Chapter Two

The Claims and Lost Possessions Branch of Chicago was a ten-floor skyscraper, a dark brown and black brick building. The building was unimpressive against the backdrop of dominating cityscape, compared to the Willis Tower and the John Hancock Center, and in the further horizon, Lake Michigan and the ever-glowing lights of Navy Pier. The branch was designed for acquired properties from the recently deceased, repossessed items from debtors and five floors of offices for the processing of the goods. An avid buyer could buy a dead man’s leather couch for less than a hundred bucks if the auction on the second floor had low attendance. The basement level was a different entity altogether. The hall, with its freshly waxed tiles, contained private storage rooms. Four keys were required to enter the premises. Each corridor harbored steel lock boxes by the hundreds. One key was designed for the entry door, another for the private room, and two for each individual lock box. Two guarded sentries roamed the basement floor at all hours. Security cameras scoped out every angle. And still, the auburn-haired vampire managed to slip through the shadows. She was in human form, clothed in a tunic and pleated pants she stole from a late-night raver bumbling out of the Excalibur nightclub. The monster had snapped the woman’s neck and heaved her into a dumpster. Not a single drop of blood had touched the outfit. Now she sought the reels that once belonged to Ted Fuller. It wouldn’t be long before Al Denning, the late-night security guard on the east wing of the basement floor, would cross paths with her, tossing his silver Maglite from hand to hand to keep himself occupied. 

When Al Denning came upon the woman walking, two thoughts crossed Al’s mind:

Why is this woman here so late? 

She better have a key, or I’m giving her ass the boot.

Al cleared his throat to soften his tone. Many investors and clients used the basement for a variety of reasons. The upper class stored jewelry and valuables, others spare cash, while others stored keepsakes and copies of wills or other official documents. The woman who was roaming about lost—perhaps she’d forgotten in which room her storage lock box was located—was curiously attractive. Slim hips, wide thighs, firm buttocks, a pair of tits that sang songs to a man’s libido and a flawless and smooth white face and healthy lips. Her scent was alluring. 

“Good evening,” Al said. He checked his watch: 5:58 a.m. Wow, it’s late. Or should I say early? “What brings you here at this hour? Can I direct you somewhere, ma’am?”

The woman turned around, offering him a confident smile. “I’m looking for Lock box #4213. This place is a maze. I’ve got a key. It’s an emergency.”

He waited for the woman to expand on the meaning of “emergency” but didn’t push the issue when she kept it to herself. 

“Absolutely.” He walked her to the west end. Number 4213 was a seized property section. He wasn’t briefed on the details. His supervisor said some things kept here he was better left in the dark about. “It gets really quiet in this place late at night. Eerie sometimes.”

“Do you get scared by yourself?” The query came off as too interested. 

“Wayne is on the other side, so no. We talk, chat the hours away, and keep a good eye on the place.” Al removed a tape measure from his back pocket. “At the end of my shift, I tell the boss I measured every corner, and I say ‘Sir, the place hasn’t moved an inch’.”

“That’s funny.” She touched his shoulder. "You’re cute.”

“Huh?” Al was confused, the spot she touched panging with the same intensity as his blushing cheeks. “Y-yeah, but the boss doesn’t laugh. His sense of humor is, well, lacking.”

“You do a good job,” she said, placing her fingertip on her tongue, her hazel eyes penetrating his. “It’s really quiet down here. It’s too bad Wayne’s nearby. We could, you know, rearrange the walls—it all depends on how hard you wanna fuck me.”

“Excuse me—?”

Nothing changed about the woman’s face except the jagged-tipped fangs that tore through her gums. Before Al could duck or dodge, his trachea was clamped through and torn clean. A rip in his neck belched blood. Al flopped to the ground, seized by a heart attack at the sudden loss of blood. He clutched the wound, his fingers entering inches deep and touching the wet, slick walls of his esophagus. The woman then slashed her nails across his chest, licking and sucking up blood. Then she released Al’s flaccid body. 

The rest of her turned plated, metamorphosing into a reptilian vampire creature. Her feet clicked on the tiles. Her fist slammed like an iron bludgeon into the nearest door. The hinges exploded from their posts, the wood caving in. She scanned the walls for box #4213. The Private Film Coalition of Public Morals had used the building to store Stan Merle Sheckler’s and dozens of other directors’ banned films seized throughout the late seventies to 1985. This lock box was larger, three huge Greyhound bus lockers combined. She hurled her fist into the front until the lock dented to the point it loosened and clanked to the ground. The door opened by itself. She snapped her fingers, and three more of the snarling vampires entered the room. Working together, they each carried out rubber bins containing hundreds of reels. They were unmarked, the dust unsettling from the tops. 

Each of the five vampires looked down upon Al’s body, his left leg twitching randomly. 

The blonde laughed. “He wants more, doesn’t he?”

“You didn’t kill him good enough.”

The five hunkered down upon Al and finished him off. Afterward, they flew from the halls and into the night and swiftly returned to Ted Fuller’s apartment to plan a horror film marathon. One vampire stayed behind to finish the final part of the job.

 

Security guard Wayne Carton froze in place. The wicked blood-boiling roars of agony carried from the opposite end of the corridor to him. His first impulse was to sprint to the source, but first he phoned the police. Then the whup-crash sound of bending steel caused him to hesitate. He wasn’t dealing with the average late night visitor trying to gain access to their lockbox. The shaleehs and schaws and outright jaguar-deep growls wrenched beads of sweat from his flesh. His instincts begged him to turn around and run. Twelve thirty-five an hour and a decent pension weren’t enough to run headfirst into harm’s way. He was fifty-eight, and what could an old man do with a bottle of mace, a pair of handcuffs and a walkie talkie?

Before he could strategize, a rush of wind struck him. He was punched in the chest and thrown five feet onto his back. Three ribs snapped upon landing, and his pelvis shattered. His sternum remained intact, but he was bleeding heavily from the chest. Three quarter-inch slashes exuded red, the muscle tissue beneath glossy and wet. Wayne’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he issued a silent prayer for Al and one for himself before passing out.