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  My first at bat was a towering hit to center field, but it got stuck in equipment hanging from the Metrodome roof and was ruled a ground rule double. My second at bat, I bunted for a base hit. I stole second and was singled in for a run scored.

  Coach Dawson called me off to the side. “Boy, what the hell are you doing out there? I want home runs. Are you sandbagging me? I want some production for those millions we’re paying you!”

  “I’ll try harder coach.” “No more bunts!” I finished with two home runs, and we won seven to five. Seattle swept the Twins, and it was on to New York.

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  Chapter 14

  I have never been to New York City, and I took some time to enjoy the beautiful skyline as Anita and I flew by. Of course I recognized the Empire State Building, the Brooklyn Bridge, and the New Twin Towers of the World & Galactic Trade Building. The ghosts of 9-11 screamed their disapproval at the two airborne intruders. But most impressive was the majesty of the Statue of Liberty, standing guard, protecting the Harbor from evil. I visualized Madam Liberty shaking her fist at me and Anita as we did a second fly-by, this time taking pictures. The undead are not welcome in New York City, The Lady of the Harbor warned.

  We landed in the Bronx, home of the New York Yankees. Memorial statues of the immortals stood out front: Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, and the all-time great Alex Rodriguez. Such baseball history gave me goose bumps. Yankee Stadium, home of the Evil Empire, would always be hallowed ground, and beating the Yankees would be validation that I truly belonged in the major leagues.

  The King of Swat turned his head and scowled down at us. You! Go back! You are not welcome here!

  “What do you know, Yankee?” I argued. “Pigeons shit on your head all day. I am taking Seattle to the World Series!”

  Learn the hard way, upstart, replied the Babe dismissively.

  Seattle? sneered A-Rod. That’ll be the day! Seattle is a loser, and always has been. That’s why I traded the rain for pinstripes!

  “Whatever, A-Wad!” I shouted as we passed by. “You old fools are ancient history! But me? I’m going to make history!”

  Pay them no mind! added Lou. They’re jealous because they’re washed up and can’t play anymore. Watch your back, boy. They’re going to do you dirty!

  The East Coast Fix is in! warned Joltin’ Joe. You can’t fight that!

  “Yeah right.” I stopped and looked up at the statue of Mickey Mantle. “What? You have nothing to say? Let’s hear your two cents, old timer. Out with it!”

  Don’t take life so seriously, replied Mickey. Have a beer on me, kid.

  “I’ll do that, Yankee. Thanks!”

  * * * * *

  Pablo Escobar, Jr., met me in the tunnel as I left the locker room. “Do not go out there,” he warned.

  “Forget it!” I snarled, baring my fangs. “I heard the fix was in. I am not afraid of you, and I’m not throwing this game!”

  “Ha!” scoffed Escobar “I am the only friend you have. I don’t care who wins this game. It means nothing to me. It’s you I am concerned about. Did you really think they were going to let you play? Break all the records?”

  “They?”

  “The integrity of the game is at stake. They will stop you.”

  “Who will stop me?” I asked, shoving Escobar against the wall. “Who have you been talking to? You are a fine one to be talking about integrity, a low-life drug dealer! You personify evil.”

  “Evil?” Escobar laughed. “I may be Evil’s helper, but you leave a trail of innocent victims everywhere you go. And you call me evil? Aye, Johnny, you’re a real piece of work. You bought my steroids, remember? You murder and drink the blood of innocents. You make me look like a choirboy.”

  “A choirboy from Hell,” I shot back, angrily. “I am going to play baseball, and no one can stop me. I will beat your New York Yankees, and do it in their own stadium!”

  “Beat the Evil Empire? You are so naďve. Johnny, come back with me to Mexico before it is too late. Be my air force, smuggling drugs across the borders. We will be rich and unstoppable!”

  “You disgust me.” I bumped Escobar hard as I turned to take the field. “You are just a drug dealer.” Escobar was damn lucky there were witnesses in that tunnel, or he would never have left alive.

  “I like to think of myself as an undocumented pharmacist. I provide a much needed and valued service to the public.”

  “Whatever!”

