End of Days (4 page)

When Charlie and I topped the steps and entered the zoo play area, we nearly collided with a young officer who was standing near the mouth of the slide. He was stocky, with hair that would have looked perfect on a mannequin. When he saw us, he raised one hand in a “Halt” gesture. The other was pressing the buttons on a radio pinned to his shoulder. I felt Charlie tense up beside me.

“We should hustle,” he whispered. “That thing is coming.”

I quickly glanced around. Five other cruisers were in the lot, plus two more on the road, and three near the fountain. A group of officers were inspecting the wolf pen. Others were sealing off areas with plastic yellow tape. One was snapping pictures. At least a dozen officers had to be within earshot. And gunshot. Even Godzilla would have thought twice about making trouble up here.

“What are you two doing?” the officer asked.

Charlie looked at me. I looked at him. We both looked at the officer. There was no good answer for this. Fortunately, the conversation got cut short by a voice that crackled like a dry flame.

“I'll take it from here,” a man said.

A dark shape hobbled out from behind a car that was more rust than paint. It was Everett Johansson. He was a police inspector and a good friend of Ophelia's—part of a network of supporters who helped supply us with blood so we didn't have to wander the streets at night looking for people to bite. He moved awkwardly, leaning hard on his cane. The injury was old, from when he'd worked
as a homicide detective in Toronto. A bullet through the knee had helped him decide to get out before the locals learned to shoot a little higher.

“You sure?” the young officer asked him. “I was going to wait and turn them over to Baddon.”

Inspector Johansson grunted. It might have been a yes, or it might have been a swear word. Then he started hacking. He had a smoker's cough from years of wine-tipped cigars. “Baddon's busy,” he said. “I'll handle these two critters.”

“They're all yours.” The officer glanced at us once before walking away. I couldn't tell from his expression whether he felt relief or disappointment. It might have been heartburn.

I waited until he was out of earshot before speaking. “Thanks. I wasn't sure how I was going to explain this.”

Inspector Johansson grunted again. He did most of his talking this way. Then he turned back to his car, one of those ancient muscle machines people bought before anyone knew what global warming was. For just a second, the streetlamp overhead lit up the bright pink scar under his eye. It made him look tough. I'd once mistaken him for a bad guy. He certainly looked the part. He cleared his throat, then pulled a cigar from a carton inside his coat pocket and lit up.

“What were you two doing here?” he said with the cigar pinched between his teeth. Without waiting for an answer, he opened the back door of his car and told us to get in. I slid through the door and across the seat. The inspector waited for Charlie to climb in, then closed the door and grunted his way into the front. Once settled, he rolled down his window and blew a plume of smoke from the side of his mouth. When he turned the key, I winced. The engine burped, hiccuped, detonated, then a cloud of black soot flew out the tailpipe. As soon as the car recovered, he slid it in gear and stepped on the gas. My whole body shook as if I were sitting on a paint mixer. It was easily 6.2 on the Richter scale.

“So?” Johansson said. We pulled out of the lot and turned onto Water Street.

“We were following a vampire,” I said.

“Vampire?” The inspector pulled the cigar from his mouth and cleared his throat. “Are you crazy?”

After living eight years in a mental ward, I was pretty sure the answer was no.

“Do you know who it was?”

“I don't think it matters now,” Charlie said.

A deep grunt followed. “Why not?”

“Because something showed up and carved him into fish food.”

The inspector's eyes flashed up to the rearview mirror. He glanced at Charlie, then at me. He looked exhausted. His eyes were two slits.
“Something
showed up.
Something?
What do you mean
something?”

“I didn't get a good look at it,” I answered. “It was moving too fast. But we did see some weird footprints.”

His eyelids rose to half-mast when he heard this. “Where?”

“The picnic tables by the hydro station,” Charlie answered.

The inspector's hand disappeared into his overcoat and came up with a cell phone. He started dialing. When someone picked up at the other end, he said, “Yeah, it's me.”

