The Red Slayer

My stomach sinks as the lift continues to descend. What kind of secrets need to be hidden so far underground? Do I want to know? Will I be able to look my father in the eye after this? My mind jumps to all kinds of conclusions, from a nuclear arsenal to a Fullmetal Alchemist-style chimera: a human/animal hybrid that can barely move or talk.

There’s nothing to hang onto so I lean against the wall. Dad is meant to be my rock, the one who stood up for me and been there when it gets too much for me. But now, I have no idea who he is, I can feel myself edging closer to the brink.

The lift stops and slides open before my uneasiness can turn to impatience. I step out into a long, cavernous room with a high ceiling. Lamps hang down with coned shades over ten workbenches that eerily resemble slabs in a morgue. Some are bare, some aren’t. Thankfully, nothings as sinister as I dreaded.

No caged animals. No mutants. No nuclear weapons. That’s something. One bench has scraps of fabrics stretched across frames. On another, a complex circuit board with a soldering iron and code blueprint. A third bench is decorated with pointy tools for intricate work, a coil of thick metal wire, and a diagram of the human muscular system on an easel.

I scan the surrounding walls. To my left, bookshelves divided into categories: Chemistry, Biology, Physics, Debunked, To-Be-Debunked…Some are older than time itself with peeling spines, faded gold lettering and yellowed pages, others are brand new with several editions of the same book.

To my right are storage cupboards and sinks that belong in a science classroom. Only the far wall and a segment of the right wall are blank.

Dante gasps. ‘How long has your dad had a secret lab under your house?’

I say nothing. Olga paces past the workbenches to reach the long desk before the far wall stops at the space between the two, transfixed at something on the floor. ‘Oh, wow! Look!’

We join her. The grey tiles are replaced with colour-coded squares bearing black letters and numbers. It’s the Periodic Table in a floor mosaic, including lanthanides and actinides.

‘This place is awesome,’ says Luke.

We move as a group towards the long desk. As we get closer, I realise the wall isn’t blank. Five wide computer screens are embedded into it. The long desk has but one keyboard and office chair. Being only human, I can’t resist touching the spacebar to see if something happens.

It does. The largest screen in the dead centre lights up. At the sight of the lockscreen, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake. I feel the numbness crawling across my skin until it envelops my whole body. It’s a family photograph from long ago. When Mum was still alive. I’m sitting on Dad’s lap with pigtails and yellow dungarees. Mum sits next to him, holding a new-born baby who’s fast asleep and sucking her thumb.

It’s a punch in the heart, gut and abdomen all at once. My legs give out from under me, but Luke rushes forward and catches me before I hit the floor.

‘Oh my god,’ Olga gasps. ‘Are you okay, Iorwen?’

‘What’s wrong?’ asks Dante.

Luke puts me in the office chair. He’s seen me do this before. ‘Iorwen,’ he says, ‘Remember to breathe. You’re going to be okay.’

I catch my head in my hands and sob, ‘It’s too much!’

‘What’s too much?’ asks Olga.

′This.’ I wave my hand around the room. ‘I don’t know what real is anymore.’

The screen has gone blank again. Dante starts wringing his hands and looks from it to me with nervous eyes. ‘Who was the baby in that picture?’ he asks before he can stop himself.

Olga and Luke nervously hold their breath. I heave myself upright, look him in the eye and say, ‘Kayley.’ Saying her name is surreal, I’m that unaccustomed to saying it. ’She’s my little sister—was my little sister. She died in the same fire as my mother when I was four.’

‘Oh,’ he says simply. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘We were on holiday near the coast. Somehow, the cottage we were in caught fire. Dad managed to pull me out of it, but Mum and Kayley got trapped. I got sent to live with my aunt and uncle in Kingston-Upon-Thames because Dad had a mental breakdown in the aftermath. He didn’t gain custody back until I was eight. As close as we became since then, we don’t talk about that night because it hurts too much.’

