Mr. Stevens," the female deputy answered.
"That ain't what I asked. I thought we were going to the interview rooms, you know, where we usually go?"
"Those rooms are in use. We had to make different arrangements. I apologize for the inconvenience." Ralph thought it odd that the officer was apologetic; he had never encountered an apologetic screw before.
The new wing had just been built, a countywide levy having only recently been passed that allowed the sheriff's office to add a much-needed expansion to the overcrowded facility. The wing was still under construction for the most part, and no one was housed there. Because of the relative newness of the area, there were few security measures in place—no cameras, no alarms, no monitoring devices of any kind. The corrections officers led Ralph into this area to a room with a plain steel door. The door slowly opened.
Ralph's new attorney was standing, his back to the door. Ralph took note of the fit young man's long black hair. The deputies remained in the room as they closed the heavy door behind them.
"Welcome, Mr. Stevens. I'd like to introduce myself," the new attorney said, speaking with a slight southern drawl. He turned around and offered his hand. "My name is Jack."
Ralph, though his hands were cuffed and the cuffs were locked to a restraint chain, reached for Jack's hand.
"Jack? Jack what?"
"Just Jack will be fine, thank you. You know, I'll bet I know why you think we're here. You're curious as to why I had to see you."
"Well, yeah, I thought I made it clear to the judge that I didn't want a lawyer. I'm pleading, and I will take whatever sentence he wants to give me."
Ralph sat in an uncomfortable metal chair as Jack sat on the table right in front of him. The deputies stood in opposite corners of the small room. "Well, that's mighty noble of you, Mr. Stevens. You see, what I can't figure out is why you're just pleading out. Throwing yourself on the mercy of the court. I don't get it. What gives, Ralph?"
"That's none of your goddamn business."
"Was it Scott Campbell?"
"I ain't sayin' nothing."
"He got to you, didn't he, Ralph?"
Ralph did not answer. Jack peered into his eyes. Ralph tried to avoid Jack's gaze.
"Yeah, that's it, isn't it, Ralph?"
"What...what do you know about it?"
"More than you know, buddy, more than you know. But hey, why trouble ourselves about Scott Campbell? Instead, let's talk about Detective Montoya. She was here to see you, Ralph. What did you tell her?"
"Nothing! I told her nothing. I swear!"
"You sure? Because, oh, I don't know, maybe she's showing a bit of interest in our Mr. Campbell. That's not a good thing, Ralph. What did you tell her?"
"He...he sent you?"
"He? You mean Scott? Good gracious, no! I came here all on my own accord. But you need to tell me everything you said to Detective Montoya."
"I said nothing! Nothing! I swear to God!"
"Yeah, you do that. You know, Ralph, I believe you. I believe you didn't actually say anything about Mr. Campbell to the detective; indeed I do. Still. I think you may have said too much."
"Wh-what does that mean?"
Jack smiled at Ralph. "You know, forget about it. It's all good. You're fine. But hey, you know, look at the time. You know what time it is, Ralph?"
"N-no. What time is it?"
"Lunchtime."
"Okay, but I don't see any food."
"I do. I'm looking right at it. Guys?"
Jack motioned to the two corrections officers. Their faces twisted into monstrous forms, a monstrosity that Ralph had only seen hints of in Scott's eyes. Now the monsters had been revealed; now they would feed. Daggerlike fangs tore at Ralph's throat, ripping easily through his skin and into veins and arteries. Blood spurted from his gaping wounds. Ralph screamed at horrors beyond his imagining. Screams that echoed in the small room, screams that would not be heard anywhere else.
"Well, now, guys, that's just plain rude," Jack told the deputies. "Least y'all could do is offer to share."
Jack bared his own fangs and joined in the orgy of blood and suffering.
***
Elizabeth's investigation into the underground organization known as the Improvers had led her into places so unsavory that even the slimiest of slimeballs would not go there. Through some of her confidential informants—a couple of goth kids who considered themselves vampires and wanted to be actual vampires, but whose applications the House would never accept; still, they were pretty sure Elizabeth was the real deal and really wanted to impress their dark mistress—she found out about the existence of an underground club in Old Town, where darker pleasures could be had. The House operated its own underground nightclub, which catered to the bondage/sadomasochist paraphilia crowd. The forbidden pleasures conducted there included self-scarification and ritualistic bloodletting; controlled live feeding was one of the higher-price options for vampires who submitted to the House. The club Elizabeth learned of from her informants was a similar business, but cheaper and seedier, as if that were possible. It catered to a vampiric clientele that preferred to remain off the House's grid. This was naturally a place a member of the Improvers, or at least someone familiar with the movement, would frequent.
The doorman did not immediately recognize her but could tell she was a vampire. Without much of a security check, Elizabeth was easily able to enter the club. She was not dressed as most of the others, a mix of human and vampire, their bodies shaking as a DJ played a combination of techno, industrial, and dubstep. The club was illuminated in red from the flashing gel lights that seemed to cover the entirety of the ceiling. Instead of the revealing costumes worn by most of the club goers, Elizabeth wore a thick wool pea coat. She approached the bar, removed her round-frame sunglasses, and beckoned to the bartender.