  “Remember, I am your friend, your only friend, no matter what happens tonight. You can come to me for help. We can still do business!”

  “I would rather make a deal with the Devil,” I called back. “Careful what you say, Johnny!” advised Escobar, crossing himself. “He may be listening!” “I want nothing to do with you!” “Hey, at least I’m human!”

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  Chapter 15

  I gazed up at the stands. It was a typical raucous New York crowd. Beer was flowing. I waved to Anita, who smiled back. Beyond, up in the box suites behind tinted windows, I saw Commissioner Bud Seedy seated next to Mr. Steinbrenner. Bud lifted a glass of champagne, in toast, it seemed, in my direction. They both laughed, like old chums. I turned away, more determined than ever. Even they can’t stop me now.

  In the fifth inning, Seattle got the lead-off batter on base with a hit, and I took my place in the on-deck circle. A mosquito lit on my hand, intent on gorging itself at my expense. I resisted the casual reflexive urge to swat the disease carrying blood-sucker. Instead, I let the insect have its full, letting it fly away unmolested.

  Our next batter walked. A thousand cameras zoomed in as I strolled confidently to the batter’s box. The New York catcher had a distinctive smell of garlic on his breath, very foul and annoying.

  The crowd cheered for their pitcher to throw strikes. I tapped my bat on the plate, signaling I was ready, but I was not! Pounded into home plate was a gold cross! Its brightness was blinding, its heat worse.

  “Strike one!” called the umpire, before I had a chance to set myself.

  I kicked sand over the plate, but the bright gold cross still shone through. No matter, I was ready now. The New York pitcher crossed himself and kissed a small crucifix hanging from a chain. Then he smirked. Superstitious fool, I mused.

  The PA announcer began leading the crowd in the Lords Prayer. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done...”

  They know! But how? That’s impossible. The press had been speculating about my allergy to sunlight, and that was now common knowledge. This was all just a big joke to them. They were trying to rattle my cage. Well, it won’t work! The next pitch I hit in to left field for a single.

  I glanced down in horror as I rounded first base. The bag was full of crosses, sewed into the fabric. As I crossed the bag I got a hotfoot. Smoke rose from my shoe. I hesitated to return to the bag as the throw in relay reached first, and was tagged out. The crowd roared its approval.

  Stunned, I trotted back to the dugout. My embarrassment was replayed over and over on the big screen. Coach Dawson was furious. “What the hell was that?” he fumed.

  “Sorry, coach. Dazed by the lights and excitement of Yankee Stadium, I guess.”

  “Get your head out of your ass!”

  The inning ended. We stranded a runner, and I took the field. Well, I tried to take the field. New York priests had spent all day consecrating the outfield grass with holy water. This time it was real holy water. Another joke? Not for me. To me the outfield was like a fiery inferno. I stopped abruptly, then dropped to the ground, clutching my knee.

  “There will be no vampire in the outfield tonight!” boasted Mr. Steinbrenner over the stadium public address system. “Rot in Hell, Bat Boy!”

  “Bullshit!” yelled Coach Dawson, lording over me with the team trainer by his side. “What the hell are you trying to pull now? I knew all along you were too good to be true!”

  I cried, not from pain, but
because my baseball dream was slipping away. I looked to the stands, but Anita had left. My angst turned to anger as teammates carried me back to the dugout. In the locker room the trainer and an EMT braced my knee, leaving me alone.

  I listened to the rest of the game on the radio. We lost ten to two. The fat lady sang. It wasn’t over until it was over, and I was determined to have the final say with these Yankees. By the end of the game my rage was out of control. When my teammates returned to the locker room, I was gone.

  * * * * *

  I changed clothes and slipped out the stadium, flying far away. Soaring over New York, it felt good to cool off. I was still angry, but the stifling intensity of Yankee Stadium was gone, and I felt better.

  How odd, I thought, looking down at a man leaving a Brooklyn tavern on Jamaica Avenue. He wore a blue and red Boston Red Sox baseball cap. I dived like a hawk (or bat) and snatched the cap from his head.