I’m not exaggerating. I described it casually to Dante because trying to remember sends me into a world of mental agony. Dr. Clarke calls it retrograde amnesia because I was too young to process the trauma. My only memory is an orange and black blur as Dad pulled me to safety, followed by the deafening sirens from the fire engines and blinding ambulance lights. Everyone was shouting and I couldn’t move for myself because someone always had their hands on me.

The memories after are somewhat clearer. In a sterile white room, silhouettes stood over me and said a lot of ‘shes’ and ‘hers’. They never spoke to me. I cried for Mummy and Daddy but they wouldn’t come. I screamed and the silhouettes shoved me into a room full of beanbags and squashy shapes. I bear on the walls and shouted until my throat was sore. Nothing happened.

After that, I was sent to my aunt and uncle’s place. I didn’t know why. No one had told me my mother and sister were dead. I had to learn for myself when I overheard my aunt talking to her friends about her dead sister. She didn’t sound too sad about it. One of my cousins, Cecelia, was told to take me upstairs to play with Barbies.

I asked her out of nowhere, ‘What does dead mean?’

She replied, ‘It means someone’s gone to Heaven and they’ll never come back.’

I burst into tears then and there. I couldn’t stop, no matter how many times my uncle told me to “turn off the waterworks”. I cried all night and the next day. By the time I stopped, Cecelia, her older brother Ben, and the three-year-old twins, Jake and Mischa, decided I was a wimp, perfect for tormenting.

***

Luke pats me on the back. ‘Are you going to be okay? Should we get your meds?’

I stand up and roll out my neck. ‘I don’t need meds, but we should go.’ I fluff my dressing gown. ‘I don’t want to be caught down here, let along dressed like this.’

Plus, a shower will give me time to think of what to say.

‘Agreed,’ says Dante.

We head towards the lift, but Olga lingers, gazing at the Mathematics books the way I would at a pair of shoes in a shop window.

‘Come on,’ says Luke, tugging on her arm.

‘Okay,’ she groans and starts to follow until we hear a “ping”.

We freeze. ‘What was that?’ says Luke.

It can only be one thing. The elevator doors are sliding open again and Dad steps out. We stay still, as if this will make us invisible to him. He stares in shocked silence until our eyes meet. He’s gone pale and I can imagine I have too.

‘How—What on earth are you all doing down here?’ he says.

I glance at my friends who share that look where they want the ground to swallow them up. I shake myself out of my frozen stance and stand up straight. ‘It’s my fault, I’m sorry. I thought it would be a good idea to look at the workshop while you were out. I was not expecting to find all this.’

‘How did you get in in the first place?’ he asks. ‘The door was locked.’

Luke raises his hand. ‘That’s on me. I guessed the combination to the lock.’

’I found the lift,’ I add, and explain how I realised the bookcase was fake. If this has taught him anything, it’s that he needs tighter security if four teenagers can get in.

Dad sighs and shakes his head. He’s not as angry as I thought he’d be. ‘You must have a lot of questions,’ he says. ‘If we go back upstairs, I’ll explain—’

′No!’ I assert. He starts. So do I. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been through too much crazy shit in the last day to wait for answers. I need to know now. How long has this lab been under the house? What are you up to? Who are you working for? Why didn’t you tell me—?’

Dad comes forward and grabs my shoulders to stop me rambling. ‘I’ll tell you. But you have to promise it won’t leave this room.’ He looks at the others. ‘The same goes for you three.’

‘Why?’ asks Luke.

’Because what I tell you is classified government information.’

Olga shrugs and pulls up one of the workbench stools. ‘No one would believe us anyway.’

‘Fair point,’ says Dante and occupies another stool.

Luke however, won’t move unless I do.

I heave a heavy sigh. ‘If what you say makes everything make sense again, I won’t say anything. Ever since the vampire last night, I’ve been going crazy.’

‘It will,’ says Dad. It’s all I need. I willingly take my seat and Luke follows.

‘What’s this about a vampire?’ says Olga.

