The Last Round still was the same dive it always had been. The smell of spilt beer and urine hung rankly in the smoky air. Metal-wannabe music blared through the speakers which had been turned up higher than they were meant to, making them emit a flapping, droning sound with every low tone. There were some patrons at the bar, and the fat and perennially silent bartender regarded me the same way he always did: with concealed lust and open hostility because he realized he'd never get a decent girl.

I made my way to the back of the bar and straight to the person I needed to see.

"Ugh. Cammy." The woman I needed to speak to rolled her eyes as a way of greeting.

"Hi Damsel." She was the one who had asked me to look into the plague, but I knew I'd never get any recognition from her until I solved the entire business. And even then. She tilted her head with the silly red beret on it and asked, "So, whatcha want? You'd think you'd be too busy kissing LaCroix' ass to pay us a visit." She pronounced it Lacroy.

"Kissing his ass? I'm just being loyal, Damsel."

"Whatever Cammy. Anyone who puts her worthless life on the line for some cape in an ivory tower deserves everything they get."

I leaned in closer. "I don't like your attitude Damsel, but then again, it's just an attitude. Not as if you really have what it takes to make an impression."

Damsel snorted. "Ha. Whatever you say, Cammy. So, what brings your manicured little ass to our humble bar?" As if asses could be manicured.

"I need your ideas on something."

Already a smirk was forming on her pretty but arrogant face. "Really? Whatcha need?"

I gave her the flyer with the sigul on it. "You seen this somewhere before?"

Damsel shook her head at first, but appeared to be doubting.

"Anything can help, Damsel."

"Well, it's probably nothing, but I think I've seen something like that on one of the buildings around here. You know where all those winoes and bums gather under the bridge right? Well somewhere around there."

"One of the buildings, huh?" I asked. Damsel cocked her head and gave me a look that said, 'you deaf?'.

"I guess you need me to check it out, right?" The head remained cocked and the look now said, 'you retarded?'.

I sighed theatrically and said, "Fine. I'll look into it, see what I can find."

Damsel bared her teeth in a grin either of recognition or of affirmed dominance. "That's awesome, Cammy. Y'know, maybe you aren't so bad, as far as Cammies go." She mock-punched my shoulder. "You're pretty cool, girl."

Of course I couldn't resist. "Thanks Damsel. I guess it goes to show that there's things you Anarchs just can't solve without the help of the Camarilla, doesn't it?" I smirked. Damsel's reaction was as predictable as it was amusing. "What the fuck?" she yelled. "R'member what I said about you being cool? Well, I take it all back and then some. Fuck off, Cammy trash!"

I laughed and went out, happy to be away from this rancid hole. The cold night wind blew in my face and played with my hair. I stopped for a moment to relish the cool carress and then walked off. The wino-convention under the bridge was only a few blocks away. This was a filthy, dangerous neighbourhood, but I wasn't afraid. Any mugger or rapist thinking of me as an easy target would be in for quite a shock.

"Got sh'm shpare chaynge, byoowteeful?" a weathered face covered with bushy hair and flea-ridden scarf slurred at me. I hated winoes, tramps and other bottom-feeding scum when I was alive, and I guess I'd never lost that feeling. They say they've fallen on hard times, but they're just too lazy to work. "Get away from me, you stinking bum!"

The old wino quickly retreated around a dark corner, and next to that corner, painted on the wall of a large dilapidated apartment building was the sigul of the white skull in the red starburst.

The house was dark, dusty and rank with the smells of mildew, stale air, and rot. It looked like the room I was in used to be some kind of reception, since there was a desk and a glass for the one-time receptionist to speak through. There was no one here now, though. A single TL-lamp buzzed on the ceiling, occasionally flickering and then going dark again. There was only one door here, and when I opened it, I emerged into a dark hallway. I felt around for the licht switch, but as I'd guessed (and as is always the case), the lights didn't go on. Behind me, the TL-lamp buzzed, flickered, and went dark again.

