Suburban Vampire Ragnarok

By Franklin Posner

When cubicle worker and ordinary guy Scott Campbell became a vampire, he knew he'd be in for a few challenges. But he never imagined that the end of the world would be one of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543935370

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PROLOGUE

OSLO, NORWAY, JANUARY 1941

Hauptsturmf ü hrer Ernst Loeb paced nervously in the white-washed hallway of the administrative building. He had several things weighing on his mind; the current visit to Norway of Reichsf ü hrer Himmler wasn’t even foremost among them. Loeb had been part of the planning detail for the visit but was then given an alternate task, wired directly from Berlin. The details of this task had come directly from the office of the F ü hrer himself. Loeb had read the order, and momentarily thought the task beneath him Couldn’t my skills be put to better use sniffing out spies and collaborators, rather than pursuing antique trinkets in frozen fjords? he asked himself, before assuring himself that he was picked for this errand by the F ü hrer himself—or at least, members of the F ü hrer’s staff. Worse yet, he noticed the name of the SS Officer who would be accompanying Himmler to Norway with the sole purpose of making sure this particular task had been completed adequately. Obersturmbannf ü hrer Anton Schwartzknecht was a man of some fearsome reputation, even among the Waffen SS. He had personally killed more Polish, Russian, French, and British soldiers than almost any other officer in either the SS or the Wehrmacht . It was worse than that, considering that Loeb and Schwartzknecht had once come to blows over the attention of a young lady who worked in a grocer’s in Munich several years earlier. Loeb ended up married to the beautiful fr ä ulein , much to Schwartzknecht’s chagrin. Loeb had then wisely chosen a career path that would take him as far away from Schwartzknecht as possible. But now all that careful planning was gone, and the fearsome Obersturmbannf ü hrer was now in Loeb’s territory, and outranked him. Things couldn’t get much worse. He checked his pocket watch again. He’s late .

Apparently, however, he must not have been that late, since a black Mercedes-Benz 170v soon pulled up to the white stone steps outside the administrative building, tires crunching through the snow. The driver ran over to the passenger door, opened it and snapped to attention, as the black-uniformed SS officer climbed out and glanced over the white building. Loeb almost ran down the steps to meet Schwartzknecht. He stopped a couple steps up and saluted. "Heil Hitler," he announced, to which Schwartzknecht responded.

"Welcome to Norway, Obersturmbannführer. We are honored by your arrival," Loeb said. Schwartzknecht furrowed his brow.

"Spare me the pleasantries, Hauptsturmführer. The only thing I wish to hear from you right now is that you have the object."

Loeb cleared his throat. We are in the process of securing it as we speak. Right now, a detachment of SS, along with Norwegian auxiliaries, is closing in on the location of the object.

"That is not what I wanted to hear, Hauptsturmführer. That is not what Himmler wants to hear, and that is certainly not what Hitler wants to hear. I had conferred with the Führer himself on this particular project, and it was I who selected you. I shall not allow your incompetence to make me look the fool in the Führer’s eyes."

I assure you we do have the location of the object, and it will be in our hands this very evening.

You seem certain of this. Please, share with me the source of your confidence.

We had the chance to interrogate an informant. A man who, it turns out, is a member of the organization known as ‘Ministry’.

The mention of Ministry piqued Schwartzknecht’s interest, and his eyes widened. Ministry, you say? We have had encounters with them before. Officially, they have been banned by the Third Reich, their resources confiscated, and their surviving members taken to labor camps. And you say that this… Ministry… had possession over the object in question?

Yes, and I am certain this information is accurate, as we were very persuasive, and this information has been verified.

Good, Schwartzknecht said, a rare smile cracking his steely face. So, where is the object being held?

In an ancient wooden stave church to the northeast of Trondheim.

And you are certain that the operation will proceed as ordered?

Absolutely. I advised the men to cleanse the place entirely. No survivors, as ordered.

Schwartzknecht’s smile widened. Excellent. He then proceeded up the steps, heading into the administrative building.

"Excuse me, Obersturmbannführer, may I ask as to the significance of this object? I understand that the Führer is interested in items of great metaphysical and religious significance, but from your description this box of Huginn and Muninn just sounds like a simple wooden box…"

Schwartzknecht turned to face Loeb. You may ask, of course. But I may not answer. Suffice it to say, it is a matter far above your security clearance.

