friend, she watched Goss check and re-check his Uzi, armalite, and cadre of “small” guns. Poe’s mother and father had many friends who used to frequent their house, but none ever looked like Goss. It wasn’t just his height and muscular body that set him apart. It was his sense of deep loss.
“How many people could actually claim they found their soul mate?” Sister asked one day. Poe couldn’t even begin to explain what the term meant.
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The closest thing she could come up with was Westley’s relationship with Buttercup in The Princess Bride.
Goss used to be an attorney and the director of the regional Gay and Lesbian Alliance before the world teetered to an end. He watched his partner of many years bleed to death to feed Trench’s brood. Under a stupor similar to being gagged and drugged, Daryl lived the rest of his short life like a zombie. Two tiny punctures in the neck were potent enough to turn victims into drooling cattle for a year.
“Daryl died because some substance-addicted leech forgot to unplug the IV from his vein. He was literally sucked dry,” Sister had told Poe years ago.
“Perhaps the trauma of seeing his life mate die drip-by-drip shook Goss out of complacency. He escaped by hiding out in a wheelbarrow for the dead with Daryl’s corpse piled up with others until they were all thrown into the body pit on the outskirts of town. Crawling out of a pile of vermin and rotting remains, Goss rose from the pit vowing to avenge the death of his only love.”
Out on a rare daytime hunt, Poe was thrown to the street by Goss on their first meeting. She had no idea a human lived in the great emerald Eastern Columbia building in the old Broadway Theater District, let alone an ugly coarse-hair terrier that bit her ankle and a pathetic three-legged hound named Legs. Goss refused to leave home, an impressive art deco tower crowned by an enormous stopped clock, for a more secure hiding place.
“Do you have an extra bottle of holy water, Poe?”
Goss asked to lighten the awkwardness brought on by Tad Wanky and the subject of Sainvire.
“It’s in the fridge.”
Sister Ann insisted that they call the garlic and water concoction “holy water.” The term stuck. The 26
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nun never stopped trying to link God’s divine plan with the struggle against the new blood-letting order. It was no wonder that she sometimes suffered from mental episodes. Most garlic-related wounds proved to be fatal. The allicin in garlic reacted like plague to vampire flesh and prevented wound healing, causing eventual decay.
Poe stuffed her new pack with bullets filled with garlic oil supplements, two sturdy stakes that she hardly ever used for their dangerous inefficiency, a jagged Rambo knife, holy water in Windex spray bottles, and freeze-dried food. She wore around her neck a slender cigarette-shaped silver whistle, keys, a beaded rosary Sister Ann had given her, talismans, and all sorts of mostly useless gadgets.
Everyone knew crosses, Stars of David, fat Buddhas, and other emblems did nothing to vampires.
Such protection was simply movie lore thought up by the superstitious. She wore them anyway just to please her friend. And it was the same with the stakes.
Shooting vampire hearts with garlic marinated bullets was the short, uncomplicated version of staking the heart without getting too close. How could she go against the wishes of the good nun?
Contrary to old beliefs, a truly dead vampire didn’t implode into dusty nothingness. Their bodies remained intact but decomposed at a faster rate than a human cadaver.
“It takes about two days for the vamp to liquefy into sludge,” was one of the first things Goss had taught her. “Don’t get too freaked out if they are still looking at you after a kill. If the stares bother you, go ahead and chop off their heads.” Hence the meaty bone slicer in her pack.
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Poe stuffed extra bullets, clips, and dated candy bars in the side pockets of her dark green army cargo pants and kneeled to double-knot her Adidas sneakers.
“You really ought to wean yourself out of that compulsion,” said Sister Ann, who watched Poe with a frown. “It could cost you your life.”
“Yes, Sister,” the girl answered weakly. She swore under her breath, “Kuso baba.” Poe had always been paranoid about her shoelaces coming undone while in flight. It didn’t matter if the laces were double-knotted; she had to give them a tug to be sure.