“Maybe somebody moved the camera,” Colding said.
Agents Fichtner and Hall walked briskly, trying to keep pace with Lt. Grant Colding.
Agent Hall felt like saying we don’t move the cameras, but held his tongue.
Grant stopped in front of one of the solitary confinement cells and slid aside the metal viewing slat. There was only darkness in the holding cell. Lt. Colding hit the light switch next to the door, but the room remained dark.
“Probably broke the light bulbs,” Lt. Colding muttered.
“He did say he’s a vampire,” Agent Hall said.
“He thinks he’s a vampire. And it sounds like you think he is, too,” Colding said.
Lt. Colding removed the Sig Sauer 9mm from its holster, pulled the slide back and chambered a round, then gave a dead-pan look to the CIA Agents before sliding the heavy carbon steel bolt out of the door’s lock. Grant trained his firearm at the center of the room as he opened the door with his left hand.
The light from the hallway spilled into the solitary confinement cell. Ansel was resting on the concrete floor, lying stiff as a rod. His legs were straight and his toes pointed straight up to the ceiling. His arms were crossed over his chest; the beads of his rosary could be seen wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand.
“On your feet, Sunshine,” Lt. Colding barked.
Ansel remained motionless on the floor. Colding stepped into the cell, crushing broken glass under his first footfall. Grant noticed that the floor was littered with curved pieces of thin, shattered glass. He did break the light bulbs, Grant thought.
“He’s committed to his neurosis, I’ll give him that,” Lt. Colding said.
Being careful not to get cut by the shattered glass on the floor, Lt. Colding knelt down next to Ansel. With his right hand, Grant pressed the barrel of his pistol firmly against Ansel’s forehead. With his left hand, he put two fingers against Ansel’s jugular vein to check for a pulse.
“He’s alive,” Grant lied, not wanting to admit his failure in finding a pulse.
Lt. Colding stood up and backed out of the room, keeping his gun trained on Ansel.
“What time does the sun set down here?” Grant asked.
Agent Hall glanced at his wristwatch.
“At this line of latitude… about twenty minutes,” Hall answered.
“Then we’ll wait here twenty minutes,” Lt. Colding said.
* * *
“What is that?” Ansel asked. He was seated once again in the interrogation room. This time his wrists didn’t have handcuffs. Nobody wanted to think, let alone speak about the fact that the mirror in the room reflected everything and everybody except Ansel.
“An EEG lead, it measures brainwave activity,” Agent Fichtner said, “May I?”
Ansel assented and Agent Fichtner attached the transducer to the hairless skin behind Ansel’s left ear. The transducer had a wire that lead to a small metal box that sat on the table. The box was connected to a laptop computer that was also on the table. Agent Hall and Lt. Colding were watching the computer screen.
“Brain activity is normal,” Agent Hall said.
“Can I have a finger? Next is the heart rate monitor,” Fichtner said.
Ansel extended his hand, palm up. His yellow, sharpened finger-nails extended past his finger tips about a quarter of an inch. Agent Fichtner affixed a sensor that looked vaguely like a clothespin to Ansel’s index finger.
Neither Agent Hall nor Lt. Colding said anything.
“Is his heart-rate registering?” Fichtner asked.
“No,” Agent Hall said.
Agent Fichtner unplugged one of the wires from the metal box on the table, then plugged it back in.
“Anything?” Fichtner asked.
“No,” Agent Hall repeated.
Ansel stared at Agent Fichtner as the CIA agent placed another sensor on the underside of the vampire’s forearm.
“What does that one do?” Ansel asked with a smile.
“This one measures galvanic skin response,” Agent Fichtner said. He checked the box to make sure all the wires were secure in their ports.
“When was the last time this machine was calibrated?” Lt. Colding asked.
“This morning, and it was working fine,” Agent Hall said.
“Then why are we only getting brainwave activity?” Colding asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s possible that he’s dead,” Agent Hall said.