Understood, sir, Loeb replied. After all, it was a mission directly from the Führer’s office. Who was he to question it?

BAVARIA, MAY 1945

Campbell! growled Sergeant Foster. Get your ass up here!

Corporal Douglas Campbell scrambled up the wooded hill, his M1 rifle in hand. He had served with Sergeant Irwin Foster since Normandy. Both men knew each other’s skills and abilities, the older, gruff, cigar-chomping sergeant coming to respect the young, formerly-green trooper. While Foster’s rough face displayed the weariness he carried in his soul, Douglas Campbell’s youthful appearance hid it. The others in his company called Douglas Baby Face (except the replacements, who never would have called him by the overly familiar nickname. More than half of Douglas’ company now consisted of these replacements, taking the place of original members who either made the ultimate sacrifice or received million-dollar wounds and had gone home) due to his smooth, boyish face, a face that hid the scars of all that he had witnessed, from the horrors of battle to the loss of friends to that most horrifying of images, a labor camp his unit had liberated not long ago. Even the Normandy invasion, during which then-Private Campbell had been one of hundreds of Allied missed drops, landing in a muddy bog between two hedgerows and spending most of that first night alone in occupied territory, was still fresh in his mind. He swore that if he ever made it through this war, he’d never jump from a perfectly good airplane ever again.

Yeah, Sarge? the young corporal responded, his informality a product of his friendship with Foster and his own war-weariness. Sergeant Foster shrugged it off, too war-weary himself to care.

Look over there, Foster pointed down from their well-concealed position among the spruces and pines, into a dell. What they were looking at seemed obvious to the experienced soldiers, as if it wasn’t even being concealed anymore. You see what I see?

Yep. Low, concrete bunkers. Just like they told us to look for. Looks pretty abandoned to me.

The sergeant shook his head. Naw, somethin’ just don’t feel right to me. He peered through his binoculars, moving right, then left, where he stopped. God damn it, I hate being right. Over there to the left. You don’t even need to use the binocs to see it.

Campbell eased his head up, taking pains to avoid detection. Ah, shit, now I see It, too. MG42. And it’s manned. One of those goddamned SS holdouts, I’ll bet. Damn it, don’t they know Hitler’s dead and the war’s over? Give it up!

You’d think... hey, wait, Foster peered over the ridge, noticing two uniformed men among the low bunkers. Eyes on two. Armed with STGs. They ain’t even worried about concealment; it’s like they’re takin’ a walk through the park. Tell Tex to get on the horn and get the armor up here, pronto. I have a feeling we’re gonna need it.

Campbell flashed a series of hand signals down the hill to Efraim Tex Gonzales, the unit’s radio operator, letting him know to go ahead and call in the armor, a squad of light tanks that was waiting a mere kilometer down the road to back up the operation. Foster then pointed to another low ridge on the far right of the bunker complex. That’s a blind spot there. We could set up an enfilade over there. Campbell, I want you to take a couple guys and occupy that spot. Then wait for my signal. We’re gonna take this complex.

What’s the big deal about this place, anyway? Campbell asked, simply curious as to why they were still engaging in military operations after the war had supposedly ended. Why are there still Krauts there guarding it, and why are we taking it?

I don’t fucking know, Baby Face! I get my orders from the lieutenant, he gets his from the captain, and so on. All I know is this comes from the top. Now, who do you want to back you up?

Well, I’d like to take Boardwalk, Frenchie, and maybe a couple of the new kids. They’re itching for some action.

Idiots. Well, you can’t have the kid with the BAR. I need that for fire support right here.

Phillips, I think his name is. I don’t think he’s fired that BAR since Toccoa. Well, it’s your ass, I guess. And how the hell did we end up with a double-strength squad, anyway? Are these replacements from Kozlowski’s squad?

Yeah, but they’re with us for now. Kozlowski didn’t make it.

Damn. Made it all the way through Europe, only to get killed in a car accident. Doesn’t that figure.

