32

Having a tight ring of brain-hungry zombies surrounding Mina and me was unnerving, and it was only after they relieved Mina of my bat and forced us to follow Cyrus into the next room that I took a moment to really look around.

In this new section of the unused underground part of the museum, there were only a few crates, mostly open and unpacked. This room was nearly identical to the one previous to it, except that I could actually make out what was going on in here. The lighting was still running at low generator levels, but it looked like an assortment of art exhibits mid-setup.

“Good to see you’ve found ways to entertain yourself other than destroying souls,” I said. “What is all this?”

Cyrus smiled and shook his head at me, then pointed straight up above us. Directly overhead hung a banner, done up in a mix of black and bloodred fonts:

Para-lyzed!

Where Art and the Paranormal Ar’t

When I looked around the room again, I saw signs of an art installation that I hadn’t noticed before, all of them in various states of preparation. The most prominent was a section of wall where The Scream hung. Next to it were the beginnings of a life-sized diorama re-creating the long stretch of dismal road from the painting.

“Well, this looks sufficiently fucked-up,” I said. “This is what you’ve been spending your time on, like some kind of demented subterranean Phantom of the Opera?”

Mina elbowed me in the gut. “I’d kind of like to live a little bit longer, so could you at least try not to antagonize him? Dammit! Trading you for The Scream was the last ace up my sleeve.”

“Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t listen to people who repeatedly threaten to bash my brains in.”

At the mention of brains, the group of zombies let out a soft moan. I shuddered.

Cyrus tsk-tsked me. “You see?” he asked. “That’s exactly the problem with you people. You’re limited by your solipsistic point of view. If you would only open up your mind and see the greater picture, the high art in all this . . .”

Cyrus circled around a large glass display case that stood near him, and I noticed a stirring at the bottom of it. Two distinct figures rose, stretching themselves on their four legs and arching their spiny backs. Their red eyes glared at Cyrus, then one of them charged forward. It hit the glass and bounced off, letting out a whine before it stood and shook its head, regaining its composure.

“The chupacabras,” I said.

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “I see they’re actually teaching you something in that department of yours.”

Cyrus squatted down next to it and stared at the chupacabras from eye level. The two animals pulled themselves to the far end of the case. “Yes, they’re for this special little exhibit I’m putting together. A kind of deconstructed Will Wegman piece with a twist that I think will really wow our patrons. You won’t believe how hard these creatures were to come by. I had initially paid for only one, but two days later, a second one showed up out of nowhere, scratching around. I think these things mate for life, like they’re the swans of the paranormal world. The poor thing was a little bloody, but I could hardly turn it away from its mate, now, could I?”

Parts of the puzzle started to fall into place. The mangier of the two must have broken free from the gypsies near the docks, which had explained the shattered crate in their storage area behind the gypsy wagon. It must have been disoriented when it found itself by the docks on the west side, first killing everyone on the booze cruise, then taking the life of Dr. Kolb as it made a beeline for its mate’s scent all the way across town.

“So I did see you at the Javits Center,” I said. “I thought I was going crazy with there being so many damned pirates. You bought one off of the Brothers Heron.”

“Pirates are so de rigueur at those types of conventions,” he said, tapping on the glass of the display case. “I barely had to disguise myself. Apparently those imbeciles didn’t realize that these fine creatures mate for life. When one of them was taken away, the other simply followed. That hardly sounds evil, does it? Tell me that’s not the act of a loving creature.”

“Evil or not, it’s still illegal to sell them in the tristate area,” I said. “And they’re evil through and through. They’ve got some kind of demony thing going on with all that blood sucking. I think that technically counts as evil . . . and illegal.”

Cyrus stood up, mock horror on his face. “Oh heavens, no . . . not illegal!”

“Listen,” Mina said, speaking up. “I think the two of you have a lot to get off your chests here, so why don’t you just let me go? I’ve thought it over, and you know what? You’re right. I’ve been paid fairly and honestly already. You can keep the painting. I’ll leave town; you won’t have me to worry about.”

That was Mina, always looking out for herself. I would have kicked her if I didn’t think it might rile up the zombies.

Cyrus laughed out loud at her for several minutes, almost unable to control himself.

“Mina, Mina, Mina,” he said, when he could catch his breath. “So gothic, and so aptly named for what I have in mind for you. I think I have the perfect exhibit that could use a little bat bait.” Cyrus gestured again. “Bring her.”

A section of the zombies broke away, taking Mina with them. I managed to reach out to grab her arm, but caught one of the zombie arms instead, snapping it off with a squishy mess as the loose flesh clung under my fingernails. Grossed out beyond gross, I tossed it away and fought back the urge to vomit.

Cyrus crossed over to another glass case approximately the size of a telephone booth—on second look, more like a large glass coffin. The interior of it was filled with a cloud of gray mist. A small, sealed-off fan unit was affixed to the top of the case, keeping the mist in a constant swirl. Every so often I thought I saw the formation of a hand and the hint of a face in it, but I wasn’t certain.

“Time to saturate,” Cyrus said. He pulled out a set of keys, unlocked a tiny control box that stood about waist high, and flicked the switch inside it. What could only be blood rained down from a spout at the top of the coffin into the mist, turning it from white to pink to a dark crimson. The mist sank to the bottom of the case, and Cyrus turned off the pump. “That should put him out of commission for a few moments.”

Mina struggled to pull away. “Him?” Mina said. “Him who?”

“Your new roommate,” he said with a smile. He flipped another switch in the box and I heard the sound of decompression. When it stopped, the front of the box swung open and I noticed there was a high lip around the bottom of it that kept the near-liquid form at the bottom from spilling out. The zombies forced Mina toward the box. She fought back, but it was no use. There were too many of them on her, pushing her. When she had stepped all the way in, Cyrus swung the glass door shut and powered up the compressor to reseal the box.

“What are you doing to her?” I shouted. “She’ll suffocate.”

“No worries,” Cyrus said. “The compressor is merely to seal the box from any form of leakage. Air is circulated in through an exchange mechanism. It’s the overhead fan that keeps our vampiric guest from fully forming, although I suspect he’ll be good and blood drunk for some time to come.”

Already a red mist was beginning to swirl around Mina’s feet. She pounded on the glass in soundproof horror as she realized what she was locked in with.

“Oh, my God. Will she live?” I asked.

Cyrus considered this for a moment. “You know, I’m not quite sure. That’s what I love about this type of performance art. It’s an experiment of sorts; just the type of thing I suspect will get a fabulous write-up in Cultist Quarterly when the show opens. True, the vampire can’t fully form, but I wonder if it will find a way to feed nonetheless.” He turned to contemplate the box with Mina in it. “That’s what good art does, Simon. It inspires thought.”