“We may just have to settle for getting a baseline on his brainwave patterns, and then just go from there,” Fichtner said.
There was a pause. Nobody said anything.
“Ok,” Agent Fichtner said, “Let’s get started.”
“Is your name Ansel?” Agent Fichtner asked.
Ansel said nothing.
God, now he’s giving us the silent treatment, Ansel heard Fichtner think.
“Is your name Ansel? Are you from Denmark?” Agent Fichtner asked.
Ansel gazed into Agent Fichtner, and then glanced at Hall and Colding.
“Let us, as you say, get something straight- I’ve stayed here for two days and a night thinking that we might come to some mutually beneficial arrangement,” Ansel began, “and I have had nothing to drink. I won’t talk until I do.”
Ansel let the words sink in, but was only received with incredulous looks from the men in the room.
“Either give me your blood, or throw me in with the rest of the prisoners,” Ansel said, “I can clear out some of your tenants without you having to explicitly commit any war crimes. Inmate predation, I think you call it.”
Cute, I’m calling his bluff, Lt. Colding thought.
“I’ll be right back,” Lt. Colding said and walked out of the room.
“That was weird,” Agent hall said.
“What?” Fichtner asked.
“Well, it’s back now- but his brainwave patterns dropped off for a moment,” Agent hall said.
A moment later Lt. Colding was back in the room, he had a bag of blood that he’d retrieved from sick-bay.
“His brainwave patterns just spiked,” Agent Hall said.
“I think he likes me,” Lt. Colding said.
“Your blood does smell exquisite,” Ansel said.
“Great. Well may I offer you the next best thing?” Lt. Colding asked, tossing the blood bag into Ansel’s lap.
“It’s a vintage 2007, O negative,” Colding continued, “It’s got a wonderful bouquet, it’s not very strong on the triglycerides. Grown on a south facing slope.”
Ansel bit into the bag and squeezed it with both hands; the black-red fluid surged into his mouth as he gulped it down. The bag was empty in a matter of mere seconds. Ansel sucked out the last two or three milliliters and put the now shriveled bag on the table, right next to the metal box. Ansel wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and then licked his thumb.
“Much obliged,” Ansel said, “Although I do prefer it warm.”
“That was disgusting,” Agent Hall said.
“I’ll put it in the microwave next time,” Lt. Colding said.
Agent Fichtner had a hand over his mouth, he wouldn’t look at Ansel.
“Have you ever robbed a blood bank?” Lt. Colding asked.
Ansel threw his head back as he laughed. Nobody else laughed.
“You are serious? No, I’ve never been that desperate,” Ansel said.
Lt. Colding glanced up at the mirror on the wall. Ansel wasn’t in the reflection. Colding paced aimlessly a few steps then stopped, bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. This can’t be happening, he thought, I’m having an interview with a God-damned vampire.
“Interview with a Vampire,” Ansel said, “Rice’s vampires were rather, sweet. Emotionally involved.”
Lt. Colding shot a threatening look at Ansel. Agents Fichtner and Hall wondered what transaction they’d just missed.
“You read my thoughts?” Lt. Colding asked.
“Yes. I read thoughts,” Ansel replied, “and don’t compare me to Anne Rice’s vampires.”
“Do you read vampire fiction?” Colding asked.
“Yes, but not more than I read other things,” Ansel said, examining his finger nails.
“I like to poll public opinion from time to time,” he added.
“Do you have any favorites?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“Stoker,” Ansel said, turning to Agent Fichtner, “his work was fairly accurate.”
“So you’re probably not a fan of the sparkly vampires,” Colding said.
Ansel waved the back of his hand through the air in a dismissive manner.
“Authors of vampire fiction must enjoy some acute neurosis in order to write what they do…” Ansel began, then paused in thought.
“But the invention of vampires that glitter in the sunlight? I don’t understand it. One must be severely neurotic to enjoy reading such ill-thought contrivances,” Ansel said.
Agent Hall let out a snort of laughter.
