The Interview (censored)

“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, screwed,” 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.

Ansel IX

The seven men were crammed into the rear compartment of the Stryker Armored Personnel Carrier. Ansel sat across from Lt. Colding, the vampire’s knees constantly banged against the SEAL’s thighs whenever the vehicle went over a curb, or some other unknown obstacle outside. Lt. Colding stared at Ansel, Ansel stared at Lt. Colding. Clad entirely in black, Ansel’s attire complimented the SEAL strike team’s tactical gear.

“Are you going to stare at me the whole time?” Colding asked.
“You know, there are relics in this city,” Ansel said with a faint smile.

The whole vehicle jostled as it plowed over a ditch. A calm voice crackled into the team’s earpieces.

“Two minutes out,” the driver said.

“I’m going to make you a relic if you don’t quit creepin’ me out,” Lt. Colding muttered.
“I am a relic,” Ansel said, his smile no longer faint.

The SEAL and SWCC operators in the Stryker barely noticed the impact as the Personnel Carrier smashed through a chain link fence.

“Thirty seconds,” the driver said.

“Are you ready for this?” Ansel asked.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve done this more than you,” Colding replied.

Everyone swayed to the front of the vehicle as the personnel carrier made a rapid deceleration and stopped. The floor to ceiling hatch in the back of the compartment opened.

“Don’t be so sure…” Colding heard Ansel say as the SEALs piled out of the vehicle. Ansel had completely vanished as soon as the door had opened.

“Where the fuck are you?!” Colding asked, trying to keep his voice down.

The SEALs double-timed to their rehearsed positions around the machine shop. Colding, Wasnick and Hernandez ran to the front door that led to the office portion of the building. Petty Officers Gosling, Barnes and Kyer broke off and jogged to the door on the Eastern facing wall, leading into the machine shop itself.

Petty Officer Wasnick had his shotgun trained on the front door’s deadbolt lock, waiting only a few seconds. As he heard muffled gunshots from around the corner of the building, Wasnick shot out the door’s lock, then fired three rounds where he expected the doors hinges to be on the inside. Wasnick kicked down the door and Colding rushed in, followed by Hernandez. Wasnick was the last one in.

Colding entered the poorly lit office area with his nerves strung so high, he felt like a violin ready to break under its own tension.  He attributed his successes to the fact that his SEALs were trained to execute their missions in a well synchronized, choreographed ballet of maneuver and slaughter. Knowing that Ansel so completely and utterly disappeared at the mission’s start irked Lt. Colding to no end. For all he knew, the mission could be over in a heart-beat.

His finger resting on the trigger of his MP5, Colding swept his aim over the office’s reception area, and then walked briskly down the hallway with Wasnick and Hernandez in tow, stopping next to the first door they came to. Colding paused only briefly before barging in gun first. He quickly cleared the small room, sweeping his weapon left to center to right but was briefly stunned by what he saw- three bloodied bodies of insurgents strewn across the room. AK-47’s tenuously touching the hands that had held them, their light brown wooden barrels and handles slathered in red.  The insurgents had bled out from their necks, and quite severely, judging by the pools running down their chests and soaked clothes.

“Clear,” Colding managed to cough out.

Colding heard shots fired out in the machine shop as he made his way out into the hallway to clear the next room. The staccato shots Kalashnikovs rang out, followed by a brrrrrrrrrrap of MP5 fire. The next room that Colding cleared looked like the first, only there was just one body. The man had had his throat clawed out and his rifle had been folded into a V shape.

As Colding walked yet again out into the hallway, he saw a flash of black streak from the room on the right to the room on the left at the end of the hall. Ansel, he thought.

Colding ran down the hall and charged into the room. The insurgent inside had fired a single shot from his AK before Colding entered. Lt. Colding and Petty Officers Wasnick and Hernandez trained their weapons on the only movement in the room- that being Ansel making a diagonal, upward swing with his fingers into the insurgent’s throat. It sounded as though pages were forcefully ripped from a book as Ansel’s nails tore through flesh, the man let out a quiet, gargled scream as he rose a foot off the ground and he fell back onto a desk, his rifle clattering to the floor. There was blood on the floor, two of the walls, and parts of the ceiling.