It was difficult to listen in. The car sounded like two chain saws trying to cut each other in half.

“Have you got them?” said a voice.

I looked at Charlie.

“Ophelia?” he whispered.

I nodded. It was her. It meant she was safe. She said something, but I missed it, then Inspector Johansson answered by saying he was bringing us home.

“That's a mistake,” Charlie said.

The inspector hung up, then dropped the phone onto the seat beside him. “What was that?”

“That's a mistake,” Charlie repeated.

“The vampires were there,” I added.

“What vampires?”

“Two of them followed us from the rave. That's why we didn't go home. There's vampire blood all over the driveway.”

“Great,” grumbled the inspector. He hit the brakes and our heads jolted forward. He picked up the phone and made another call. No one picked up. “Well, that's not good,” he muttered.

“What is it?” Charlie asked.

“Ophelia's place was under surveillance. An old friend of mine from Toronto. He's not answering.” The inspector tried his car radio, but didn't have any luck with that, either. “Dammit!”

“What's going on?” Charlie asked.

“And where's Ophelia?”

Inspector Johansson ignored us. He just stared at the radio. “Let's hope he's at the hospital with his son,” he muttered. I had no idea whom he was talking about. Then he turned so he could see us better. “What happened tonight?”

We did our best to explain. His eyes bounced from me to Charlie as we took turns running through the night's events.

“What do you think it was at the zoo?” the inspector asked me. “What killed those wolves? Was it the vampire? Or was it this
something
you were talking about?”

I shrugged. “I don't know.”

“You said there were two vampires at the rave. What happened to the other one?”

I looked at Charlie. He shrugged, then glanced at the inspector. “You didn't answer my question.”

Inspector Johansson responded by hammering on the gas pedal. The engine grumbled and we lurched forward. “What question?”

“What's going on?”

His eyes rose the rearview mirror. “The Underground is collapsing. No—let me rephrase that. It's going to hell in a handbasket.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“The Underground has been compromised. We're under attack.”

“Underground?”
said Charlie. “You hanging out with mole men or something? What are you talking about?”

We drove in silence for a few blocks. The inspector was looking at his phone. He seemed to be debating another call. He put it down and sped up instead, then glanced back over the seat.

“Don't pretend you've never heard of the Underground.”

“Who's pretending?”

The inspector grunted his surprise. “You've heard of it. You just never put the right name to it maybe.”

“Then what is it?” Charlie asked.

“All the people who help look after vampires.”

“Aren't they called the Fallen?”

Inspector Johansson started coughing. He hurried an answer in between a few loud fits. “That was a word Zack's father used, but it only applied to the bad ones. We're the good guys.”

“You're part of it then?” Charlie asked.

“The Underground? Yeah. A small part.”

“How big is it?”

The inspector put his lips together and frowned. “Global. But I only know what I need to know. A handful of names. Some are police. Some are vampires. Some are normal people. It's supposed to be a secret, but someone must have let the cat out of the bag. Our supply systems are falling apart. Blood has been tampered with. Poisoned. Other shipments have been stolen. A vampire in Havelock disappeared yesterday. Another in Lakefield last week. Bridgenorth before that. Just vanished. And they were good ones, like you two slack-jawed nincompoops.”

He took his cigar out of his mouth. His hands were shaking—only a slight tremor, but I noticed. The window was still rolled down. He blew another lungful of smoke outside.

“Is that why the vampires showed up at the rave? Are they behind it?” Charlie asked.

“Who knows?” Inspector Johansson said. “Maybe they were trying to warn you.”

I hadn't considered that. I looked at Charlie. Judging by the look of surprise on his face, he hadn't either.

The inspector stopped the car a block from our house. Then his phone rang. “Go,” he said.

It was Ophelia again. She sounded alarmed. “Where are you?”