“Are there others like you? Other vampires?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“Yes, there are others,” Ansel said.
“How many?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“More than I know,” Ansel responded.
“They’re not all Catholic, are they?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“No, Catholic vampires are something of a rarity. We are damned, after all,” Ansel said.
“How does that work? How do you continue on as a Catholic if you know your soul is damned?” Lt. Colding asked.
“I take the Sacraments and I act as an agent against the forces of evil, including other vampires,” Ansel said.
“But why? Why go on as a Catholic vampire?” Lt. Colding asked.
“Faith,” Ansel began, “Faith that I may exist on Earth long enough to see Christ’s return. Perhaps my soul will be ransomed back from Hell by then.”
“Should we be concerned with the other vampires?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“You should,” Ansel said, “There exists a cadre of vampires, Hell-bent on spreading destruction to the race of men. This cadre has ties with your country’s enemies, as well as her friends.”
“Are they behind the violence in Syria? Is that why you tried to cross the Lebanese border?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“Yes,” Ansel said, “They were instrumental in the violence in Syria, among other places. They take miniscule upstarts in places like Syria and turn them into majuscule firestorms that spill over into neighboring regions and countries. They have done this for centuries.”
“How?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“They usually lurk in the shadows, playing both sides of a war in order to prolong it,” Ansel said while examining his sharpened, off-yellow fingernails. “If there is a lull in the violence, they, as you might say, jump-start it by committing some of the most heinous war-crimes imaginable.”
“Can you be more specific? How are they doing this in Syria?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“I suspect that they were behind the chlorine gas bombs that went off several months ago in Damascus,” Ansel said, the flow of his sentence finishing abruptly, hesitant to continue.
“There is a specific vampire I am hunting. Ever since he last awoke he has been trying to acquire nuclear weapons. I fear he may have amassed a small arsenal of such,” Ansel said.
Ansel clearly knew the next question before anyone could speak it.
“Cabal is one of the oldest remaining vampires, and he fashions himself as Satan’s last apostle. His only aim, his only desire and motivation is to extend Hell’s reign to Earth. And he will do it by plunging all of mankind into bloodshed, and then slavery,” Ansel said.
“And you think he’s going to do it with nuclear weapons,” Agent Fichtner said.
“I know that’s what he’s doing,” Ansel said.
“How?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“I read minds. The courier that I drank in Istanbul was a member of a certain terrorist organization, The Brotherhood, and The Brotherhood is in league with Cabal and his coven of vampires,” Ansel paused, “I’ve drank many un-careful members of The Brotherhood, and I’ve learned that they have intercepted a dangerous amount of Plutonium-239 and Tritium. I’ve also learned that Cabal is in Damascus. Or, at least he was there two nights ago, when you captured me.”
“So you think he’s building a nuclear weapon in Damascus,” Agent Fichtner said.
“Correct. I am aware of a machine shop that The Brotherhood has recently commandeered. They’re likely building it there,” Ansel said.
“Who does he plan to attack with it? The United States?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“That is quite possible,” Ansel said, “but he could detonate it in any number of countries in order to trigger global warfare.”
“Who else might he use it against?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“Perhaps the Saudis, although I believe Pakistan is more likely the first target, because they would retaliate against India. Knowing Cabal, he would manage to get China involved in the conflict. Once that happens, the rest of the world’s powers would follow suit on their own. Russia, Korea, and your United States. At which point you would be, as you say, fucked,” Ansel said.
Everyone was silent. Agent Fichtner swallowed what felt like a baseball lodged in his throat. He really didn’t want to hear anymore. His world had just been turned upside down. First was the Catholic Vampire who drank a bag of blood and didn’t have a reflection. And then the Catholic Vampire warned him of global nuclear warfare.
Rising from his chair, his hand on his sidearm, Grant Colding cleared his throat to speak. He looked like he was ready to kill somebody, and the timbre of his voice confirmed the intent.
“Where is the machine shop?” Lt. Colding asked.
