NINE
Sustained exposure to high-temperature flame
(propane blow-torch, approx. 600°F) causes the same damage as would
be expected on normal human tissue. It’s theorized that high heat
may cause the same protein “shut-off” as UV exposure, though we
have not yet verified this. Aside from sunlight and fire, subject
has virtually no other vulnerabilities. Tests of garlic, silver and
other materials mentioned in folklore had no discernable effect. In
order to kill the subject, it would be necessary to completely
destroy his cardiac function—through massive damage to the heart—or
sever his head completely from his body. This is, perhaps, why
earlier cultures decapitated corpses and staked them through the
heart, in an effort to prevent vampiric outbreaks.
—BRIEFING BOOK: CODENAME: NIGHTMARE PET
NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY,
HUMANITIES AND SOCIAL SCIENCES DIVISION,
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
HUMANITIES AND SOCIAL SCIENCES DIVISION,
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
Tania entered the library just as the
tolling bell sounded to announce fifteen minutes to closing. She
gave the security guard a brilliant smile, and he was happy to let
the pretty girl sneak past, despite the rules.
She made her way through the crowds of people to
the genealogy room, one of the most popular spots in the whole
building. Tania had no trouble getting to the stacks she wanted;
people got out of her way without even realizing it.
The section contained records going back to when
the streets of New York were filled with horseshit, and clean water
was a luxury item. There were plenty of family historians,
academics and homeless people still in their seats, waiting for
someone to kick them out, so they could scrounge just a little more
data or a little more warmth. Tania disappeared into a long row of
old, leather-bound volumes—fewer and fewer of these books every
year, as computers ate their knowledge and took their space. It was
hard to argue with the decision, however: almost no one came to
peruse the old city directories, phone books and municipal records.
Lists and lists of names of people long dead. A roll call that no
one would ever answer, and no one would care.
Tania wasn’t looking for those names anyway. She
needed fresher information.
Flipping through pages of an old citywide social
register, seemingly at random, she stopped wherever some vandal had
marked the book in ballpoint ink.
Circles and checks. Random words. She found the
freshest ink—she could smell it—and began assembling the words
together, in her head.
“Doctor” was the first new word circled. Then
“commission.”
She had been out of town and out of touch for a
while. And while her kind was definitely not social, they’d
recognized the necessity of maintaining lines of communication. An
Internet chat room wasn’t going to cut it for many of them. They
needed something a little less ephemeral than digital code on a
screen.
Fortunately, humans were ridiculously sentimental
creatures, and they hung on to everything.
Tania kept flipping, a frown marring her perfect,
pale skin. “Removal,” “extermination,” “pet control.”
Eventually, this building and all the books it held
would be destroyed, plowed over by people as they rebuilt the world
again. But some of the outposts of the past would remain. Look at
Stonehenge. It was still around, even if it was useless as a way to
deliver messages anymore.
Tania didn’t like the way this message was shaping
up. Not at all. “Compensation,” “more,” “disposal,” “time,” “soon,”
“president,” pet.
Then a series of numbers. Not a phone number, but a
cipher, leading anyone who knew it and had the ability to memorize
a series of sixteen-digit strings to a place where communication
would continue.
Tania had seen enough, however. She slammed the
book shut.
A librarian at the end of the stack looked at her
with disapproval. He was the sort of man who looked, on the
outside, like he’d been born in tweed.
Actually, in his off hours, he was quite fond of
leather and bondage. But he liked playing the part of the nerdy
scholar at work. And in both his lives, he was a stickler for the
rules.
“We’re closing,” he reminded her. “You’re running
out of time.”
She almost smiled at that. “Not me,” she said. “But
someone is, yes.”
Why do we get all the freaks, the librarian
thought.
She fixed him with a glare, as if she heard inside
his head.
Then she swept past him. She was very attractive,
but none of the librarian’s usual fantasies about strapping her
down filled his head. He didn’t even watch her pass to get a better
look. He just wanted to make sure she was gone.
As she went out the door, he felt strangely
relieved, like he’d narrowly escaped something awful. Maybe he’d
have to talk to his therapist about adjusting his dosage.