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Part 1
The Vampires of Wallachia
Part 1 of 2
Blake Lewis belched noisily as he flicked the cap of his beer bottle at Vincent Chang’s head. Blake was slouched across the backseat of the rental car—a Chevy Malibu that Chang and Tony would have to detail thoroughly before they returned it to Hertz. Blake hated to travel with Chang and Tony. They were both as dull as rocks; these two could only redeem themselves by serving as objects of torment.
Chang flinched as the beer bottle twist cap ricocheted off his ear. He nevertheless managed to keep his attention on the dark rainy highway ahead of him. The cap projectile had not been entirely unexpected. It was the third such volley that Blake had launched since they left Detroit and began their southward trek into Ohio. Chang had lost count of the number of beers that Blake had consumed. Like all of them, Blake would know that drinking on a business trip was a violation of company policy. But Blake considered himself above this sort of petty regulation.
“Tony, what the hell time is it?” Blake demanded.
“A little past six o’clock,” Tony said after consulting the digital readout in the Malibu’s instrument panel. Tony was seated beside Chang in the front passenger seat.
“And how much longer till we reach Cincinnati?”
“We’re still way north of Dayton,” Chang replied. He did not remind Blake that Dayton was an hour north of Cincinnati. His boss would—or should—be able to do the math.
Blake let out a long sigh from the backseat, prompting Chang and Tony to wonder what would come next. Blake’s mercurial mood swings made his behavior difficult to predict under the best of circumstances. But he was especially irritable on business trips.
“That means we’re still hours from home. We’ve got to stop and eat,” Blake announced. He sat up, took a swig from his beer bottle and loosened his tie. “I haven’t eaten since that lunch with the Ford people. And that sucked big time. That salmon tasted like shit.”
“There will be a lot of restaurants in Dayton,” Chang proffered. He had hoped to drive straight through to Cincinnati so that he might have a late dinner at home with his wife. But he knew that Blake wouldn’t put the matter to a vote. Every word that the boss spoke was to be regarded as ex cathedra—even if the subject was dinner. Chang would be dining tonight with Tony and Blake.
“I’ll stop as soon as soon as we reach the northern suburbs of Dayton,” Chang said.
“I don’t want to wait until Dayton,” Blake said. “I’m hungry now.”
Chang furtively glanced over at Tony, who rolled his eyes in commiseration. This was just Blake being Blake again.
If Blake wanted to eat in the middle of nowhere, then so be it. But Chang couldn’t make a restaurant materialize from the surrounding farmland. They were driving down I-75, which cut through the entire north-south length of Ohio. This particular portion of the Buckeye State was mind-numbingly flat and mostly rural, the southern fringes of the decaying Great Lakes rust belt. Driving south from Detroit to Cincinnati, there were few significant towns between Toledo, on the Michigan-Ohio state line, and Dayton, in the middle of Ohio.
They passed a green and white reflectorized highway sign that read:
Exit 167
Wallachia
3 miles
“What’s in Wallachia?” Blake asked.
“No idea,” said Chang. “Tony, you ever been to Wallachia?”
“Remember, I’m from Atlanta,” Tony said. “I know northern Ohio about as well as I know Mongolia.”
“Well,” Blake said. “There’s bound to be something there. A Wendy’s or a Denny’s at the very least.”
“I don’t know, Blake,” Chang said. “Wallachia is probably a two-stoplight town with nothing but a gas station or two. You sure you don’t want to wait until Dayton?”
“What did I just say?” Blake asked. “Why do you guys always make me repeat myself? Turn off when you come to the Wallachia exit.”
Chang said nothing but he knew that he would do as Blake had ordained. He silently fumed at the vagaries of corporate life. Chang had enjoyed his job as a sales representative at Digital Datamation until two months ago, when Blake Lewis was suddenly and unexpectedly promoted to sales manager. Then everything had changed and his job satisfaction had taken a nosedive.
Blake had been a mere flunky in the sales department for the better part of three years. No one would have predicted his rise in the company. He had spent most of his time at work bragging about his college football days and his weekend carnal conquests. He also spent a lot of time on the Internet.
Then one day Blake had mentioned a new carnal conquest—a twenty-five-year-old named Julie Porter. Ms. Porter wasn’t just any young woman; she was the daughter of Nick Porter—Digital Datamation’s Vice President of Sales and Marketing.