Damn hell it does. By the way, you’re promoted. After we get done with this, the LT is gonna give you another stripe. Congrats, Sergeant Campbell. You get Kozlowski’s squad. You take Frenchie and Boardwalk and two replacements, I get Tex and the kid with the BAR and the rest of the virgins. Now, move out.

Yeah, Sarge. Douglas Campbell then slid back down the hill to the other GIs waiting below.

What’s up? Mike Boardwalk Calcagno asked.

We got us some of those SS holdouts they warned us about.

Ah, shit, Everett Frenchie Leveque responded. Don’t those guys know the war’s over, already?

Don’t think they give a shit, Frenchie. Anyway, you and Boardwalk are on me. We’re gonna move out to the right, occupy some high ground on the other side of this bunker complex, then wait for Foster’s order. You two, Douglas pointed at two green troopers, you’re coming, too. Remember your training and don’t fuck this up. ‘Cause if you do, then people could get killed. Which is okay if it’s a German, not so okay if it’s me. Got it?

Yessir, Baby Face! one of the new soldiers said.

Campbell jabbed his finger in the kid’s face. First off, I’m not a ‘sir’, I work for a living. Second, you have no right to call me that name. These guys here? Campbell indicated Frenchie and Boardwalk, they got the right. You don’t. So, shut your trap. And move out.

As they started moving as stealthily as possible, the fresh trooper who had so offended Douglas tried to move in close to him.

Hey, I apologize. I didn’t mean to say anything wrong,

Fine.

It’s just, I’m from Portland, Oregon, and I hear you’re from there, too.

No shit? What’s your name, kid?

Jantzen. Bill Jantzen.

Well, Bill Jantzen, I don’t give a damn where you’re from. I know where a lot of guys are from, but most of them are dead, see? So, shut your yap, watch our six and do what I say, and we’ll get along fine. Got it?

Jantzen decided it was best to do as Corporal Campbell requested and shut his mouth. Campbell led the four soldiers through the spruces, then up a slight incline which ran at a right angle away from Sergeant Foster’s location, parallel to the bunker complex. Campbell took his squad to a tree-and-brush-concealed position from which he could look down into the low complex. They could see Foster’s position as well, but Foster had kept himself low to avoid detection.

You guys see anything? Campbell asked the men.

Naw, I don’t see a damn thing other than those bunkers, Boardwalk responded as he pulled on the operating handle of his Thompson submachine gun.

I’m gonna go down for a closer view. Boardwalk, Frenchie, cover me. You two new fellas? Just don’t shoot me.

Campbell scrambled down the low rise to a spruce tree, tall and wide but devoid of limbs, obviously having been removed mechanically. He chambered the first round in his Garand. As he did so, a young SS soldier cleared the corner of one of the bunkers. The two soldiers faced each other. Campbell shouldered his M1 and pointed it at the German.

"Alt! Nicht scheissen! Werfen sie ihre maschinen pistole!" Campbell ordered. The young SS trooper quickly unslung his MP40, cocked it, and pointed it directly at Campbell. Campbell fired but his shot went wide, missing the SS soldier. From his concealed position Boardwalk let loose with a burst from his Thompson, immediately dropping the German.

I owe you, Boardwalk, Campbell said.

You owe me big time, Baby Face, Boardwalk replied as he made a mocking kissy face.

Of course, the gunfire didn’t go unnoticed. German voices were heard shouting commands. Across the plaza, between the two rows of bunkers, from a hidden position came the distinctive sound of an MG42 opening fire, its bursts sounding much like the ripping of fabric. From Sergeant Foster’s position Phillip’s BAR came to life, loosing staccato bursts of covering fire into the complex. Campbell motioned for his men to follow him into the complex. Another Nazi suddenly came around the corner. This time Campbell didn’t miss. He motioned for the men to crouch down as he pointed out a pillbox bunker with a long, slender slit from which German machine-gun-fire was issuing forth.

That’s where the MG is, Campbell told the men. We need to take it out. Boardwalk, I want you to lay down some suppressive fire from this corner. Frenchie, I want you to lay down some fire with your carbine from this position. That way, we got the plaza covered. You, Campbell pointed to one of the raw troopers, what’s your name?

Connolly! the young man said.

Connolly, you any good at throwing grenades?

