I. The Phone Call
Ricardo Swindelli sat in the executive swivel chair behind his desk, rocking idly back and forth, waiting for the phone to ring and wondering if he could be bothered to get up and get a sixth can of Dr Pepper from the cooler on the other side of his office.
Finally making a decision, he got up and went to the small cabinet and extracted another can of the dubiously fruit-flavoured fizzy nectar he loved so much. He gazed out the window, shielding his eyes against the sun with one hand (unusually, his shades were lying on the desk). It was late summer and today was much like the last few days had been, with the temperature hovering in the high 80s, coupled with 40% humidity. It was only 11 o'clock and already he needed another shower.
He glared at the broken air conditioning unit.
'Where the hell are those lousy repair men?' he wondered. He checked his watch.
"I called them over a frickin' hour ago", he muttered to himself.
He'd just popped the can open when the phone rang. He rushed over to the desk, almost spilling his drink in his haste and grabbed the receiver.
"Ricardo Swindelli, Paranormal Investigator...how can I help you?"
He'd had to change his official title as his office shared a street with several other businesses of the more traditional kind. Even so, his cover "profession" didn't go down well with his neighbours...they called him a crank and said his presence lowered the tone of the neighbourhood.
Not long after he'd opened the office, a small group had actively tried to force him out. They might have succeeded had they not chosen the day a number of his small circle of friends had happened to be visiting. Sharing his enthusiasm (well, obsession actually) for weaponry of all kinds, they had brought a plethora of guns, swords, knives and crossbows, as well as a variety of more obscure instruments designed for inflicting pain and death. This had been going on for some time and their monthly visits had turned into swap meets.
On seeing their friend confronted by the angry mob, some of whom had brought weapons of their own, they'd pushed through the crowd and swaggered into the office. Withdrawing various weapons from their carry cases, the group had ostentatiously displayed them and made loud, thinly-veiled suggestions about what they might be used for. This had only added to Swindelli's reputation as something of a basket-case, but at least it had the effect of making his harassers back down with gratifying haste. Since that episode, his disgruntled 'neighbours' had resorted to low-level nuisance tactics, such as blocking his parking space and shoving junk mail...and other, less pleasant items, through his letterbox.
The voice on the other end of the phone sounded Germanic, feminine and confused. "Er...excuse me...I vas under ze impression you vere a vampire hunter and general slayer hoff ze undead?"
"That depends lady...are you from the FBI, Sherriff's Office, TV, radio or other media outlet?"
German accents weren't common in Texas, but they weren't unheard of either.
The woman sounded even more nonplussed. "Vhat? No...I am Countess Ursula von Wolfenstein. I haff a castle in ze Rhine Valley, vich I fear is being used by vampires to launch attacks on nearby villages and I urgently need somevone to, how you say, deal viz zem. Your rating in ze Index of Supernatural Bounty Hunters is...not ze best...but you are von of ze cheapest".
Swindelli cocked his head to one side. If she'd looked him up in the ISBH, she was obviously serious. You had to know the right people, just to know how to find the Index. Years of being plagued by hoaxers, prank callers and journalists looking to expose and ridicule them, had taught people in his profession to be very careful how they advertised their services. Their rating system had been a bone of contention for some time now. He was, as his peers would attest, very effective at what he did. It was just that his jobs had a tendency to involve a lot of collateral damage.
"In that case, yes - I'm the guy you're looking for. Sorry, but I have to be careful...I'm sure you understand. People in our line of work tend not to be very popular with a lot of folks, for a lot of reasons".
He tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the indignation from his voice. "They think we're nutcases, scam artists, or even devil worshippers...can you believe that? Next time they start harassing me, I've a good mind to show them my illustrated copy of the Necronomicon...that ought to shut them up!"
He then remembered her last comment. "And by the way, I'm not cheap...just good value, okay?"
"Excuse me - I meant no offence".
She sounded bored and Ricardo made a mental note to not rant about his professional problems to potential clients...he couldn't afford to lose any more.