Agents Fichtner and Hall walked briskly, trying to keep pace with Lt. Grant Colding.
Agent Hall felt like saying we don’t move the cameras, but held his tongue.
Grant stopped in front of one of the solitary confinement cells and slid aside the metal viewing slat. There was only darkness in the holding cell. Lt. Colding hit the light switch next to the door, but the room remained dark.
“Probably broke the light bulbs,” Lt. Colding muttered.
“He did say he’s a vampire,” Agent Hall said.
“He thinks he’s a vampire. And it sounds like you think he is, too,” Colding said.
Lt. Colding removed the Sig Sauer 9mm from its holster, pulled the slide back and chambered a round, then gave a dead-pan look to the CIA Agents before sliding the heavy carbon steel bolt out of the door’s lock. Grant trained his firearm at the center of the room as he opened the door with his left hand.
The light from the hallway spilled into the solitary confinement cell. Ansel was resting on the concrete floor, lying stiff as a rod. His legs were straight and his toes pointed straight up to the ceiling. His arms were crossed over his chest; the beads of his rosary could be seen wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand.
“On your feet, Sunshine,” Lt. Colding barked.
Ansel remained motionless on the floor. Colding stepped into the cell, crushing broken glass under his first footfall. Grant noticed that the floor was littered with curved pieces of thin, shattered glass. He did break the light bulbs, Grant thought.
“He’s committed to his neurosis, I’ll give him that,” Lt. Colding said.
Being careful not to get cut by the shattered glass on the floor, Lt. Colding knelt down next to Ansel. With his right hand, Grant pressed the barrel of his pistol firmly against Ansel’s forehead. With his left hand, he put two fingers against Ansel’s jugular vein to check for a pulse.
“He’s alive,” Grant lied, not wanting to admit his failure in finding a pulse.
Lt. Colding stood up and backed out of the room, keeping his gun trained on Ansel.
“What time does the sun set down here?” Grant asked.
Agent Hall glanced at his wristwatch.
“At this line of latitude… about twenty minutes,” Hall answered.
“Then we’ll wait here twenty minutes,” Lt. Colding said.
* * *
“What is that?” Ansel asked. He was seated once again in the interrogation room. This time his wrists didn’t have handcuffs. Nobody wanted to think, let alone speak about the fact that the mirror in the room reflected everything and everybody except Ansel.
“An EEG lead, it measures brainwave activity,” Agent Fichtner said, “May I?”
Ansel assented and Agent Fichtner attached the transducer to the hairless skin behind Ansel’s left ear. The transducer had a wire that lead to a small metal box that sat on the table. The box was connected to a laptop computer that was also on the table. Agent Hall and Lt. Colding were watching the computer screen.
“Brain activity is normal,” Agent Hall said.
“Can I have a finger? Next is the heart rate monitor,” Fichtner said.
Ansel extended his hand, palm up. His yellow, sharpened finger-nails extended past his finger tips about a quarter of an inch. Agent Fichtner affixed a sensor that looked vaguely like a clothespin to Ansel’s index finger.
Neither Agent Hall nor Lt. Colding said anything.
“Is his heart-rate registering?” Fichtner asked.
“No,” Agent Hall said.
Agent Fichtner unplugged one of the wires from the metal box on the table, then plugged it back in.
“Anything?” Fichtner asked.
“No,” Agent Hall repeated.
Ansel stared at Agent Fichtner as the CIA agent placed another sensor on the underside of the vampire’s forearm.
“What does that one do?” Ansel asked with a smile.
“This one measures galvanic skin response,” Agent Fichtner said. He checked the box to make sure all the wires were secure in their ports.
“When was the last time this machine was calibrated?” Lt. Colding asked.
“This morning, and it was working fine,” Agent Hall said.
“Then why are we only getting brainwave activity?” Colding asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s possible that he’s dead,” Agent Hall said.
“We may just have to settle for getting a baseline on his brainwave patterns, and then just go from there,” Fichtner said.