‘I killed one last night in my dressing room,’ I reply, as if that happens to everyone. ‘She was the woman on the local news who went missing.’

‘What?’ says Dante.

Dad clears his throat. ‘If it makes you feel better, Iorwen, the hostile you executed was a serial con-artist, always changing her identity.’

‘What do you mean “hostile”?’ I say. ‘You sound like a spy.’

‘I’m not a spy,’ Dad replies jovially. ‘But I do work for them.’ He crosses his arms.

‘You work for spies?’ says Olga. ‘Are you the guy that makes gadgets for James Bond?’

He shakes his head. ’No. You’re thinking of MI6. I work for MI5. It’s basically the British FBI. We tackle domestic problems like countering terrorism, safeguarding the country—’

‘Killing vampires?’ I add.

‘Only the ones who target humans.’

‘And did you know that woman was one when I told you about her this morning?’

‘You said it was a dream, and I was inclined to believe you until I saw the news. I had to tell MI5 that she was terminated.’

He approaches the centre keyboard between us. I look away as he logs in, but turn back as he brings up a window on the largest screen. The news photo of Karen is surrounded by several others. She has different hair colours or styles, but it’s obvious they’re all her.

Underneath are a series of stats:

·Name: Karen Jones (alias)

·DOB: c.1964

·Class: Hostile Dracul

·Status: Slayed (chopstick to the heart by civilian, IWD)

·No. of Victims: Unknown

·Date of Turn: Unknown

·Affiliations: Unknown (likely organised crime)

I read the stats three times. Luke, Olga and Dante stare at the screen, with gaping mouths and wide eyes.

‘What the frick?’

‘This can’t be real’

‘Someone tell me I’m dreaming.’

’It is real,’ says Dad. He goes to the only bookshelf that isn’t categorised and takes out a thick red book with a gold edge around the pages. ‘Vampires have existed alongside humans for centuries. They were rare in the past as the turning process is long and painful. Their numbers skyrocketed after blood transfusions were invented. They’re two percent of the world’s population now.’

He slaps the book onto one of the bare workbenches and we gather around him eagerly. He flicks through pages of tiny text and illustrations until he stops at a diagram of the human neck, showing the arteries, veins, nerves and muscles. Beneath it shows a pair of long fangs digging into the same neck like two white needles. I wince and move my hand to it.

‘Turning a human into a vampire is a question of blood ratios. A bite in the neck paralyzes the victim. Temporarily, but it leaves them at the mercy of their attacker.’ He points to the next page which shows the bottom fangs digging into the central nervous system. ’You can’t move from the neck down, but you still feel the pain of the turn—if they decide to turn you. Most of the time, they feed and leave the victim for dead.’

The four of us jump back. Olga wraps a hand around her neck and winces.

Dad continues, ‘The turning process involves the victim being drained of blood while the vampire introduces their own blood to the system. Before transfusions, they would force-feed the victim who may or may not bleed to death due to their punctured arteries. And let’s not forget septicaemia due to poor hygiene at the time.’

I lean forward and turn the page. The next illustration shows three drawings of faces, labelled ‘Dhampyr’, ‘Dracul’ and ‘Feral’.

The Dhampyr looks perfectly normal, minus a pair of long fangs protruding from the figure’s mouth. The Dracul is more advanced, with a pair of menacing red eyes and sharper fangs. The Feral on the other hand, doesn’t look human at all. Every tooth is sharpened and protrudes from the mouth, the skin is pure white with black veins, heavily dilated pupils, every angle on the face looks as though it was filed to perfect sharpness. The only features it shares with a human are the nose and ears.

Dad notices me noticing. ‘Those are the three vampire classes. Draculs are most common. You usually lose more than half of your blood by the time they’re done feeding. Dhampyrs either have a small amount of vampiric blood in their system, or they’re the result of crossbreeding.’

‘And Ferals?’ asks Luke with a slight dread in his voice.