"So...are you interested? I can offer you a hundred souzand Euros, plus expenses".
Swindelli did some quick mental arithmentic to convert that figure into dollars and liked what he came up with.
"That will do very nicely, thank you ma'am", he replied, laying on as much charm as he could muster.
"I'll need half in advance though, as I'm currently experiencing some...ah...cash-flow problems. If you can handle that I can be ready to go...lets see now...how's the end of the week sound?"
"Zat vill be fine. I'll haff ze money vired to your account tomorrow".
They arranged the details of their meeting and after ending the call, Swindelli leaned back in his chair, basking in the late morning sun, feeling very pleased with himself.
2. Déjá Vu
Ricardo sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, nodding approvingly as he surveyed the luxuriously appointed room...this certainly beat his cramped apartment in Brownwood. However a combination of jet lag and expensive German wine was making it a struggle to keep his eyes open.
Earlier, he'd flown first-class from Houston to Cologne and taken the ICE (high-speed train) to Dusseldorf. One of Countess Ursula's flunkies had met him at the station in a black Mercedes limo and chauffered him to Wolfenstein castle. As they had left the city limits behind and entered the lush green landscapes of the Rhine Valley, he'd begun to get an uneasy feeling. Memories surfaced from a few years ago, when he'd been called on to shut down a Hellmouth that had opened when a novice warlock had tried summoning a demon. That had been a messy job - the final body count had been in the hundreds! He remembered the government had covered it up as a major gas explosion.
In fact, the very castle he was now staying in had been virtually razed in the incident. It had been a regrettable but necessary act of destruction. He'd seen no option but to rig those incendiary charges in the cellars and cause the massive building to collapse on itself. It had been the only way to destroy the artifact creating the portal between this world and the Netherworld, which he'd eventually located in one of the castle's many dungeons. The ruins had later become a tourist attraction.
The new owners had done a remarkable job of restoring the old pile to its former glory. On the outside, the new stonework was pretty obvious, but inside they'd restored the opulent decor so that only an expert in period interior design could tell it was new.
He'd just returned to his room from a dinner party held in the main hall, where he'd been introduced to the Countess and her friends. Once again, his instincts had kicked in. There was something...odd about Ursula. Come to think of it, there was something strange about all the people he'd met tonight.
Maybe it was just his natural paranoia, (the product of several years' experience as a supernatural bounty hunter), but the heavy drapes and hundreds of candles in the hall - despite the fact it wasn't really dark yet - had set off a quiet but persistent alarm in the back of his mind. Also, there was the matter of the clothes everyone was wearing. They all looked like models from a gothic fashion catalogue...right down to the white face paint and heavy eyeliner. He'd groaned inwardly when he'd been politely informed that an outfit had been left out for him in his room. The white frilly shirt hadn't been so bad, but the black velvet suit and matching pointy-toed boots had made him long for his usual attire of combat pants, t-shirt and military-style boots.
Still, the evening had been very pleasant, apart from the awkward silence when he'd commented that the sauerbraten could have done with some garlic. He'd just assumed the whole thing was some obscure German custom. His doubts had been pushed further to one side when he'd been introduced to a girl named Maria.
Slim and of medium height, her pale, elfin face framed by a mass of dark curls, he'd been completely blown away by her wit and charm. Not only that but her period costume was very low cut in the traditional way, which had left him struggling to pay attention to what she was saying most of the time. Still, she had taken a real shine to him and had asked to meet him after the party...
There was a discreet knock on the door, which roused Ricardo from his reverie.
"Come in..." he said, looking expectantly at the door.
It opened to reveal Maria. She came in and sat next to him.
"Um...can I get you a drink?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Later...right now I have something else in mind..."
She never finished her sentence as she jumped on him and began kissing him in an almost frenzied manner.
Man, this is one horny chick! he thought, as he fell back under her weight. She began tearing at his shirt. She pulled it off and things started to become more intense...until she began biting his neck.
"Whoa there! Take it easy girl!"
It didn't hurt that much, but he'd rather not have an enormous, highly visible hickey the next morning.