I was standing in a pitch-black hallway, coarse carpet under my shoes and loose boards all over the floor. Most of the shutters were down, but through some of the reinforced windows street light fell in, gashing yellow, dusty streaks of light in the darkness. I pulled out my pistol and slowly advanced through the dark hallway, pushing doors open as I passed them. The street lighting that slanted in provided me with just enough light to see that the rooms had all been offices at some time. Now they were just dilapidated rooms populated with broken and dirty furniture. All except one.

A woman was huddled into a corner of one of the offices, crouched behind a battered, dusty desk. The street lighting cast a dirty yellow streak on her head. She sounded as if she was whimpering and she was rocking back and forth, her hands clawed into her scalp as if her head could fall off at any moment. She hadn't seen me open the door.

"Miss?" I asked tentatively. The woman started and leapt backwards, banging against a rusty radiator. "Are you... one of the Bishop's men?" she asked as if she already knew the answer and was preparing to be shot any second. Her eyes were screwed shut.

"The Bishop?" Who was that? The woman opened one eye as if she wanted to be able to quickly close it if I pulled the trigger. As if that would help.

"You mean... you're not with the Bishop?"

"No. But tell me who he is."

All mistrust left her, so eager was she to believe that I wasn't who she thought I was. "The Bishop, he... he's a monster." Here eyes were pleading now, and she'd gotten up and pushed her face so close to mine that I smelled her sour breath. She smelled of sweat and neglect. "He... does things to people. Terrible things... I've heard... and my sister, she's talked me into joining this group but I'm afraid. There's things going on here... people have been disappearing, and some have been found... eaten away by rot just a week after they disappeared." She grabbed the front of my jacket. "I have to get out of here!" she screeched, tugging at my jacket, but only succeeding in yanking herself back and forth.

"Shut up!" I hissed, and slapped her hard in the face. Her eyes went wide and her hand went to her cheek. She gave me a wounded look, as if I, her Saviour, had betrayed her.

"If you want to get out of here," I said, "Just go. The exit's right over there." I had difficulty registering her facial expression in the darkness, but I didn't think I could register any relief. "What's wrong?"

She began tugging at my jacket again. "They'll find me! Find me if I leave! Everyone who's left is either gone or dead!" Of course they were all dead. They had the Plague. And so did this one. The smell and sight of her couldn't be misinterpreted. And if she left, she'd infect people, who would in turn spread the disease even further.

I put my finger to her lips and pulled her tight against me. "Shhhh," I whispered. Our bodies muffled the sounds of the pistol shots perfectly.

There was nothing else on this level, but at the end of the hallway, I reached a stairway that led up. The next level was even darker than the first, with all the windows closed by heavy electronic shutters. Good thing I always carried a flashlight. There as a busted soda machine next to the stairs which would I given off enough light, but it seemed to have been smashed in with some kind of heavy object. There were still soda cans scattered over the floor.

I attached my flashlight to the muzzle of my pistol and set out to explore this level. It was slow and stressful work, the flashlight illuminating only a small area while leaving all the other dusty corners dark. I had to search every patch of darkness in every room, and I knew that if anything resided here, it would have known of my presence already, giving it the advantage, and so searching the place was all but futile. I resented Malkavians and Toreadors, but I would have given much to have one of them on my side now. As it was, I had only my natural senses to guide me.

If my heart had still beaten, it would have jarred when the first of them attacked. I heard a loud, guttural growl and before I could react, a massive fist struck me in the face so hard my nose broke with a loud and horribly painful crunch. I staggered backward and lifted my pistol, and in the cone of my flashlight I saw a fat human, naked as the day he was born, with rotting flesh and weeping, gangrenous wounds all over his voluminous body. His face was twisted in a blank-minded, utterly insane grimace and his eyes were bloodshot and weeping yellow fluid. He brought his enormous fist up again, but he wasn't fast enough this time. Two gunshots shattered the silence, the impacts bursting the man's head apart from the nose up. The growl faded to a gurgle and his fat, rotten body collapsed on the floor with a loud thump. I gave it a quick prod with the tip of my boot, but decided against turning it over when I saw the slime runners hanging from my toe. This 'corpse' was almost falling apart.

