(I have tons of starts to stories, mostly due to the fact that I seem to be great at having these ideas, then never get back to them [cause the bloody things hide in some secret sector of the hard drive, mostly] to finish the tale, or find I have to work my way through the list of starts for that character first.. for continuity.)
There all kinds of horrors in this world most folks never see. Monsters, demons, undead, witches, honest politicians, just to name a few. When it comes to each, there are varying sub-categories.
Take the undead. Kind of a misnomer, really. Most of them are dead. Except the zombies, living dead, and some members of Congress. You have the animated dead, the returned dead, your run of the mill ghosts and spirits, even a few dozen kinds of pickled lobbyists on the list.
And vampires. Blood-sucking remnants of some experiment gone wrong, be it in a modern genome lab or some ancient occult ritual. More strains of these buggers run around amid the real world than you can shake a stick at. Most tend to be in warm places, a few like other spots. A good percentage are fellow government employees over in the Internal Revenue Service or other misery creating offices here in the District or elsewhere.
The stamped piece of angle-iron on my desk lies a lot. It says my name is Troy Tanner, which is true as far as the previously mentioned tax folk are concerned. Dang thing tells a whopper of a fib by claiming my job title is "Sanitization and Remediation Specialist". Don't ask, that came down just recently. Something about morale down here in the EPA's basement sucking wind. Glorified janitor is closer to the mark. And in the Cleanup, Remediation and Paranormal Protection Division, it's what we do. Clean up the messes ordinary folk need to never know about.
Yes, in the world of government acronyms, we are CRAPP. So is most of our work, equipment, and office spaces. We sit in the old boiler room, twenty desks jammed head to head, only half of them occupied. The paranormal part takes its toll. We average a fifty percent attrition rate, near zero promotion rate, and no retirement parties.
Twenty-Eleven being a non-election year, things were actually fairly slow. Which unfortunately left me with time to do paperwork from last year I'd been putting off as long as possible. My partner's efforts undermined ever seeing the end of the forms. Sister Cathay often declared it to be her mission in life to turn all the office's documents into erotic origami art. As the hot seat team, I felt it likely she would never succeed at more than what came off my desk. Given the level of detail the sister gave her art, I found it dubious she would make it close to the Pearly Gates, let alone past them.
Her quirks are an offshoot from her secret strength. Cathay is actually the name of the succubus possessing my partner. Yeah, a demonically possessed nun, in a government agency. Then again, half the department has some ecclesiastical credentials, another third are possessed or some form of monster, and a very few of us are normal folk. Which at least puts most of us on even footing with what we have to cover-up or clear out.
"Tanner! Paperwork won't get done when you have your feet on the desk and eyes closed." Knocking my feet off the desk with her newspaper, Mother Eunice Bethany interrupted my moment of calm. Beths runs the office. Normally she accepts my lack of filing paperwork until the last minute. "And that is not appropriate use of office supplies, Sister Cathay."
"Yes, Mother Superior." Submitting so fast to a critique ratcheted up my worry factor. The manila envelope in Beths's hand confirmed my worst fears.
"What mess do we need to mop up today?" I hate new jobs, they breed more paperwork to avoid.
Beths smiled, not her happy one. The one that said this mess might be interesting, in Chinese proverb sense of trouble. "Vampire corpse. And, yes, before you ask, the M.E. who called it in is familiar with soul eaters, and stumped as to why it is not turning to dust." Laying the folder on my desk, she nodded. "Don't gloat over avoiding the forms, Troy. My gut says this might be a Protection action, not just a hose-down-the dust job."
Back in the days, she was my partner. A gut feeling from Beths tended to receive my full attention. The gal is almost a damned psychic about these things. Rarely wrong, rarely fails to have the bad feelings ahead of time.
"Fine with me. I'm a pro at procrastination." Until I opened the file. "Damn. I really wanted Vegas."
"We go where needed, so go. But clean up that mess on Cathay's desk first." Drooping mouth corners relayed her disapproval of Cathay's hobby. "But stop of over at the Cathedral before leaving. I think someone needs a few hours dealing with confession and some penance prayers."
Cathay stuck out her tongue. "Trust me, this is better use for the paper than what Troy managed to fill them with."
"Having read his reports, and cleaned them up, you might be right. But let him file those so I can keep the folks upstairs off our backs about the backlog." She might not carry a ruler, but her voice raps knuckles just as harshly, sometimes.
Ignoring their further discussion of my bad habits and work ethics, I flipped through the file. Which sent an eyebrow high in the air. Down here, we only have three computers. One in Beth's office, another of the desk of our receptionist and office manager, Jen Measles, table, and the antique Rob uses to run office pools, when it works. The new arrangement of furniture most had, now from the Cold War, not the Depression, let me roll over to Jen's area, saving the effort of getting up. "Where's Blair this week?"
"Vacation and a consult trip to New Orleans. Something about a flying, albino alligator." A true professional, Jen never stopped typing up her own first field report. Flame hair jiggled as she chuckled. "He said he just had to see it."
Knowing James, the whole trip would be on Coast to Coast by next week, which at least would keep Beths busy yelling at him, letting me ignore more paperwork creatively. Wheeling back, the screech of ancient casters getting me dirty looks the other in house then, and spitballs from Rob, I grabbed a heavy chain from my left drawer. The chair is comfortable, and a priceless national treasure. Both the Bull Moose and Calvin Cooleridge sat in it, according to the tag sixteen hundred left on it before hiding it down here, in a noise reduction effort. My co-workers care more for their hearing, so locking it up prevents destruction or inglorious disposal in my absences.
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