When he opened his eyes, his blood turned to ice and all thoughts of getting laid evaporated. A pair of pearly white fangs had sprouted at the corners of her mouth and her eyes had turned yellow, with cat's pupils. She was staring at him hungrily. Her face hadn't deformed in the grotesque way that they often did - for that at least he was grateful.
"Man, I should've known this was going too well" he groaned.
He tried to push her off, but her supernatural strength kept him pinned to the bed. Drawing his legs up from underneath her, he managed to deliver a strong kick to her stomach, which sent her flying. She picked herself up off the floor with a snarl and flew at him - literally! Apparently she'd mastered the art of levitation too...
Ricardo rolled off the bed, tipping over the bedside cabinet as he did so. Its contents spilled out around him. Among them were some of his undead-killing paraphernalia. He grabbed a stake and jumped up, whirling around just as the vamp landed on the bed. He kicked her legs out from under her, jumped on top of her and with practised precision drove the stake through her heart. She screamed and exploded in a shower of dust. He fell forward and got a face full of ex-vampire.
"Man, I hate it when they do that! Why couldn't she just slowly wither and die?".
He then looked at the fine white powder that was all over him and shuddered.
"That gives a whole new meaning to having a girl all over you".
He noticed the funny taste in his mouth and spat.
"Ack! Ew...gross!
He got up and washed himself off as best he could in the en-suite bathroom. As he finished getting dressed in his normal gear and gathering the tools of his trade, the door opened again to reveal a crowd of similarly toothy, yellow-eyed newcomers.
Swindelli sighed. It looked like this was going to be a long night...
III. Outstaying your welcome
A woman pushed her way to the front of the crowd.
"Ah, Countess Ursula. You're looking...uh...different..."
The Countess smiled evilly. "I vas surprised you didn't vork it out sooner. I had expected somevone viz your reputation to be more difficult to ensnare".
"Well, to be honest I did have my doubts, but the pay was too good to pass up...got bills to pay and all that you know".
She looked over at the bed. "I see you at least managed to evade Maria. It vas a cheap ploy I know, but it doesn't hurt to try".
"I think it hurt her a lot more than it did me...though not by much", Swindelli said, rubbing his neck.
"Your foolishness has led you to your doom Svindelli", said the Countess, as she and the others advanced on him. "Count Ferdinand entrusted me viz ze task of destroying you after you svarted his plans six years ago in zis very place. Revenge vill be very sweet..."
"Uh...I take it that means I won't be collecting the rest of my fee then?" said Swindelli, backing away, looking desperately for an escape route...none were immediately apparent.
The Countess laughed maniacally. "Seize him!" she cried.
Two vampires strode towards him. They didn't look very friendly.
Swindelli groped blindly in his rucksack for a weapon. His hand closed over a small glass jar. Pulling it out, he looked at it. In the dim light, it looked like a jar of home-made habanero salsa.
What the hell? he thought. It must have been left over from a camping trip. On closer inspection, it turned out to be one of his other home-made specialities...an incendiary grenade.
He'd forgotten he usually kept some in his inventory...this one was a blend of gunpowder and white phosphorous, with a dash of silver nitrate and garlic essence for good measure. The part he was most proud of was the screw-cap detonator, incorporating thin discs of flint and iron, which struck a spark, igniting the 5-second delay fuse.
He gave the lid a twist and did a silent four-count, while slowly backing away, before flinging it at one of the advancing vamps. It missed, but that turned out to be a good thing as the fuse ignited the powder mix, just as the jar shattered against the wall, showering its contents over those who had hung back. A miniature fireball blossomed out from the point of impact, engulfing the nearest vampires. They began screaming and slapping themselves. Several exploded after just a few seconds' exposure to the fire. Several others fell on the floor rolling around in agony.
The two vamps attacking Swindelli stopped and whirled round in confusion.
Swindelli took advantage of the chaos to sprint forward, barrelling through burning vampires and out of the room. He sprinted down several flights of stairs before pausing for breath. Digging around in his rucksack he found another jar. He smiled as he looked at it.