There was a pause. Nobody said anything.
“Ok,” Agent Fichtner said, “Let’s get started.”
“Is your name Ansel?” Agent Fichtner asked.
Ansel said nothing.
God, now he’s giving us the silent treatment, Ansel heard Fichtner think.
“Is your name Ansel? Are you from Denmark?” Agent Fichtner asked.
Ansel gazed into Agent Fichtner, and then glanced at Hall and Colding.
“Let us, as you say, get something straight- I’ve stayed here for two days and a night thinking that we might come to some mutually beneficial arrangement,” Ansel began, “and I have had nothing to drink. I won’t talk until I do.”
Ansel let the words sink in, but was only received with incredulous looks from the men in the room.
“Either give me your blood, or throw me in with the rest of the prisoners,” Ansel said, “I can clear out some of your tenants without you having to explicitly commit any war crimes. Inmate predation, I think you call it.”
Cute, I’m calling his bluff, Lt. Colding thought.
“I’ll be right back,” Lt. Colding said and walked out of the room.
“That was weird,” Agent hall said.
“What?” Fichtner asked.
“Well, it’s back now- but his brainwave patterns dropped off for a moment,” Agent hall said.
A moment later Lt. Colding was back in the room, he had a bag of blood that he’d retrieved from sick-bay.
“His brainwave patterns just spiked,” Agent Hall said.
“I think he likes me,” Lt. Colding said.
“Your blood does smell exquisite,” Ansel said.
“Great. Well may I offer you the next best thing?” Lt. Colding asked, tossing the blood bag into Ansel’s lap.
“It’s a vintage 2007, O negative,” Colding continued, “It’s got a wonderful bouquet, it’s not very strong on the triglycerides. Grown on a south facing slope.”
Ansel bit into the bag and squeezed it with both hands; the black-red fluid surged into his mouth as he gulped it down. The bag was empty in a matter of mere seconds. Ansel sucked out the last two or three milliliters and put the now shriveled bag on the table, right next to the metal box. Ansel wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and then licked his thumb.
“Much obliged,” Ansel said, “Although I do prefer it warm.”
“That was disgusting,” Agent Hall said.
“I’ll put it in the microwave next time,” Lt. Colding said.
Agent Fichtner had a hand over his mouth, he wouldn’t look at Ansel.
“Have you ever robbed a blood bank?” Lt. Colding asked.
Ansel threw his head back as he laughed. Nobody else laughed.
“You are serious? No, I’ve never been that desperate,” Ansel said.
Lt. Colding glanced up at the mirror on the wall. Ansel wasn’t in the reflection. Colding paced aimlessly a few steps then stopped, bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. This can’t be happening, he thought, I’m having an interview with a God-damned vampire.
“Interview with a Vampire,” Ansel said, “Rice’s vampires were rather, sweet. Emotionally involved.”
Lt. Colding shot a threatening look at Ansel. Agents Fichtner and Hall wondered what transaction they’d just missed.
“You read my thoughts?” Lt. Colding asked.
“Yes. I read thoughts,” Ansel replied, “and don’t compare me to Anne Rice’s vampires.”
“Do you read vampire fiction?” Colding asked.
“Yes, but not more than I read other things,” Ansel said, examining his finger nails.
“I like to poll public opinion from time to time,” he added.
“Do you have any favorites?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“Stoker,” Ansel said, turning to Agent Fichtner, “his work was fairly accurate.”
“So you’re probably not a fan of the sparkly vampires,” Colding said.
Ansel waved the back of his hand through the air in a dismissive manner.
“Authors of vampire fiction must enjoy some acute neurosis in order to write what they do…” Ansel began, then paused in thought.
“But the invention of vampires that glitter in the sunlight? I don’t understand it. One must be severely neurotic to enjoy reading such ill-thought contrivances,” Ansel said.
Agent Hall let out a snort of laughter.
“Are there others like you? Other vampires?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“Yes, there are others,” Ansel said.