Yeah…

Here’s what I want you to do: I want you to throw a smoke grenade into the plaza. Then we’re gonna move in. When we get close, we’re gonna hit that bunker with the machine gun. You ready?

Y… yeah…

Okay, then, get ready. Boardwalk, now!

Boardwalk leaned around the corner and began firing his Thompson in short bursts. After hitting a couple fleeing SS soldiers, he then fired toward the machine gun nest.

Okay, Connolly, hit it! Campbell ordered. Connolly threw the smoke grenade into the plaza. Boardwalk’s fire had attracted the fire of the MG42, but in the thick smoke the Germans were firing blindly. Now, you and Jantzen, stay on my ass. Move out!

Campbell led them obliquely away from their position, in a quick run across the plaza, making sure they were keeping low to avoid the MG’s fire. The ruse with the smoke and the distracting fire seemed to have worked. Campbell led them to a location adjacent to the machine gun nest. He then motioned to Connolly, who removed a pineapple from his web gear and pulled the pin.

Now, let ‘em have it!

Connolly threw the grenade. The arc was perfect. The grenade flew into the firing port. A shout in German was heard, followed by the loud, hollow thud of a grenade exploding in an enclosed space. Campbell then moved the men toward the nest, removed his own grenade, and tossed it into the long slit. This time there were no German voices heard as the second grenade exploded. Campbell had learned how to identify weapons by their distinctive sounds. The only weapons he heard now were from American firearms. No German weapons were being fired. Cease fire! he commanded. Boardwalk and Frenchie immediately ceased; however, Phillip’s BAR continued to fire, bullets flying into the plaza.

Goddamn it, cease fire! shouted Campbell again.

Foster finally heard Campbell. It was somewhat of a miracle, as he had spent the last year in off-and-on combat, his ears battered by small arms and artillery fire. But he heard Campbell this time.

Cease fire, asshole! he roared at Phillips. Phillips immediately complied, then turned to look at the sergeant. Foster recognized the look in Phillips’ eyes. The hollow, distant look. He’d had that look himself. Campbell had, too. All the men he’d known had that look. And now the green recruit had it, too. Welcome to the shit, kid, Foster said.

Meanwhile, down amidst the bunkers, Campbell motioned to his men. They stepped forward, weapons at the ready. Okay, good job so far. Let’s start checking these bunkers. One at a time. Maintain awareness, as we don’t know what these things hold. Where’s Jantzen? Hey, Jantzen!

Jantzen was standing in the middle of the plaza, staring down at the body of a fallen SS soldier. The dead soldier was no more than eighteen, about the same age as Jantzen. The dead man’s eyes were open, staring blankly into nothingness. His chest now consisted of two large, ragged holes, oozing red.

Hey, look at the new guy! Admiring your handiwork, eh? Boardwalk joked. The dark humor was lost on Jantzen, who collapsed to his knees and began vomiting. No more jokes were made. Everyone knew what Jantzen was feeling.

Yeah, Jantzen, that’s what it’s like, Campbell said, remembering the first time he killed a man. He had been an older man, an obergefreiter with the 719th Infantry. Campbell had used a knife to cut the man’s throat so that he didn’t alert his compatriots. Campbell remembered the man’s death throes, the sickening gurgle which came from the soldier’s opened throat, the slickness of his blood. He vomited afterwards as well. Campbell remembered vomiting a lot that first night in France. Now, get your shit together. We’ve got a job to do.

Campbell was distracted by the slamming of a door. He noticed the movement two bunkers down. He realized that was the source of the noise. We’ve got movement, two doors down. Guys, follow me.

They stopped just short of the door to that bunker. Campbell leaned his rifle against the wall of the bunker and drew his pistol. Space is probably limited down there. Short weapons only. That means Boardwalk with your Tommy gun and Frenchie with your carbine. Jantzen, Connolly, cover the entrance. Campbell chambered a round into the .45. Okay, let’s take a look, shall we?