Staring once again into Ansel’s soulless eyes, Lt. Colding’s sense of un-ease had momentarily lapsed into a near maniacal surge of triumph, knowing that his team had cleared the office with only one shot fired.

A voice crackled into the team’s earpieces.

“All clear in the shop. We have a new asset, over,”  Barnes said.

Still staring at Ansel, Lt. Colding keyed his throat mic.

“Roger, all clear in the office, out,” Colding responded.

“How the fuck do you make such a gawdam mess without getting blood all over yourself?!” Colding asked Ansel.

“I’ve been doing this for quite a while,” Ansel replied, “And I haven’t drunk anyone in here yet.”

Lt. Colding tried to process the mechanics of how his new undead asset operated. Ansel had suddenly disappeared when the APC’s rear hatch opened, and was apparently inside the building by the time the SEALs had shot the doors open. He had killed as many as three armed men at once, and he didn’t even kill them to feed himself. He clawed out their throats and moved on to the next room.

 “Let’s go, we’ve got a new asset to interrogate,” Lt. Colding said.

               *     *     *

The machine shop smelled of steel filings and grease. The gray expanse of the concrete floor had a haphazard array of machinery ranging from manual lathes, welding rigs, even a CNC machine. Strewn about the concrete floor were metal shavings and a half dozen dead Syrians, their weapons several feet from their lifeless hands.

One Syrian was still alive; he was chained to a metal folding chair and bleeding from his mouth and thighs. Petty Officer Barnes stood with his MP5 trained on the Syrian while Gosling and Kyer moved about the shop, policing weapons and gathering intelligence.

 “He hasn’t answered any of my questions, Ice,” Barnes said.

“So he’s the strong, silent type,” Lt. Colding said, “I can respect that.”

Colding made a mental note of the tools in the shop, and how they might aid in an interrogation. There certainly wasn’t a shortage of hammers and drills. Colding also noted the two bullet holes in the Syrian’s leg.

 “You know you’re not leaving here alive, right?” Colding asked. The Syrian did not respond.

“I can make the next few minutes a living hell for you,” Colding said, getting close to the prisoner, “I could hook up that tig rig to this chair and shock the shit out of you.”

As he said it, Lt. Colding noticed two very small, scabbed over holes on the man’s neck. Colding glanced from the man’s neck and back to his eyes.

“You believe in vampires, don’t you?” Colding said, suddenly realizing he didn’t have to torture the man for information. Grant turned away from the prisoner, faced Ansel and very deliberately thought, Do your thing, knowing that his thought was heard.

Ansel walked over to the chained man, relishing the smell of hot blood flowing from his open wounds. The vampire traced two cold, slender fingers over the left side of the man’s neck, feeling the scabs from previous feedings. Ansel was behind the man now; both of his cold, slender hands massaged the man’s neck.

Lt. Colding and the rest of his team watched as Ansel bent at the waist then moved his delicate hands to the man’s collar bones and bit into his neck from behind. The man’s eyes widened only a little as Ansel gulped down his blood. The Danish vampire’s milky white skin regained an amount of living color as he fed. Ansel finished as the man’s head drooped forward, lifeless. The bullet holes in his leg had stopped bleeding.

“Cabal was here,” Ansel said, “he has a bomb.”

“Where is he now?” Lt. Colding asked.

Ansel had a serene look in his eyes.
“North…” Ansel responded, “He’s in Georgia, near the Russian border.”

“Is that where he took the bomb?” Colding asked.

Ansel playfully traced his fingers over the dead man’s neck.

“I don’t know,” said the vampire.

Ansel VIII

“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.