“How many?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“More than I know,” Ansel responded.
“They’re not all Catholic, are they?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“No, Catholic vampires are something of a rarity. We are damned, after all,” Ansel said.
“How does that work? How do you continue on as a Catholic if you know your soul is damned?” Lt. Colding asked.
“I take the Sacraments and I act as an agent against the forces of evil, including other vampires,” Ansel said.
“But why? Why go on as a Catholic vampire?” Lt. Colding asked.
“Faith,” Ansel began, “Faith that I may exist on Earth long enough to see Christ’s return. Perhaps my soul will be ransomed back from Hell by then.”
“Should we be concerned with the other vampires?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“You should,” Ansel said, “There exists a cadre of vampires, Hell-bent on spreading destruction to the race of men. This cadre has ties with your country’s enemies, as well as her friends.”
“Are they behind the violence in Syria? Is that why you tried to cross the Lebanese border?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“Yes,” Ansel said, “They were instrumental in the violence in Syria, among other places. They take miniscule upstarts in places like Syria and turn them into majuscule firestorms that spill over into neighboring regions and countries. They have done this for centuries.”
“How?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“They usually lurk in the shadows, playing both sides of a war in order to prolong it,” Ansel said while examining his sharpened, off-yellow fingernails. “If there is a lull in the violence, they, as you might say, jump-start it by committing some of the most heinous war-crimes imaginable.”
“Can you be more specific? How are they doing this in Syria?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“I suspect that they were behind the chlorine gas bombs that went off several months ago in Damascus,” Ansel said, the flow of his sentence finishing abruptly, hesitant to continue.
“There is a specific vampire I am hunting. Ever since he last awoke he has been trying to acquire nuclear weapons. I fear he may have amassed a small arsenal of such,” Ansel said.
Ansel clearly knew the next question before anyone could speak it.
“Cabal is one of the oldest remaining vampires, and he fashions himself as Satan’s last apostle. His only aim, his only desire and motivation is to extend Hell’s reign to Earth. And he will do it by plunging all of mankind into bloodshed, and then slavery,” Ansel said.
“And you think he’s going to do it with nuclear weapons,” Agent Fichtner said.
“I know that’s what he’s doing,” Ansel said.
“How?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“I read minds. The courier that I drank in Istanbul was a member of a certain terrorist organization, The Brotherhood, and The Brotherhood is in league with Cabal and his coven of vampires,” Ansel paused, “I’ve drank many un-careful members of The Brotherhood, and I’ve learned that they have intercepted a dangerous amount of Plutonium-239 and Tritium. I’ve also learned that Cabal is in Damascus. Or, at least he was there two nights ago, when you captured me.”
“So you think he’s building a nuclear weapon in Damascus,” Agent Fichtner said.
“Correct. I am aware of a machine shop that The Brotherhood has recently commandeered. They’re likely building it there,” Ansel said.
“Who does he plan to attack with it? The United States?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“That is quite possible,” Ansel said, “but he could detonate it in any number of countries in order to trigger global warfare.”
“Who else might he use it against?” Agent Fichtner asked.
“Perhaps the Saudis, although I believe Pakistan is more likely the first target, because they would retaliate against India. Knowing Cabal, he would manage to get China involved in the conflict. Once that happens, the rest of the world’s powers would follow suit on their own. Russia, Korea, and your United States. At which point you would be, as you say, fucked,” Ansel said.
Everyone was silent. Agent Fichtner swallowed what felt like a baseball lodged in his throat. He really didn’t want to hear anymore. His world had just been turned upside down. First was the Catholic Vampire who drank a bag of blood and didn’t have a reflection. And then the Catholic Vampire warned him of global nuclear warfare.
Rising from his chair, his hand on his sidearm, Grant Colding cleared his throat to speak. He looked like he was ready to kill somebody, and the timbre of his voice confirmed the intent.
“Where is the machine shop?” Lt. Colding asked.
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