“I'm a block from the house with Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber. Looks like a hot spot. I think it's been compromised. Any other suggestions about where to take them?”

“Is Burnham safe?”

“I don't know if anywhere is safe, but it's probably the best option.” He mashed his cigar into the tray under the radio.

“I need you to drop them off, then swing by right away,” Ophelia continued.

“Where are you?”

“London Street.”

“What's up?”

I held my breath and waited. Charlie was listening, too. For a few seconds, all I could hear was the sound of the car idling and the inspector, who was grinding his teeth and feeling about his coat pocket for another cigar.

“You need to come quickly,” Ophelia said. “There's been another murder.”

The inspector looked at his cell for a few seconds as if it were guilty of a heinous crime, then he disconnected it and tossed it on the seat beside him. A string of swear words erupted from his mouth. He pulled the last cigar from the box in his coat pocket and started chewing on the end of it. He didn't light up, he just rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other, then chucked the empty carton to the floor.

“Who just got killed?” Charlie asked.

The inspector shook his head. “I'll find out later. Once I've dropped you two off.” He slipped the car into gear and headed back toward the downtown. We crossed the Hunter Street bridge, drove past a baseball diamond, then pulled onto a quiet side street.

“That's it.” He nodded out the window toward a tiny brick bungalow that looked just big enough for a family of ants.

“We're staying
here
?” Charlie asked.

“Unless you had other plans . . .”

We didn't, so we followed Inspector Johansson around to the back door. He reached into his coat and pulled out a key ring that would have given Governor Schwarzenegger a workout. “Give me a second.”

There were four dead bolts to unlock. As soon as he opened the door, I saw why. The place was like an antiques shop. It was packed floor to ceiling with swords, helmets, armor, busts, carvings, statues,
old candlesticks, furniture, and carpets. Everything looked as if it had been stolen from a museum. Or a medieval castle.

“Where did you get all this?” I asked, bumping into a coffee table that might have belonged to Moses at one time.

“It's Ophelia's,” the inspector said over his shoulder. He was punching numbers into an electronic box near the door. It must have been a home security system.

“Did you know about this?” Charlie asked me.

I shook my head. Ophelia wasn't into clutter. Our house had no knickknacks or collectibles. Not unless you counted books and music and the odd painting. This clearly wasn't a place she expected to be living in anytime soon. The sheer volume of stuff would have driven her into an insane cleaning frenzy—one that wouldn't have ended until nothing was left in the rooms but air and dried paint. But Luna would have loved it. And my father. He used to obsess over anything old. Or well made. Things that were lasting.

I don't know how long I stood there. Eventually, I felt the tip of Johansson's cane tap gently against the bottom of my arm.

“Come on,” he said. “Ophelia's waiting for me.”

I nodded, then followed him through the hall to the far end of the house. Just past the kitchen, a door led down to the basement. The inspector opened it for us, flicked on the lights, then nodded for us to go ahead.

If the first floor of the safe house was an antiques store, the basement was a Future Shop. Everything was state-of-the-art. High-def TV. Surround-sound stereo. A computer that looked as if it belonged on a spaceship. A weird sofa that had a thin, contoured back. A bed folded up against the wall. A funky reading chair with a spiral metal base that I was sure I'd seen in an episode of
Star Trek.
Several glass and wire bookcases with small lights built in. The only things that didn't look as if they were made in the year 3000 were the books. There were even game consoles. Charlie saw them and his eyes lit up.

“Now this is more like it,” he said. “I could survive a zombie apocalypse down here.”

“No windows,” I whispered. Another plus.

“You aren't the first vampires we've had to hide.” The inspector handed me a remote control. “Try not to break anything.” He grunted and turned to go.

“Wait,” I said.

He turned back. He was leaning hard on his cane.

“When will I see Ophelia?” I asked.

The inspector scratched at the stubble on his chin, then positioned his cigar at the side of his mouth. “We'll be back before dawn.”