Part 6 (2/2)

”They're not just hunting the sick.”

”No,” Rivera said. ”They're taking anyone on the street. I'm guessing anyone who gets caught out alone.”

”Some of those people in the cafeteria saw something. I could tell. We should come back and talk to some of them when the priest and his volunteers aren't around.”

”No need, really, is there?” Rivera was scratching out numbers on his notepad.

”They'll talk to the paper,” Cavuto said, pulling in behind a cable car on Powell Street, then sighing and resolving himself to move at nineteenth-century speed for a few blocks as they made their way up n.o.b Hill.

”Well, first it will be covered as amusing stuff that crazy street people say, then someone is going to notice the b.l.o.o.d.y clothes and it's all going to come out.” Rivera added another figure, then scribbled something with a flourish.

”It doesn't have to come back to us,” Cavuto said hopefully. ”I mean, it's not really our fault.”

”Doesn't matter if we get blamed,” said Rivera. ”It's our responsibility.”

”So what are you saying?”

”I'm saying that we're going to be defending the City against a horde of vampire cats.”

”Now that you said it, it's real.” Cavuto was whining a little.

I'm going to call that Wong kid and see if he has my UV jacket done.”

”Just like that?”

”Yeah,” Rivera said. ”If you go by Father Jaime's example, they've eaten about three-quarters of the Tenderloin's homeless in, let's call it a week. If you figure maybe three thousand street people in the City, you're talking about twenty-two hundred dead already. Someone's going to notice.”

”That's what you were calculating?”

”No, I was trying to figure out if we had enough money to open the bookstore.”

That had been the plan. Early retirement, then sell rare books out of a quaint little shop on Russian Hill. Learn to golf.

”We don't,” Rivera said. He started to dial Foo Dog when his phone chirped, a sound it hadn't made before.

”The f.u.c.k was that?” asked Cavuto.

”Text message,” said Rivera.

”You know how to text?”

”No. We're going to Chinatown.”

”A little early for eggrolls, isn't it?”

”The message is from Troy Lee.”

”The Chinese kid from the Safeway crew? I don't want to deal with those guys.”

”It's one word.”

”Don't tell me.”

”CATS.”

”Did I not ask you not to tell me?”

”The basketball court off Was.h.i.+ngton,” Rivera said.

”Have that Wong kid make me one of those sunlight jackets. Fifty long.”

”You get that many lights on you they'll have you flying over stadiums playing Goodyear ads on your sides.”

10.

Unlikely Knights THE EMPEROR.

They called it Wine Country. What it was, in fact, was an area south of Market Street, adjacent to the Tenderloin, where liquor stores sold a high volume, yet small variety, of fortified wines like Thunderbird, Richard's Wild Irish Rose, and MD 20-20 (known in the wine world as Mad Dog, for the propensity of its drinkers to urinate publicly and turn around three times before pa.s.sing out on the sidewalk). While Wine Country was technically the SOMA, or the ”fas.h.i.+onable” South of Market Street South of Market Street neighborhood, it had yet to draw the young professional crowd that sprayed everything with a s.h.i.+ny coat of latte and money, as had its waterfront neighbor. No, Wine Country consisted mainly of run-down apartments, sleazy residence hotels, deeply skeezy p.o.r.n theaters, and old industrial buildings, which now housed mini-storage units. Oh, and a huge Federal Building that looked like it was being molested by a giant steel pterodactyl, but evidently that was just the government trying to get away from their standard bomb shelter architecture to something more aesthetically appealing, especially if you liked G.o.dzilla p.o.r.n. neighborhood, it had yet to draw the young professional crowd that sprayed everything with a s.h.i.+ny coat of latte and money, as had its waterfront neighbor. No, Wine Country consisted mainly of run-down apartments, sleazy residence hotels, deeply skeezy p.o.r.n theaters, and old industrial buildings, which now housed mini-storage units. Oh, and a huge Federal Building that looked like it was being molested by a giant steel pterodactyl, but evidently that was just the government trying to get away from their standard bomb shelter architecture to something more aesthetically appealing, especially if you liked G.o.dzilla p.o.r.n.

It was in the shadow of that architectural abomination that the Emperor had taken his search for the alpha vampire cat. He and the men didn't spend much time in Wine Country, as he had lost a decade in a bottle somewhere and had since forsworn the grape. But it was his city, and he knew it like the cat-scratch scars on b.u.mmer's muzzle.

”Steadfast, gents, steadfast,” said the Emperor, throwing his shoulder against a Dumpster behind a hundred-year-old brick building. b.u.mmer and Lazarus had commenced low, rumbling growls since they'd come into the alley, as if there were tiny semi-trucks idling in their chests. They were close.

The Dumpster rolled aside on rusty wheels, revealing a bas.e.m.e.nt window with a sheet of plywood loosely fitted into it. The building had once housed a brewery, but had long since been refitted for storage, except for the bas.e.m.e.nt, half of which had been bricked off from the inside. But this window had been forgotten, and it led to an underground chamber completely unknown to the police, where William, and other people who succ.u.mbed to the Wine Country's charms, would seek shelter from the rain or the cold. Of course, you had to be drunk to think it was a good place to stay. Except for the spot by the window, the bas.e.m.e.nt was completely dark, as well as damp, rat infested, and reeking of urine.

As he pulled away the plywood, the Emperor heard a high sizzling sound, and the smell of burning hair came streaming out the window. b.u.mmer barked. The Emperor turned away and coughed, fanned the smoke away from his face, and then peered into the bas.e.m.e.nt. All over the visible parts of the floor, cat cadavers were smoldering, burning, and reducing to ash as the sun hit them. There were scores of them, and those were just the ones the Emperor could see from the window light.

”This appears to be the place, gents,” he said, patting Lazarus's side.

b.u.mmer snorted, tossed his head, and ruffed three times fast, which translated to, ”I thought I would enjoy the smell of burning cats more, but strangely, no.”

The Emperor got on his hands and knees, then backed through the window. His overcoat caught on the window sill and actually helped him in lowering his great bulk to the floor.

Lazarus stuck his head in the window and whimpered, which translated to, ”I'm a little uneasy about you being in there by yourself.” He measured the distance from the window to the bas.e.m.e.nt floor and pranced, preparing himself to leap into the abyss.

”No, you stay, good Lazarus,” said the Emperor. ”I fear I wouldn't be able to lift you out once you are down here.”

With the ashes of burned cats crunching under his shoes the Emperor made his way across the room until he reached the end of the direct light that lay across the floor like a dingy gray carpet. To move farther he'd have to step on the bodies of the sleeping-well, dead-cats, as even in the shadows, he could see that the floor was covered with feline corpses. The Emperor shuddered and fought the urge to bolt to the window.

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