Campbell slowly entered the bunker, surprised to find the electric wall sconces were still working, however faintly. Still, there was more than enough light to see. He went forth, signaling to the other two veterans to space themselves and to be aware of possible threats lurking in the shadows. At the end of the hall, which seemed impossibly long, was a large iron door similar to that at the entrance of the bunker. Campbell could vaguely make out a faint glow from within the room. Cautiously, slowly, he worked his way down the hall while his two comrades in arms checked each and every crack and crevice. He finally reached the door, took the handle in his left hand, and found it unlocked. He slowly began to open the great iron door, which groaned weakly as it opened, the faint glow increasing. Campbell entered the round room, looking left, looking right. He saw a desk in the center of the room. Against the far wall were wooden shelving units, most of which were empty, but some held wood boxes of various sizes. Campbell was for some reason entranced by the boxed items. He couldn’t say why. He stepped slowly forward, only to hear the great iron door creaking shut again. He turned around quickly, only to see a Luger pointed directly at his face, held by an SS officer.

"Guten tag, Herr…" the officer said.

Campbell, he said, his voice shaking as he raised his hands heavenwards.

Well, Corporal Campbell, the German officer spoke in perfect, if accented, English, it is too bad you must die, so late in the war.

Click.

The SS officer pulled the trigger on his Luger. But there was no shot fired. Campbell was still alive. The officer furiously worked the toggle on his pistol, then raised it again. Click.

Douglas Campbell didn’t stand on ceremony as he swung his 1911 into action, firing not one, but two, three, four times. The rounds struck the German officer in the chest. He slumped to his knees, then collapsed, expiring in a pool of blood.

Campbell stood over his fallen enemy, pistol still pointed at him. Right then, Boardwalk and Frenchie flung open the iron door and crashed into the room.

Jesus, you guys, were you asleep? Campbell asked.

Naw, Boardwalk replied. We knew you had it under control. Damn. An SS officer? Sack of shit got off easy, in my book.

Yeah, well, he’s not our problem anymore, Campbell observed as he looked about the round chamber.

Baby Face? Frenchie asked. What is this place?

It’s a bunker, dumbass, Boardwalk replied.

Well, no shit. A bunker for what?

Nazi stuff.

Oh, Nazi stuff. That’s really brilliant, smart ass.

Hey, you two, Campbell commanded. "Knock it off. Let’s check this place out.

Boardwalk, you first."

Why’s it gotta be me?

’Cause I like you least.

Fine, fine. Boardwalk slowly advanced toward the wooden shelves, then placed his Thompson on the desk and removed a long, slender case with brass closures from the shelves.

Hey, Boardwalk, Campbell said, be careful; it could be a booby trap.

Yeah, yeah, Boardwalk replied as he released the buckle closures on the wooden case. He slowly opened the case. Oh, hell yeah, jackpot! Boardwalk removed a shiny silver Artillery Luger from the case. Frenchie gazed admiringly at the long-barreled pistol.

Wow, is that nickel-plated? Frenchie asked.

No, dumbass, it’s silver. My uncle runs a jewelry shop in Jersey City. I know what silver looks like and, believe me, this is real silver plating. And what’s this? Boardwalk looked in the case and noticed the ammunition displayed in a bullet tray. Hell, the bullets are silver, too! Damn, who did this belong to? The German Lone Ranger?

Frenchie opened another case. Looks like I’m aces, too, guys! He pulled out a large jeweled silver cross, intended for mounting in a clerical crozier. Is this silver, too, Boardwalk?

Oh, hell yeah. In fact, that’s a lot more silver than is on this pistol. You wanna trade?

Not on your life. I got an uncle, too; he’s a parish priest in Cleveland. He’d really like this.

Campbell started going through a couple of the other boxes. Empty. Empty. Empty.

Then he noticed the carved wooden box. Or, maybe it wasn’t a box, since he couldn’t tell how to open it, but a low pedestal stand. In any event, it was beautifully carved, with elaborate knot work, and on the front—at least he assumed it was the front—were two birds facing each other. It was heavy for its size. All Campbell could assume was that it was quite old.

Aww, gee whiz, Baby Face, is that all that’s left? Frenchie asked.

No, there’s a hat box over there; I think it’s from Paris. But this thing is pretty interesting. I think I’ll take it. Get the new guys in here. Maybe there’s some intel down here we can find. Frenchie called out for the two replacements, who then came down the long hall into the round bunker.

Hey, Corporal? Jantzen said. I think we’ve got some tanks coming down the road.