Being a Vampire, I certainly didn't discount the existence of zombies, but I was pretty sure fat boy had still been alive when he attacked me. It would seem that there was a more aggressive version of the plague here, both to body and mind. And most likely, the potency and lethality of the plague grew with the infector's power. So if I extended this reasoning, it meant that the stunning Ms. Locke had only been a warm-up next to the creature who had infected this guy... and I was willing to bet that this creature called itself 'The Bishop.'

I took my cell phone from my pocket and considered calling the Prince or even my Master for reinforcements, but then again, both these Elders valued me for my independence, and not playing on your strengths in this world usually led you right to the urn. I'd have to clear this thing alone. But first I burned some blood to heal my nose, making it snap-crack-crunch back into place. Looks didn't really matter at this time, but walking around with a squashed nose was not exactly desirable either.

The second I'd healed my nose, another 'zombie' came lurching at me from a nearby corridor. This one was female, and at least partially clothed. I took aim carefully and shot her in the chest twice, but this only slowed her. Another shot through the forehead took her down for good, in a spray of putrid droplets. What in the Hells was going on here?

I moved on, and when I passed another room, another of the 'zombies' attacked from behind, taking me completely by surprse. They still seemed to possess some sort of intelligence, because while she hooked her arm around my throat, her other hand gripped the hand that held my pistol in an iron vice. Using my disciplines was out of the question since I would need all the blood I had in me when I took on this 'Bishop', so I simply used my raw strength and bent over, pulling her over my back, but losing my balance, and my gun, in the process. The pistol skidded across the floorboards, the searchlight's beam spinning across the room. The woman lunged at me agian, but I rolled out of the way, hooked my arm around her head and twisted as hard as I could.. Tendons ripped and weakened bones crunched as I wrenched with all my might. Suddenly I felt no more resistance and almost fell. Cradled in my arm was a severed, stinking woman's head. When I realized what I was holding, I dropped my trophy and scrambled backwards to grab my pistol. But she wasn't getting up again. How did these humans still live? That head had come off as though it were attached with tissue paper. It would seem that the plague in this violent form actually kept its victims alive by infusing them with murderous rage, so they kept going when a normal human body would have broken down long ago.

There were no more shambling zombies on this level (I call them zombies out of convenience, even though they weren't) and I took the last flight of stairs to the top level.

"Sistah!" the gravelly, imperious voice called out to me when I emerged. The top level was one large room full of noxious, light green vapour. My boots stood in a centimetre of stagnant, viscious fluid. I decided it was best not to wonder what it was. The voice had come from a silhouette standing amidst the darkness and vapours, so I could only make out a vaguely humanoid figure, and the swirling mists actually reflected the beam of my flashlight. "You the Bishop?" I called at the outline.

"That I am, sistah! Have you come to seek tha Enligh-ten-ment of the Brotherhood of tha Ninth Circle?"

"That's the third time I've been asked that, and the answer is still 'no'," I shouted. "And I'm not your sister!" I slowly advanced on the figure, keeping my pistol firmly trained on its head. A coarse laugh came from it. "Sistah... does that mean you're one of the unbelievahs?" He sounded like one of those TV-preachers only even crazier. "One of tha he-rah-ticks?"

I shouted back. "Before I tell you who I am, I'd like to hear who you are. Why do they call you Bishop?"

Another laugh. "Because that's who I am, sistah! Tha Bishop of this here flock! The con-gra-gay-shun of tha Ninth Circle!" He had stretched out his arms and was preaching to the ceiling. I could see him more clearly now, the bush of brown, unkempt hair atop the slightly round face. His mouth was smeared with a brown drab and his eyes were wild and flashing with a chaotic sheen. He wore dirty and ragged brown clothes around his corpulent body. A look that would make any TV-precher jealous. "We shall taint these nights with tha disease of tha un-ho-lay! And in tha Final Nights, sistah, we shall be tha Cho-sen Ones! Tha sweet, festerin' Angels!"

"Chosen by whom, I wonder. Your crusade ends here, Preacher." I said flatly.