As the relationship progressed, so progressed the career of Blake Lewis. After the engagement was announced, Nick Porter began inviting Blake into his office for impromptu, back-slapping chats. Chang had tried to ignore the signs of the impending nepotistic coup. But after the wedding it was more or less a fait accompli. Blake returned from his honeymoon with a blustering air of assumed authority. Within six months, daddy-in-law Nick pulled the necessary strings and made it official.
And now Chang, Tony, and three other salespersons found themselves beneath Blake Lewis on the company organization chart. Blake still spent a lot of time blathering about his college football days. And if rumors could be believed, he still indulged in the occasional carnal conquest, his marriage to Julie (nee Porter) Lewis notwithstanding.
Blake noisily opened a copy of USA Today. “Did you hear about all the lamebrain stuff President Obama has been doing?” he asked. Chang glanced in the rearview mirror and noted that Blake was staring pointedly at Tony. “Man, Obama really sucks, you know that, Tony?”
Tony grunted noncommittally. He was well aware of Blake’s assumption that all African-Americans were rabid supporters of Barack Obama. He might have told his boss (not for the first time) that he hadn’t even voted for Barack Obama. Nor was he a devotee of Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, or similar demagogues who presumed to speak for all African-Americans.
But Tony decided not to waste the effort on Blake.
“Here we are,” Chang announced as he turned on to the exit ramp. The ramp took them around a sharp loop that descended onto a two-lane country highway.
A roadside sign told them that Wallachia was just a few miles ahead. The same sign told them that Wallachia was home to only 3,500 souls. It would be a waste of time to drive into town, unless they planned on eating in some farmer’s kitchen. Besides, eateries on rural exits were always clustered near the interstate.
“How about here?” Tony asked. He was referring to the truck stop that was coming up on their right. The truck stop was a rectangular block of lights and windows in the middle of a vast parking lot. It included a diner that hinted at chicken-fried steak, a checkerboard tiled floor, and silver-haired, chain-smoking waitresses named “Pearl” and “Louise.”
“Not on your life,” Blake said. “No way I’m eating at a greasy spoon like that. I’d sooner take my chances with road kill.”
“Well, what other choice do we have?” Chang asked. The truck stop was like a struggling outpost of civilization in this particular corner of Sticksville. There weren’t many customers: only two rigs and three cars worth.
Without answering Chang, Blake shouted out, “Hey, Chinese!”
What’s he talking about? Chang thought. He was going to ask Blake for a clarification when he saw the red neon sign that read “Mei-Hua Chinese Restaurant”. It was a little ways past the truck stop on the same side of the road.
“Are they even open?” Tony said. “I don’t see any lights inside the building.”
“They’re open,” Blake said. “You see the sign, right? Vincent, swing us on in to the ‘Mei-hua’. I’m gonna have Peking duck tonight.”
Chang drove past the truck stop as ordered and switched on the right turn signal. The unpaved gravel parking lot of the Mei-hua was empty of cars. The Malibu dipped as one of the front tires descended into a depression in the ground. It was probably a rain gully running right through the middle of the parking lot.
“They could take better care of their lot,” Tony observed.
“Yeah, well, the restaurant itself is no prize either,” Chang said. He parked the rental car and killed the engine.
The neon sign mounted near the roof of the restaurant bathed the rain-streaked windshield of the Malibu in red light. If Chang had been a betting man, he would have wagered that the building that housed the Mei-Hua had been a honky-tonk or a country barbeque restaurant in a past life.
The outer walls were covered with weathered wooden planks that were shedding old paint and splinters. In the middle of a little strip of landscaping along the front, half of an antique-style wagon wheel protruded from the soil. It had been cut to give the appearance that the missing half was submerged in the ground. This would have been a nice decorative touch, if not for the continuing theme of neglect and disrepair. Two of the spokes of the wagon wheel were missing. An overgrown but now dead rosebush formed a thorny cage around the portion that remained.
Chang saw that there was indeed light inside the Mei-Hua—though not much. The blinds covering all of the front windows were framed by a pale golden glow that escaped around the edges.
“Hey Chang, think any of your relatives work here?” Blake asked.