Finally, what took those guys so long? Oh, hey, Jantzen?

Yes, Corporal?

The hat box is yours.

Boardwalk and Frenchie tried to stifle giggles. Hey, maybe your mom would like that, Boardwalk guffawed.

Shut up, Jantzen said as he grabbed the box. He opened it slowly.

What’s in it? Campbell asked.

It’s not even a hat. Just a thin silk ribbon, all curled up. Jantzen was disappointed but tried not to show it.

Hey, at least you got that. Connolly? Campbell said to the other replacement. Sorry, but it looks like we cleaned ‘em out. I guess you can have that dead guy’s Luger. I mean, I already have one.

Not finding anything else of interest the soldiers headed out of the bunker, carrying their trophies. Outside they met Sergeant Foster, who was not happy.

What the fuck was that all about, Baby Face? Didn’t I tell you to wait for my signal before engaging?

Yeah, Sarge, you did, but we got it done. The place is clear. This bunker’s been picked clean, but I’m sure there are others…

Shhh! Get that stuff out of sight. We got some visitors coming.

Ahh, Campbell replied, finally noticing the rumbling of a light tank, I got ya. Guys, he called to his men, let’s take our stuff up the hill there and out of sight. Don’t want nobody laying claim to our trophies, now, do we?

They did so, hiding their loot among the pines then rejoining their sergeant, as an M5A1 light tank rolled into the complex, followed by a couple Jeeps and a Deuce and a Half cargo truck. One of the jeeps passed by the tank, then pulled right up to Sergeant Foster.

Who’s in charge here? asked the passenger, a tall, thin man with a pencil-thin moustache, who wore a civilian suit and tie rather than a uniform. Foster would later remark that the guy reminded him of Clark Gable.

I am. Who’s asking?

The man flashed his identification to Foster. Anderson. I’m with the OSS. And I’m claiming this bunker complex. Have your men checked all these bunkers?

Just one, Foster replied, pointing at the one bunker Campbell and his men had recently vacated.

Damn, the agent said as he jumped out of the jeep and walked briskly toward the bunker.

Wait. What’s the deal here? Can you tell me—

Above your pay grade, Sergeant, Anderson snapped as he entered the bunker. Foster followed him into the bunker, down the long corridor to the round room. Anderson’s attention was immediately drawn to the slain Nazi officer on the floor. He checked the dead body, turning it over to get a look at his face.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Well, it could have been worse. Russians could have grabbed him, I guess.

Who was he? Foster asked.

His name was Schwartzknecht. He was a high-ranking member of the SS, on Himmler’s personal staff. A wanted war criminal. Now I guess he’s joining his Führer in hell. Too bad. We needed him.

Why?

Who killed him?

I don’t know, one of my guys. I’ll find out for you.

You do that. Then after you do, clear your men out of here. And strongly advise them that they never saw this place, and they were never here. You got it?

Wait just a minute there, pal. My men took this place. And you want to tell them to forget about it? Who are you? Where do you get your authorization—

Anderson stood and got directly in Foster’s face. My authorization? I can be on the phone with Eisenhower right goddamn now, if you’d like. Or Truman, if that’s better. Let us suffice to say that I have all the authorization I need. Now, get your men out of here, Sergeant.

Foster fumed but said nothing as he turned and stormed out of the bunker.

CHAPTER 1

Interstate 84 follows the path of the Columbia River from Portland, through the majestic Columbia River Gorge, eastward into the High Desert of Central and then Eastern Oregon, until it reaches Boardman. Then it veers south through Pendleton, up into the Mountains of far Eastern Oregon, then crosses the Idaho border, heading off towards Boise. Of course, Scott Campbell wasn’t headed to Idaho, however, but to La Grande to spend the Easter weekend with an old friend from his high school days. His friend, Jim Larabee, was now himself a high school teacher, teaching History and Social Studies at La Grande High School and serving as the varsity wrestling coach. It had been far too long since Scott had last seen his old friend, so he decided to take the long drive out to the far reaches of the state to see him. It did Scott good to see Jim and his wife Jessica, and their three rambunctious but sweet-hearted kids again, good for the soul (assuming Scott still had one. He was still not clear on that). The time went by with few awkward moments, Scott never once betraying to his old friend that he’d made a few ‘lifestyle changes’ since last they saw each other—well, if you can call being turned into a vampire a lifestyle change that is. Scott’s dietary requirements were naturally a bit mystical to Jim, but Jim took it in stride, commenting that he was glad he didn’t have another mouth to feed that weekend.