Ansel VII

Agent Hall was replaying the interrogation footage over a third time. It was 5 in the morning and he’d been up all night. His eyes stung from having stared at a screen for so long. Hall closed his eyes as he ran a hand over his face, sighed, then drained the rest of the cold, gritty coffee from a white Styrofoam cup. Agent Hall returned his attention to his laptop’s screen.

The video was from a camera that was bolted above the doorway in the interrogation room. It provided a God’s-eye view of the interrogation. The bottom third of the screen showed the backs of Agent Fichtner’s and Lt. Colding’s heads, though he had a clear view of Ansel’s face. Most of the one-way mirror was visible on the right side of the video. Hall wished that cameras would be placed to allow more convenient viewing of a perpetrator’s legs. In dissecting body language, the legs reveal too much to be ignored. Agent Hall often circumvented the inconvenience by checking the mirror, if it was in view.

At present, however, Hall’s attention was focused Ansel’s face. It was composed and without fear. It was without much salient emotion at all.

Ansel’s eyes were always focused on the face of the man speaking to him. And while he did glance between the faces of the two men often, his eyes never really darted. His behavior was calm and focused, almost predatory.

“Human. Resources,” Ansel said in the video, his voice sounded tinny on the laptop’s speakers.
“Smug chump,” Hall muttered.

Agent Hall squinted as he fast-forwarded the video about 3 or 4 minutes, passed the bin Laden part.

“Vampire?” Lt. Colding asked in the video, his arms once again folded.
“Yes,” Ansel responded.
“So- you drink blood?” Colding asked
“Yes,” Ansel replied, the corners of his lips pulled up slightly in a smile at the thought.
“Does sunlight hurt you?” Colding asked.
“Sunlight will kill me,” Ansel responded.
“What about garlic?” Colding asked.
“I loathe it,” Ansel said.
“Holy Water?” Colding asked.
“Burns,” Ansel said. His face was stoic as he watched the Lieutenant who’d only hours before shot him in the face.

Lieutenant Colding uncrossed his arms and put his right hand in his pocket.

“So you probably can’t look at crucifixes, can you?” Colding asked, Hall immediately paused the video.

Ansel’s eyes were shut tight. Hall tabbed back a few frames on the video until Ansel’s eyes were open.
Hall resumed the video.

“-look at crucifixes-” Colding said as Hall paused the video again right when Ansel shut his eyes.

“Huh,” Hall said, then tabbed the video back again, this time only 3 or 4 frames. The video frozen, Ansel’s gaping mouth was open and inhumanly tall. His nostrils had flared and his eyebrows were furrowed. The skin of his upper cheeks had risen toward his squinting eyes.

Agent Hall wrote a quick note, interpreting Ansel’s face as a mix of both rage and immense pain. Hall tabbed forward one frame on the video, and Ansel’s face was calm, his eyes were shut. Hall tabbed back to the previous frame, revealing again the demonic rage on Ansel’s face. Hall tabbed one more frame back and the rage was gone, Ansel’s eyes were open, only beginning to shut.

Agent Hall resumed the video.

“…can’t look at crucifixes, can you?” Lieutenant Colding asked as he removed a crucifix from his pocket and tossed it on the table.
“Explain this,” Colding said.

Ansel’s eyes were shut. A metallic *clink* could be heard on video as Ansel broke the chain of his handcuffs, brought his right hand up to the table, grabbed the crucifix and put it in the coat pocket he usually kept it. Ansel opened his eyes again. His face mostly neutral, if only a little perturbed.

Lt. Colding’s right hand was resting on the pistol at his hip. He had not expected Ansel to have broken a steel chain so effortlessly.

“No. I cannot look upon crucifixes,” Ansel replied.
“What happens?” Colding asked.
Ansel paused, seeming to look for the right words.
“Psychotic break, I think your doctors would call it,” Ansel said.
“ Why do you carry a crucifix if you can’t look it?” Colding asked.
“I am Catholic,” Ansel replied.

There was silence on the video. It was still playing, but nobody in the room said anything for a solid seven seconds.

