There was no electricity in the web of narrow underground tunnels that ran downtown, but it was a free space to hang out and he didn’t mind having to maintain a mountain of lanterns on hand. Besides, Domingo did not need electricity, not when he had his comic books. He raised the lantern and looked at his special pile of vampire comic books. He had a big stash of them.
Domingo stared at the colorful panels. Eventually he turned his attention to the wall he had plastered with magazine and book covers. He ran a hand over an image of a vampire woman in a long white dress, a misty forest behind her.
Vampires. Danger. Adventure. He’d met one and she was damn pretty.
Domingo looked at the pile of hybrid personal protective clothing he was putting together for the rag-and-bone man. He should do some work, collect more clothes, take empty bottles to the recycling center. But he did not need to. He had money. He had a whole fortune.
Domingo did not know how to spend all that cash. After careful consideration he decided he needed breakfast. He exited the tunnel and walked into a fast-food joint, where he purchased an egg-and-sausage combo. It didn’t taste the way it looked in the picture, but he wolfed it down and bought a large orange juice at a stand outside. He drank it in a few quick gulps, then went back for a milk shake.
Afterward, he headed to an Internet café. It was one of the large ones, with many rows of booths squeezed next to each other. Each booth had a door with a latch that would open only after you tossed tokens into a slot. Domingo bought a handful of tokens from an attendant at the front counter who was chewing bubble gum, then squeezed himself into an empty booth.
Domingo sat in a ratty fake leather chair that had been patched one too many times. The computer screen was hidden behind a partition, and Domingo had to insert more tokens into a slot before the partition opened. He scooted closer to the computer screen, clumsily thumbing it until a few options showed up. He chose keyboard input, and a compartment beneath the screen slid open. He pulled out the keyboard.
The breathy moans of a woman spilled into Domingo’s narrow space. He frowned. The woman panted and moaned again. The guy in the next cubicle must be watching porn.
Domingo pulled out his frayed headphones, carefully wrapped with insulating tape, and pushed the play button on the music player. Depeche Mode began to sing about a personal Jesus. Domingo didn’t know a whole lot about music, but when he’d first found his player it was filled with ’80s songs and he’d listened to mixtures of Soda Stereo and Duran Duran with fascination. He’d asked Quinto about the bands, because Quinto knew all kinds of weird things. Quinto had taken him to an Internet café much like the one he was in now. They’d downloaded more tracks and Quinto had talked about a new wave, but Domingo told him he’d never seen the ocean.
Domingo did a search for the word “Tlāhuihpochtli.” Stories about gangs, murders, and drugs filled the view screen, images quickly superimposing until they formed a large mosaic. Domingo tugged at the images, running his fingers across the screen.
He scrolled through an article about the history of the Tlahuelpocmimi, pausing to look at the images that accompanied the text. They were black-and-white illustrations that looked very old, but were nothing like the pictures of the European vampires in the graphic novels. No one was wearing a cape, for one.
“Mexico’s native vampire species, with roots that go back to the time of the Aztecs,” he whispered.
The article had lots of information but it used very big words he didn’t know, such as “hematophagy,” “endemic,” “anticoagulants,” and “matrilineal stratified sept.” Domingo could read well enough, but these words and sentences were much harder than the ones in the mags. He gave up on the article, preferring to stare at the bold headlines and colorful pictures of the vampire gangsters. Those resembled the comic books he kept at his place; he was comfortable with this kind of stuff.
Domingo opened another page and read the headline twice.
CHILD KILLERS.
“The Tlahuelpocmimi have a specialized diet. They consume only the blood of the young.”
The accompanying illustration showed a line drawing of three hags huddled together. One of them was holding a baby up by its foot, dangling it above her grotesquely, impossibly large mouth. The other two were rubbing their hands together, waiting their turn.
But no. Atl had not killed him. Atl was not an ugly, old woman.
A countdown number blinked on the screen. If Domingo wished to stay inside the booth, he would need to dump more tokens into the slot. Instead, he stood up and left. The attendant was banging on the door next to Domingo’s, urging the bum who had fallen asleep inside to get out.