The weekend went by too quickly and Scott took leave of his old friend, driving away that Easter Sunday afternoon in his white ‘71 Mach I Mustang (for which Jim expressed great admiration, thinking it more manly than his minivan, but not as manly as his F150). Scott pulled into a gas station (the one thing he didn’t like about his new car was that it was a gas hog), filled her up, then drove out of the small town and headed back down the interstate for home.

One thing Scott had been given (blessed with did not seem to be the operative term here, in his opinion) upon becoming a vampire was superior vision. He could see far down the long road to possible hazards that may be lurking ahead, especially hazards that drive marked cars with blue lights on top. Scott wasn’t necessarily afraid of being pulled over, as he was sure his vampiric mind control abilities would help him get out of a ticket (heck, he’d done it before); he just preferred to avoid the hassle in the first place. And, of course, he could see more than hazards, as just outside of Umatilla Scott spied a young woman on the side of the road, her thumb stuck up in the air, holding a cardboard sign with YAKIMA written in felt pen. The attractive young blonde, wearing a t-shirt, cutoff jeans shorts, and cowboy boots, and carrying a backpack, was asking for a lot more trouble than she could ever know. Sure, she could have been the trouble herself, but Scott reasoned that, as a vampire, he could certainly handle whatever trouble this young lady might have. But the old Scott, the nice guy who tried to see the best in everyone, and who tried to do the right thing, had never gone away, and was informing vampire Scott that maybe he should do the nice thing and give the girl a ride. After all, Scott wasn’t some sicko pervert, or crazed killer, he was… okay, he was a vampire. Whatever.

Scott pulled the Mustang to the shoulder of the interstate, reached over to the passenger door, and popped it open. The young lady ran to the open door and looked in.

Where you headed, mister? she asked.

Portland. Gresham, actually. Yakima’s not on the itinerary. Sorry.

Well, could you at least take me as far as Biggs Junction? I got a cousin who drives truck; he’s supposed to be through there tomorrow. He told me he could take me the rest of the way from there.

Yeah, I can get you to Biggs, no problem. Hop in.

She did so, tossing her backpack and cardboard sign in the back seat then getting into the passenger seat. Scott then checked his rearview and pulled back on to the interstate.

Thanks lots, mister. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through to get here.

Really? Where did you come from?

Well, I’m from Yakima originally. I had to get away from there. You see, my dad and me, we don’t see eye to eye on much of anything. Then I met this guy, and we ended up in Cheyenne. Well, that didn’t work out. Asshole blew our money on booze, weed, and this short little dancer in some strip club.

You’ve been hitchhiking all the way from Cheyenne?

Not all the way. I hopped a train for a while, then there was this one guy who took me for a while, but he got kinda freaky with me, you know? So, I been hitchhiking just since Ontario.

Still, that’s pretty dangerous. I mean, you never know who you’ll end up with. I mean, take me, for example. How do you know I’m safe? I mean, I could be some kind of sicko. Maybe a serial killer. Or a rapist. Or, I dunno, a vampire, for cryin’ out loud.

The girl laughed. Vampire? Now, that’s just silly!

Scott smiled. Well, silly beats criminally insane any day, now, doesn’t it? By the way, my name is Scott. Scott Campbell.

And I’m Emma Cortez. It’s nice to meet you, Scott Campbell.

Roughly an hour passed by, and Scott tried his best to be entertaining, charming, and non-threatening as Emma talked of her hard life, how she rebelled against her father, and how she really wanted to apologize for the hurtful things she said to him before she left with what’s his ass. After a while, Scott pulled his white Mach I off the interstate, on to the exit at Biggs Junction, a small wayside frequented by truckers and travelers, an oasis of sorts among the dry emptiness on the basalt plateau of the high desert. He drove the car towards the first dingy motel with its neon vacancy sign lit. The passenger side door popped open, and Emma prepared to get out.

"Really,