  “Hey, I’ll get you for that!” complained the drunk Red Sox fan, more upset about losing his cap than seeing a vampire fly away with it over Cypress Hill Cemetery. I flipped him the bird, and he gave it back double.

  I spied movement below at the cemetery, where all should be dead. Two teens, sporting gang colors portraying the Grim Reaper on their jackets, were lifting a gravestone into a wheel barrow.

  “You!” I yelled as I landed. “Stop that!”

  The taller youth produced a knife. I laughed, baring my fangs. “Bringing a knife to a tooth fight?” I taunted. “Not good for you, Stretch.”

  “Please don’t kill us!” exclaimed Stretch, dropping the knife like it was on fire. “What are you, Dracula?” “Why are you desecrating graves?” I asked, ignoring his question. “Why not?” replied Stretch. “It’s safer than dealing drugs during these hard economic times, you know.” “Where are you taking those tombstones?” “We sand them down for resale, just like new. It’s recycling, man. We’re green workers.” “Hey!” cried the shorter teen. “I know you. You’re Johnny Black! Damn, you really are a vampire, just like they say in the Enquirer.”

  “You read that trash?” “Hey, man, Enquiring minds want to know.” “What’s with the Grim Reaper patches?” I asked. “You think that makes you look tough?” “We are tough,” boasted Shorty. “Reaper turf extends all along Jamaica Avenue, and no one messes with us. Hey! I was listening to the game earlier, Johnny. What happened? You choke?”

  “Just a bump in the road,” I replied, approaching closer.

  “Please don’t kill us,” repeated Stretch, backing away. “We won’t tell anyone you’re really Dracula. Honest! Who would believe us? We’ll even put these tombstones back if you want. Sorry to disturb your friends down there.”

  “I don’t give a damn about worthless tombstones,” I replied. “But I think I will kill you anyway.”

  “No!” pleaded Shorty, crossing himself. “Can’t we make a deal? We’ll be your minions. You know, go shopping for you in the daytime. You buy, we’ll fly for pizza pie. We can guard you coffin too. Make hotel reservations.”

  “How many of you Reapers are there?” I asked, conversationally thinking Shorty’s idea had some merit. “Are you just a local gang?”

  “There are hundreds of Reapers, and that is just in Brooklyn,” explained Shorty. “There are even more in Philly. So, you aren’t going to kill us?”

  “Not yet. Maybe later.”

  “Maybe later is better,” said Shorty, relieved. “You really had me sweating, man.”

  “What’s up with the Boston Red Sox cap?” asked Stretch. “You get traded to sorry Beantown already? Don’t you know it’s not safe wearing Red Sox colors around this neighborhood?”

  “Straight-up,” agreed Shorty. “It’s just not done. Aren’t you a Mariner? It’s not safe to wear Mariner colors, either.”

  “I’ll risk it,” I commented, dismissively. “Speaking about unsafe, look at you, wearing those Grim Reaper patches on your jackets. You better hope the real Grim Reaper doesn’t see that.”

  “I’m not scared of Death,” scoffed Stretch.

  “I am,” replied Shorty, immediately tossing his jacket aside. “Anything you say, Johnny.”

  Stretch shrugged, and reluctantly removed his jacket, too. He carefully folded his jacket and set it by a tree. “Those GR patches were lame, anyway.”

  “Since you are not going to kill or eat us, can I have your autograph, Johnny?” asked Shorty. “No!” I flew off toward Yankee Stadium. “Later, Dracula dude!” shouted Stretch, putting his jacket back on as I crested the tree line. “Don’t come back, punk!”

  * * * * *

  As I flew by Yankee Stadium, I could see Steinbrenner’s luxury suite box was dark and vacant. I circled around to the clubhouse entrance where there was still some after-game activity.

  “Where do you think you are going?” asked a security guard at the door. “I’m press,” I advised, flashing my library card. “May I enter?” “Lose the cap,” suggested the security guard. “Boston Globe,” I explained, keeping the bill of my cap pulled down. “New York plays us next, and I’m here for an injury update. My cap stays on.”