"What can I get for you, miss? Oh, don't tell me. Some O negative, right?" Obviously, the bartender, a young blond man with arms covered in tattoos, was experienced with vampires and knew his clientele well.
Elizabeth nodded. "My favorite."
The bartender proceeded to fill a glass from a tap. "It's not exactly warm, but I can microwave it for you."
"That won't be necessary. Besides, I'm actually just here on business."
"And what kind of business draws a beautiful dark lady to this establishment?"
"Information."
"What kind of information would that be?"
The bartender put the stemless glass filled with thick red blood on the bar in front of Elizabeth and then leaned on the bar across from her.
"I'm looking for someone. Someone named Jesse. Do you know where I can find him?"
"I don't know, sweetheart. I know a lot of Jesses."
Elizabeth reached across the bar and grabbed the bartender by his neck. He knocked over the blood-filled glass, which shattered as it hit the floor.
"First of all, I am not 'sweetheart.' I am Elizabeth. Second, I have it on good information that this Jesse frequents this fine establishment. You are going to tell me where he is. Now."
"Oh, oh, that Jesse! Jesse the Vermin! Why didn't you ask for him in the first place?" Elizabeth loosened her grip on the bartender's neck. "Could have saved us some trouble," he coughed.
"Where can I find this Jesse the Vermin?"
"Well, as luck would have it, he's here. In one of the booths in the back of the place, sucking on some blood whore. Look, be careful about approaching him. He doesn't like being disturbed while he's feeding. And don't tell him I told you."
Elizabeth did not even thank the human instead headed immediately back to the rear booths. They were far back from the dance floor and bar, through a thin curtain. The booths were actually just small rooms that provided a certain level of privacy; one of the former illicit pleasures given by a previous owner was private lap dances (actually a thinly veiled cover story for prostitution). The rooms still held taboo secrets, secrets that were not so much titillating as they were just plain weird.
Elizabeth went door to door, her vampiric auditory sense able to pick out individual sounds, moans, and groans. She passed by the first few doors before arriving at the last booth. She threw open that door, revealing a short, thin man with an exaggerated Adam's apple and dark, tired eyes sucking on the arm of a scantily clad, much-too-young-looking girl who was under the influence of some designer drug. The thin vampire didn't even turn around.
"Fuck off! Can't you see I'm busy here?" he cried.
Elizabeth pointed at the girl, who was intoxicated from the combination of drugs and blood loss. "You. Out," Elizabeth said.
The girl did as she commanded and fled from the booth. Elizabeth closed the door behind her.
"Hey, honey, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" Jesse asked.
Elizabeth moved fast, slamming him into the back wall of the booth. She reached into her pea coat, drew her Kimber Ultra TLE II, flicked the safety off, and shoved it in Jesse's face.
"I am not your honey. My name is Elizabeth. Do not fail to forget it."
"Fine! Fine, Elizabeth! Jesus, you're an uppity broad. But seriously? A gun? You think a gun scares me? I been shot a couple times. Wasn't much impressed. You gotta try harder, baby."
Elizabeth moved the pistol from Jesse's face and then pointed it at his leg and fired. The sound reverberated throughout the booth; however, vampires have the ability to exercise auditory exclusion, which allows them to cancel out overly loud noise and still retain their hearing. It seemed the shot was not heard out on in the bar, as the pumping bass was already ear-splittingly loud. Jesse howled in pain as the .45-caliber Warhead ripped into the flesh of his leg, tearing through muscle and bone, the wound not able to immediately heal due to the nature of the missile. He collapsed to the floor, unable to stand.
"Ah shit! What the fuck was that?"
"Warheads, motherfucker! Do you read me? And I am not your baby. I am Elizabeth. Are we clear?"
"Yeah, yeah, okay!" Jesse cried as he held on to his leg, blood pouring from the gaping, steaming wound. "Whaddaya want?"
"A name. Someone who runs with the Improvers."
"Who? What name do you want?"
"Any fucking name!"
"Okay, okay! I know this guy, who knows this guy, who knows this other guy, who may be on the Improver Council. I think that guy's name is like James or something. Other than being a vampire, he's pretty blue collar. Not the kind who'd spend much time at the House."
"James, eh? And where can I find this James?"
"He works as a pipe fitter for Salish and Springwater. Works out of a shop up on Sandy in far northeast. He was shop steward there. Still could be, far as I know."
"Thank you for your cooperation," Elizabeth said as she holstered the Kimber and turned to the door. "You know, I don't recall any Jesse the Vermin on the House rolls. Could you be an unregistered vampire?"
Jesse's eyes grew wide. "Who? Me? Unregistered? Why...why that's cray-cray! Maybe you just need to look through your rolls again!"
Elizabeth looked back to the wounded vampire. "I won't say anything if you don't say anything. I may require your services again in the future." She handed him a business card. "If you hear anything useful, give me a call. But remember, if you ever cross me, I will find you, and I will dust you. Do we have an understanding?"
"Yeah, we got an understanding."
Elizabeth turned and left the tiny, filthy room.
"Hey! What about my leg?" Jesse asked.
"Stay off it."