The Anarchists' Cookbook strikes again! he thought.
IV. Vampires...vampires...everywhere!
While the upper floors were thrown into confusion, people running this way and that...some of them even trying to put out the blaze, which by this time had engulfed the entire room and was still spreading, Swindelli stealthily made his way downstairs to the main hall.
At the first floor landing, whose grand sweeping staircase led down to the main foyer, he stopped cold.
Waiting for him were at least four dozen more vampires, their eyes tracking him like searchlights.
Aw crap! he thought. He reached down to his right hip and felt the flechette gun holstered there and got an idea.
It wasn't your ordinary needle gun. Ricardo's had been customised to shoot toothpick-sized darts of wood from a block cut from a holy rosewood tree from the Vatican gardens, blessed by the Pope himself. This wasn't something you could buy at an ordinary gun store. It had been a gift from the Holy See, following a successful job in Rome to flush out a nest of vampires that had tried to bring down the Catholic church.
It had proven to be a very useful weapon. While it wouldn't kill a vampire unless you got up close and unloaded a full burst right in the chest, it certainly made any would-be attacker think twice.
Slipping his arms through his rucksack straps and tightening them, Swindelli leapt astride the wide, polished bannister and slid down the staircase, rapid-firing the flechette gun as he went. It spat dozens of needle-sharp darts into the assembled vampires, who howled and clawed at their faces and various other parts of their bodies.
Reaching the bottom Ricardo lashed out with both feet at a pair of vamps standing at the end of the banister, his momentum sending them sprawling. He slid off the railing, landing lightly on his feet and took a few seconds to orient himself.
Now what's the fastest way outta here? he wondered.
With the main hall off to the left, he turned right, heading down a wide corridor, along which were arrayed a number of doors.
Dammit, they all look the same...how the hell are guests meant to find their way around? he thought. Then he realised the majority of guests probably weren't meant to.
Just then he spotted a butler coming up the corridor. Its grey undead complexion and lurching gait caused the word
'zombie' to flash through Swindelli's mind. On seeing Ricardo, it dropped the tray it was carrying and lurched towards him growling and snarling.
Swindelli holstered the needle-gun and waited until it was within arm's reach before grabbing the lapel of its immaculate tuxedo jacket. He shoved it against the wall, reached behind him with one hand and withdrew the silver-bladed katana from its sheath on his back. He backed up a few steps and jammed the tip of the sword into the creature's chest. The zombie's perplexed expression almost made Ricardo laugh, but then it wasn't the first time he'd caused a member of the undead to be so taken aback. The creature stared at him uncomprehendingly. It had never been attacked before. The living tended to run away screaming when they saw him.
"Okay Igor..."
The zombie stopped struggling and snarling for a moment.
"How did you know my name?" it said in a voice that sounded almost human, apart from a slight wheezing and slurring.
"Lucky guess. All zombie lackeys are called Igor, aren't they? I'm relatively new in this business but even I know its a an old tradition round these parts".
The zombie shrugged...or tried to. Un-living with acute
rigor mortis made any subtle movement difficult.
"What do you want?"
"Tell me the quickest route out of here. Preferably one without any trapdoors, saw blades or any other farewell presents for unwelcome guests. Do that and I might let you live".
With some difficulty, the zombie raised an sarcastic eyebrow.
"Okay wiseguy...tell me how to get out and I won't slice and dice your undead ass into dog food..."
The zombie pointed down the corridor. "Fourth door on your left".
"Thank you".
Swindelli drove the sword into the zombie's chest and cut downwards, disemboweling it. Igor managed a surprised expression before slumping to the ground. Pulling the blade free, Ricardo took aim at the creature's neck and with one smooth swing, decapitated it - the only sure way of killing a zombie.
Swindelli looked down at the now-fully-dead butler. "That'll teach you to be a smartass".
Wiping the blade on the zombie's tuxedo, he continued down the hall to the door indicated by the now completely-deceased butler.