  “Okay, pal, but I can’t vouch for your safety.” The security guard sneered and stepped aside. “The nerve of some people.”

  Most of the Yankees had left. A couple players were still in the shower. I grabbed the first Yankee by the throat, tearing at his Adam’s apple. Reflexively I sank my teeth into the side of his neck. The second Yankee backed away into a corner, trapped. I snarled, then lunged. In desperation he threw a bar of soap, slipped, and fell. I tore at his throat with my fangs. His head came off in my hands, splattering blood on the shower walls.

  The Yankee pitcher from earlier struck me with a bat on the head from behind. The bat shattered bloody splinters about the shower. I picked up a sharp shard of wood and let it fly, striking the pitcher in the chest as he held up the gold cross from his chain. He wasn’t smirking this time as he fell back against lockers.

  The security guard, who was unarmed, slipped outside and ran. He radioed for backup to the police about a Yankee massacre. “Help, we’re being attacked by a monster from Boston!”

  Forgetting about the security guard, I looked about for more victims. Finding no more Yankees, I settled for decapitating the bodies to make sure my disease did not spread. As I left, Anita met me at the door. She held the head of the security guard, dangling by his hair.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me to the party?” she asked, looking about. “Oh my, what have you done?”

  We embraced, covered with fresh spattered blood, licking and nibbling passionately at each other’s face and throat.

  “We should flee to Mexico,” suggested Anita, pointing to a security camera by the door. “The Commissioner won’t be happy about this. I think you are going to be suspended.”

  “No! I hate Mexico. There’s too much violence down there. I might have some friends in Filthy-Delphia. Maybe we can hide there.”

  “I have an ex-boyfriend who owns a tavern in the French Quarter of New Orleans. He’s kind of shady, but he will hide us and give us jobs.”

  “That might work,” I replied. “I have never been to New Orleans. I love jazz.”

  FBI Agent Smith took careful aim with his crossbow. “You aren’t going anywhere, demons!” he shouted. The wooden arrow pierced Anita’s heart from behind. I pushed away, blood oozing from my chest, too. Agent Smith tossed the crossbow aside and drew his pistol. This time his gun held special hollow-tip rounds packed with wood pulp. Anita fell into Smith, causing his shots to go wide. I fled into the night sky, not looking back.

  * * * * *

  I will miss Anita. She was a sweet girl in a vicious, bloodthirsty, coldblooded, psycho, Latina lover, serial killer, girl-next-door-from-Hell sort of way. God she was hot. I was saddened, but I’d eventually get over it. I thought someone ought to tell her parents, but then realized they would probably eat the messenger. I also thought about circling back to avenge Anita, but my wounds ca
used me to fly erratically. I orientated myself to the beautiful New York skyline, then crashed in New Jersey.

  Battered and bruised, I picked myself up from the asphalt of a strip mall parking lot. I heard a ‘BEEP’ noise. I was being scanned by face-recognition technology from a walk-up ATM.

  “I can see you now, Mr. Black,” said the ATM. “You were invisible to me the last time we transacted business. How is that possible?”

  “None of your business. You talk?”

  “Of course I talk,” boasted the ATM. “I am the latest advanced model United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion Recruitment Center ATM. I am the last ATM you will ever need.”

  “I don’t need an ATM. You’re just a stupid machine.”

  “You appear to have fallen on hard times. Do you need a loan?”

  “I have plenty of money,” I replied, inserting my card. ‘ACCESS DENIED’ greeted me on the screen. “Hey! What are you trying to pull?”

  “Your funds have been frozen by the authorities,” advised the ATM. “You are a low-life fugitive from justice.”

  “Damn!” I cried, kicking the ATM as my card popped out. “I am innocent. Give me my money!”

  “Police APB reports indicate you may be a vampire. Interesting. I personally do not believe in the existence of vampires, but video of you at the scene of multiple high-profile murders is very revealing. Vampires cannot be photographed, can they?”

  “Give me my money, or I’ll tear your wiring out!”

  “I do not give away money,” advised the ATM. “However, if you enlist in America’s Foreign Legion, you may be eligible for a substantial monetary bonus.”

  “How much?”