Jim Cogan - The Dirty City

I just stared at her. She was talking so matter of fact about this whole business. After a long pause I finally broke the silence, “Lady, you are shitting me, right? You’re telling me you and your kind are actually-.”

“Vampires, Mr Jerome. I don’t care much for the term, but essentially that is exactly what we are. We need to feed on human blood to survive. And we aren’t fussy – who it comes from, their health, blood type, none of that matters – stick it all in a vat, mix it up, it’s all good stuff to us. And we are highly photosensitive, hence the reason we only come out at night – otherwise we are prone to the unfortunate fate that the driver you spoke of suffered. Otherwise we are pretty much immortal and considerably stronger, faster and most definitely smarter than humans.”

“I’m sorry, I’m pretty open minded but that story is the biggest heap of-.”

“I’m still talking, Mr Jerome, don’t interrupt me again, okay? So, this is the deal – two simple choices. One, you come and work for me. Two, you end up very dead, very soon. You have twenty four hours to consider it, after which you will have to make your choice and one of those two things will occur.”

She stood up, making like she was going to leave. I sat there for a few seconds, attempting to process what she had just said. Eventually I got up and strode around to my drinks cabinet at the far wall. I fixed myself a generous glass of whiskey.

“Miss Valance. Do you have any idea how utterly preposterous what you’ve just told me sounds. Seriously, what do you take me for?”

“You’re human, Mr Jerome, you’re frail and slow compared to us, but above all, your biggest weakness is that you can’t comprehend a race like ours could exist amongst you, feeding off your kind. It has been this way for centuries, we’ve existed almost like parasites at times. But things are changing, we are close to taking our rightful place in this world, right at the very top of the food chain. One day soon we will have the numbers and the infrastructure in place. We are going to take control, and we will farm your puny species just as you farm cattle. Soon, Mr Jerome, and when that time comes, the safest place for you to be is in my employment.”

I looked at her. Such beauty, poise and grace. How could she be so completely unbalanced as to believe the crap she was spouting. My mind couldn’t entertain such things, it was the stuff of bad drive-in b-movies. I let a smirk cross my features.

“No offense intended,” I said – mimicking her from earlier, “but I do believe that you are completely out of your pretty little, deluded mind, Miss Valance.”

And that was the moment, right there, when everything – my life, my outlook on the world, the whole lot, was changed forever.

In an instant Shelley Valance became a blur to my eyes. She had been stood across the room from me, a good ten or so strides away. Within a fraction of a second, impossibly quickly, she had crossed the room and was standing in front of me. Before I could react she grasped my throat with one of those dainty hands of hers and with unfeasible force she lifted me clean off my feet and slammed me violently into the wall.

Her grip tightened, I began to choke and gag. Then she moved her face just inches in front of mine – her features, that only moments ago had been beautiful and feminine, had become contorted and hideous, like some kind of demonic abomination, but worst of all, her eyes – they were wild with fury and glowing luminous green. And when she spoke, it was with a tone and timbre that shook me to my very soul.

“Twenty four hours, Mr Jerome!”

And with that, she opened her mouth to bare a pair of terrifying oversized fangs and made a guttural hissing sound - then she released me, turned around and vanished out through the open office window with a swiftness that defied believe.

I slumped to the floor, shaking from the pure shock of it all and gasping for breath.

I was at a loss as to what to do. Rarely in my life had I found myself backed into such a corner.

The streets of the dirty city, while not being that safe at the best of times, suddenly seemed to me like a terrifying and deadly place to be. By day, they held threat in the way of danger from ordinary mortals, but now the nights filled me with a new dread generated by the knowledge that there were creatures out there that didn’t conform to the normal notions of reality.

I decided to see the night out in my office, planning to leave at the crack of dawn. I couldn’t risk staying any longer just in case Vitalli wasn’t keen on honouring Valance’s 24 hour window and sent some goons here to find me.

I tried to grab some sleep – in the absence of anything to lie down on besides the cold floor, I reclined in my office chair. Somehow I managed to drop off eventually – but rest was not forthcoming – because that’s when the nightmares first began.

It was always the eyes first of all. I’d be dreaming, though not aware that I was dreaming, then I’d notice the colour. The shade of green, it would start almost imperceptibly, clouds of faint smoke, the clouds taking on a tinge of emerald. Then it would become more intense, like someone was putting a green filter over everything. Generally at that point the whole background of my dreaming environment would suddenly turn pitch black, and out of the gloom, closing in from a distance, would be a terrifying pair of luminous green eyes. And as they got closer there came with them the low guttural sound, almost a hiss. And when the eyes were almost upon me, a glint of light and there were those terrible fangs. At that point I’d always awake with a start, out of breath – my heart pumping and sweat pouring down my face.

That night I tried to sleep twice. At around 3am, after suffering the nightmare for the second consecutive time I decided to dose myself with copious amounts of coffee to avoid the need for sleep altogether.

The Holy Church of Santa Justina was steeped in history. The city itself was founded on the patch of land that the modern day church stood – there had been a place of worship there for almost two centuries, beginning with a simple shelter that the early settlers could congregate within – ultimately leading to the imposing stone structure that now towered before me.

I was not, nor ever truly had been previously, a man of great faith, but I had gotten to know the local priest, Father Laurie McBride, pretty well from my time as a cop. I had attended a couple of his services at the behest of others, and as a part of my duties I had attended one or two funerals.

I don’t really know what brought me there that day – I guess when you see things that can’t be explained by rational means you actively seek out alternatives?

The church doors were wide open, almost welcoming. I checked my watch - it was just before 10.30am as I strode somewhat uncertainly inside.

Father McBride was stood casually in front of the alter, greeting the odd parishioner who presumably had dropped in for a quick prayer or two. He was a tall, heavily built man, now in his mid-fifties, a full head of silver-grey hair and very deep set features.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Why, Johnny Jerome, isn’t it? I haven’t seen your good self in a few years. What brings you here, my son?”

“I’m sorry to arrive out of the blue, Father. Could I possibly grab a word with you? In private, maybe?”

“Well of course, son, this way.”

For a horrible moment I thought he was going to take me to one of those confession booths, but obviously he knew me better than I thought, instead taking me to discreet corner of the church, free of other parishioners.