Dad slowly closes the book. ‘Ferals are pure vampire with little to no human blood. All they know is bloodlust, and they’re never satisfied. There hasn’t been one in Britain since the eighties.’

He returns the book to its shelf, but I can’t forget the image of that Feral. ‘What if one showed up? It’d be a bloodbath!’

‘Unlikely,’ says Dad calmly. ‘Namely, it’s near-impossible to make one. All written methods have been destroyed. Victims either bleed out or reject the foreign blood. If someone is caught trying to breed a Feral, they face trial by the entire UN like a war criminal.’

I follow him back to the computer desk with my voice rising frantically. ‘But, there are still dangerous creatures out there. More dangerous than the woman I killed. By the way, am I in trouble for that? How will her disappearance be explained—?’

‘Iorwen, please!’ he snaps, turning around so swiftly I jump back. He quickly lowers his voice. ‘You’re not in trouble. I have explained everything on your behalf. MI5 will give the media a cover story. You don’t have to do anything. You’re not in any trouble.’

‘Cover story?’ says Olga.

Dad nods. ‘Most of the time, hostiles are thugs or gangsters. So, when they’re executed, others assume it was a rival gang. But when they’re known to many civilians, MI5 needs to justify their disappearance. This Karen woman has provided it with her own history of fraud and abuse. They’ll think she’s disappeared to start her next con.’

I gasp. ‘You can do that?’

‘It’s already done,’ says Dad, patting me on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘But it’s so…Orwell-something.’

′Ian,’ says Dante. ’Orwellian. Why are vampires kept secret anyways? Would life be any different if the average person on the street knew they existed?’

′Yes,’ Dad asserts. ’Because monsters are made up of more than just vampires. Imagine people thinking the someone they see as suspicious could suck their blood and attacks them. And hostiles could entice a lot of teenage victims by pretending they’re that Twilight idiot. It’s safer for everyone if vampires are kept secret. Any Dhampyr or Dracul can lead a normal life if they don’t drink human blood. It’s only for hostiles that MI5 gets involved.’

‘I suppose that’s fair,’ says Olga. The boys murmur in agreement.

‘But there are still vampires attacking humans,’ I say.

‘Correct,’ says Dad. ‘And agents are sent to execute them.’

‘How? Karen would’ve killed me if I didn’t know self-defence or have great reflexes.’

Dad waves his hand to indicate the space around us. ‘What do you think all of this is? I know better than anyone about supernatural creatures. I also know their weaknesses, and MI5 pays me to find ways to exploit them. In return, I get funding into any other research I choose.’

I look around the lab once more, at the projects on the go, the bookcases, the giant screen with Karen’s pictures. ‘Did Mum know about this?’

Dad takes a deep breath and sighs, ‘Yes. She found the lab, and I knew you would too one day. You two are very alike. Granted, I never expected a vampire to attack you outright, nor that you’d kill one. You’re the first recorded civilian to execute a hostile. The heads of MI5 are impressed, they’ve nagged me all morning about talking to you about it.’

My eyebrows lift. Yeah, I’m a little creeped out by their nefarious methods of keeping secrets, there is no limit to my curiosity. ‘Can I meet them?’

He immediately replies, ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you deserve better than getting involved in this life. It’s dangerous and you’d be better off forgetting about this.’ He looks to the others. ‘That goes for you too. Remember, you promised never to let this leave the room.’ He walks towards the elevator doors, hinting that we should follow him.

‘I’ll put lunch on,’ Dad says once the elevator starts ascending. ‘We can have meatball subs, or falafel subs. And you’re all welcome to stay for dinner.’

‘What about the show?’ I ask.

‘I got a call from while I was out. It’s been cancelled because of the snow.’

I groan and sulk. ‘I’ll never speak to Tara at this rate.’

‘Why don’t you phone her?’ asks Dad

‘You can’t ask someone to be your girlfriend over the phone.’

‘Girlfriend?’ everyone says in unison.

‘Oh, yeah, I meant to say this earlier. I’m gay.’

© Alice of Sherwood, September 2019