Chang ignored the sarcastic question. The Mei-Hua made him uneasy. It didn’t belong here: a Chinese restaurant in a run-down building in the middle of nowhere. There was no way a rural Ohio town of 3,500 could support a Chinese restaurant like this. And the owners didn’t seem to be going out of their way to flag down traffic from the interstate. No wonder the place was empty.
“Well what are you guys waiting for, the valet parking attendant?” Blake asked, pushing open the back passenger’s side door. “Didn’t I say I was hungry? Do I need to paint you a picture?”
Chang and Tony wordlessly exited the Malibu and followed Blake. They shivered against the rain and the late September night air. The front door of the Mei-Hua bore a sign that said “Yes, we’re open!” and then the word “Welcome” in both English and Chinese characters. A little bell tinkled overhead as they pushed the front door open and passed through the threshold.
Once inside, they all stared at the dragon.
It was a carved jade-colored monstrosity, a green beast hewn from stone and polished to glistening perfection. The statue of the dragon dominated the vestibule. Poised on its haunches, the dragon was nearly as tall as any one of them. Its mouth hung open, revealing rows of long, sharp-looking teeth.
“Whoa,” Blake said. “Wicked! I wouldn’t mind having that in my living room.”
“The thing looks ready to pounce,” Tony said, noting the tension that the sculptor had crafted into its sinuous, glassine muscles. “But those eyes—they’re what really grabs me.”
Reflected firelight flickered and cast dancing shadows within the dragon’s hollow eye sockets. There must have been a cavity in the back of the statue’s head where a candle could be inserted. The illuminated eye sockets made Chang think of a jack-o-lantern.
They were so busy examining the dragon that they almost didn’t see the old man sitting in the corner. He was perched on a stool behind the cash register and front counter—a diminutive, withered figure with Asian features and skin like dried parchment. The old man was wearing a plain white dress shirt and dark trousers.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked in heavily accented English.
“A table for three, please,” Chang said.
The old Chinese man stepped down from his stool and removed three menus from beneath the counter. He could not have been taller than five-five or five-six. He pushed his way through a curtain made of hanging beads and led them into the main dining area. It was a dimly lit room with threadbare red carpet and perhaps twenty empty tables.
They were apparently not the first customers of the evening. A kitchen worker was clearing the plates from one of the tables. Chang guessed the “busboy” to be in his early forties. Although no longer a youth, he had a flat stomach and wiry muscles. He was dressed in a black trousers and a neatly pressed white shirt, just like the old man.
One thing about this fellow struck Chang as odd: his hairstyle. Tony noted, it too.
“I’ve never actually seen a Chinese man with a shaved head and braid,” Tony whispered as they walked by. “I’ve seen it in old pictures; but I’ve never actually seen it in person.”
“That’s because it’s out of date,” Chang explained. “Chinese men haven’t worn the queue since the late nineteenth century. During the Qing Dynasty. A long time ago.”
When the middle-aged busboy finished clearing away the plates onto his wheeled kitchen cart, he pulled up the tablecloth to take away as well. Chang gasped: a dark red substance was smeared into the white linen.
He turned to Tony.
“That isn’t—“
“No, it couldn’t be.”
Chang considered casually asking the busboy if the last patron had cut himself on a steak knife or something—maybe make a joke of the question. But there was no way to broach the topic without sounding paranoid and suspicious, so he quickly dropped the idea.
And it couldn’t have been blood, anyway. Ridiculous!
The old man directed them to a table in the center of the dining room. He laid down their menus and informed them that their waitress would be along shortly.
Chang was still thinking about the soiled tablecloth as they took their seats and began perusing the offerings of the Mei-Hua Chinese Restaurant.
(It couldn’t have been blood!)
And then Blake made him temporarily forget all about the dark red smears.
“Vincent,” Blake said with his nose still buried in the menu. “That was kind of a weak performance on your part today.”
Chang reddened but held his voice steady. “What are you referring to, Blake?”
Blake dropped his menu on the table. “I’m talking about your sales presentation. All that engineering jargon—you kept going on about SQL this and terabyte that. You were putting them to sleep.”
Chang struggled to maintain his composure. He could not simply tell Blake that he was an over-inflated mediocrity who rose to power only by boffing and then opportunistically marrying the VP’s daughter. Chang thought about his marriage, his young daughter, and his mortgage. He needed this job.
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Copyright 2009 Edward Trimnell All rights reserved