“You’re Catholic. You’re a Catholic Vampire,” Colding asked, his head bobbing up and down on every-other word.
“Yes,” Ansel replied.
“Jesus Christ, he’s fucking with us,” Colding muttered as he turned around, revealing the top portion of his beleaguered face as he turned around and walked out of the room.

Agent Hall made a note.

“Ansel,” Agent Fichtner said in the video, “have you had these ‘psychotic breaks’ before?”
“Yes, but not in a very long time,” Ansel replied.
“How long is that?” Agent Fichtner asked.

Ansel rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers in front of his face, almost as if in prayer, and thought for a moment.

“Four hundred years, roughly,” Ansel replied.

Agent Fichtner was indifferent to the answer.

“Have you seen any doctors for this? Doctors in Denmark, maybe?” Fichtner asked.
“Seen doctors…” Ansel said, digesting the two words.
“Not in the traditional sense, no. You won’t find any record of me in any hospitals or mental institutions,” Ansel added.

Lt. Colding re-entered the room with a cup of coffee in his left hand.

“You said you haven’t had a psychotic break in four hundred years,” Fichtner said.
“Yes,” Ansel replied.
“How old are you?” Fichtner asked.
“How old am I? As a man or as a vampire?” Ansel asked.

You’ve gotta be kidding me, Ansel heard Lt. Colding think.

“Both,” Fichtner said.

Ansel’s eyes peered up and slightly to the left, as if he was counting the hairs of his eyebrows.
“I was born eight hundred and fifty…” Ansel paused and his gaze returned to his interrogators, “… one years ago. I was thirty five when I died.”

Agent Hall paused the interrogation video and jotted down notes of what Ansel had just said, dating his birth at 1156 CE. He resumed the video.

“How did you die?” Fichtner asked.
“In June 1192, Anno Domini, I was assassinated in Dimashq, Syria,” Ansel replied.
“Dimashq?” Fichtner asked.
“Damascus,” Ansel said.
“Why were you assassinated?” Fichtner asked.
“There is a very… unholy order at work in Damascus. I was killed by one of their agents,” Ansel said.

“There is or there was an order at work there?” Lt. Colding asked.
“Is,” Ansel responded, “They may go dormant for a period of a century or two. But they are very active right now- and very dangerous.”
“Why is that?” Fichtner asked.
“Technology,” Ansel said, “My eyes have now seen ten centuries. Only now is there technology available to kill thousands in the blink of an eye.”
“You mean nuclear weapons,” Lt. Colding said.
“Yes,” Ansel responded.

The room was silent again.

“Ansel, you realize this is a lot of information for us to take in,” Agent Fichtner said, attempting to sound diplomatic.
“You think I am insane,” Ansel said, a faint smile on his face.
“Batshit crazy,” Colding said.
“Yes…” Agent Fichtner said, “In the one hand you say you can uproot a terror cell in Syria and lead us to Usama bin Laden. In the other hand you say you’re a thousand year old Catholic Vampire who gets psychotic breaks when looking at crucifixes. You carry a crucifix! As assets go, you’re not exactly a specimen of stability or reliability.”

Agent Hall paused the video. Ansel’s body language had changed little, if at all. His elbows were still on the table and his hands were still steepled in front of his face.
“Your upper body says ‘high confidence’,” Agent Hall muttered, “but what does your lower body say?”

On the video, Agent Hall couldn’t see Ansel’s legs beneath the table, so he looked at the mirror on the screen. Agent Hall couldn’t see Ansel’s legs in the mirror, either. He could see the back half of the table, but not a trace of Ansel.

“The hell?...” Agent Hall whispered.

The angle was right. The angle was always right. You could always see the perpetrator’s reflection in these tapes.

Agent Hall buried his head in his hands. He must be missing something. He must have eye-strain or be hallucinating from being up and staring at a screen all night. Hall lowered his left hand as he looked back at the screen, his right hand covering his nose and mouth. He stared long and hard at the screen, trying to un-see what he had been seeing. But the more he stared, the more it sunk in.

Ansel doesn’t have a reflection.