He laughed his coarse laugh again. "That's right. You're one of tha heraticks. Don' worry, sistah! You shall still be en-ligh-tened! We up to ah ears in heraticks here! But we know jes how to deal with them! They've all seen tha Light, sistah! And you will too!"

"I don't think so."

The Bishop's eyes narrowed and he unslung a large, pump-action shotgun from his back. "What you think is of no im-poh-tance! Let me show you jes how persuasive ah can be!"

Without warning, he fired his shotgun and I pulled my trigger a split-second later, but in a firefight, a split-second was everything. The buckshot hit me full in the torso, and I could feel the pellets smashing into me, ripping into my breasts and tearing up organs I thankfully no longer had any need for.

The force of the shot lifted me off my feet and threw me backwards, sending me splashing into whatever the fluid on the floor consisted of. The pain was excruciating, so much that I simply couldn't get up. My body felt flattened, the ribs crushed. Blood welled up in the back of my throat. I tried to cough it out but I could only manage a gurgle.

The Bishop stood over me, the barrel of his shotgun a black hole ready to release its horrible energy and blow me out of existence. In a very messy way.

"Hurts, Kindred?" the Bishop asked gleefully. The bullet from my pistol had made a harmless flesh wound in his shoulder. It had healed over already, making it even more pathetic. I felt blood leaking out of the torn holes in my flesh into the revolting muck that greedily lapped against my body. The Bishop leaned in closer. "Hungry, Kindred?" Yes! Feed me! I'm dying! Feed me please! I'll do anything!

I tried to struggle but could only shake my head from one side to another. The Bishop was no longer a crazy TV-preacher. I saw him for what he really was, a cold calculating devil. He even spoke without any trace of dialect.

"Come now... You know you want it." He laid down his shotgun and brought his face closer to mine. "Give into me, Kindred. You know I know you can't resist." His nose was almost touching mine. So hungry. He stuck out his tongue, grinning madly. I knew he probably wasn't going to lick my face like some perverted human would, but I didn't know what he was going to do, and the speed with which he did it and my slow descent into torpor made me powerless to resist. With a lustful growl, he shoved his tongue into my mouth and clamped his hands down on the top of my head and below my chin, pushing my teeth closed. I feebly thrashed, wide-eyed and capable of making only a mmm-mmm-sound. His grip was iron, and his putrid blood ran down my throat, his bleeding tongue stuck all the way down into my mouth. I remember my eyes, how wide they were, the stinking muck splashing, and how dirty and almost raped I felt.

The blood found its own way and promptly closed up the wounds in my chest, but the little blood of my own that remained in me, and the powerful instinctual force in my dead body infused me with such a surge of strength that my body violently expelled the rest of the stinking blood in a single loud retch. Black blood blasted out of my nose and mouth as I vomited the Bishop's diseased curse back out again, so powerfully that the Bishop was thrown back and fell down on his backside. I sat up on my knees and puked out the rest of the blood in the Bishop's lap.

Even when it was all gone, I had to support myself with my hands as I kept hacking and dry-heaving. Then, still nauseous and coughing, I fumbled for the Bishop's shotgun. The Bishop still hadn't moved. He sat on his ass, apparently stunned by the sudden breaking of his ritual. He seemed to be suffering from some sort of backlash. As soon as my hand settled on the butt of the shotgun though, he blinked and his face contorted in a snarl of rage as he launched himself toward me. He seemed to have some skill in Celerity as well, because he moved much faster than a normal Kindred would have, and he snatched the shotgun's barrel as I swung it towards his face. I could feel tha last of my strength fading, so it had to be now! With all my might, I pushed the barrel toward his face, and suddenly the Bishop's hand splashed down into the muck and came up holding my pistol.

With my last strength, I shoved the shotgun in his face and we both fired simultaneously. I saw the Bishop's head blowing apart in a horrible red-and-yellow mess at the same time the shot from my own pistol tore though my throat in a hard pow.

I had been sitting upright on my knees, and the last thing I remember was falling backward, the ligatures in my knees ripping, and seeing the ceiling overhead. Fumbling for my cellphone and speed-dialling blindly. Any number. Gurgling "Help," and the address. Then there was torpor.