Evolve: Vampire Stories of the New Undead

by Unknown

  As soon as the thought crosses my mind, he takes my other arm — the one he hasn’t bitten yet — and he bites me again. But he gives in return, too: the whole time he’s sucking, I’m, like, coming. Not a big, wild, scream-your-head-off orgasm, but a slow wave of deep pleasure. Whoa! Close enough to sex for me.

  Still, I can’t help but worry about all these holes in my skin. I mean, I won’t exactly be inconspicuous at work tomorrow.

  Withdrawing from me, he licks his lips and says, “Don’t worry; the wounds will be gone by sunrise.” Then he grins, like a little brat. “Oh, and that little extra I gave you—” He, like, fucking actually leers at me. What a hypocrite! Farm animal, my ass. But I’m not complaining. “—I can control that. I don’t give that to my victims. And you are no victim.” Gotta say, dude knows the words to make this girl feel special.

  He opens my blouse, and his teeth fasten onto my shoulder. And it’s, like, bliss. Heaven.

  So, like, did I black out again? I’m so fucking dizzy. The vampire is holding my hand. It’s kinda cute.

  “So, dude, fess up. We’re a team, now, you and me. Tell me all your shit.” I so need for him to open up to me. Like, I let him open me up and feed on me. Seems only fair. “If we’re gonna be in this together, there needs to be, like, mutual trust.”

  He smiles knowingly and takes my arm, running his sharp fingernails over my skin. It makes me shiver. He knew it would. He says, “I, too, want to learn everything there is to know about you.” With that, he plunges his teeth into my shoulder again. As my blood flows from my veins and into his mouth, I feel the weight of my worries slip from me. I feel like it’s not just my blood, but my self that’s seeping away into him. That numbness is so freaking fantastic. Like nirvana. I almost forget who I am.

  Taking his mouth away, he says, “All these months in this building, and never have you brought any friends here. Never have I heard you speak to anyone on the telephone. You are so conveniently alone.”

  Shit. All of a sudden I start crying. Shit. I’ve been in Montreal for, like, three months. And I have no friends to show for it. Not that I had any friends in my hometown, either. And my family? Screw them. Shit. I promised myself I would never get weepy about being alone. It’s my choice. I am not sad about it, and I am not one of life’s victims. I’m not. I’m not. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  The vampire cradles me while I cry. This is so fucking embarrassing. His teeth tenderly pierce my throat, and he sips a little more of me.

  Taking a break, he says, “Earlier, you asked what my name was. If I ever had one, I’ve long since forgotten it. This likeness, though, was called Randolph. But it’s time for me to shed this old skin and evolve.”

  Randolph? The sound of the name makes me giggle, and I, like, totally sound high. Like I just smoked a bagful of spliffs or some insane shit like that. I wipe the rest of my tears, touch the little holes on my neck, and continue giggling like an idiot.

  His strong hands squeezing my shoulders, Randolph plunges his teeth into my throat again. This time it doesn’t feel so gentle. But that’s okay. Again, he drinks. It’s starting to be hard to remember stuff. Like, fuck, what’s my name? Shit like that.

  And it’s starting to not feel so pleasant, all of this. Like my bones are starting to ache. And I can’t see too clearly anymore. My mouth is, like, totally raw and parched. My skin feels dry and cracked, like, all over.

  I peer at him, and I, like, totally hallucinate. I could swear I was looking right at myself.

  Who the fuck is he, again? Or is it she? What am I doing here? Where am I?

  I feel him/her take my clothes off, run his/her fingernails all over my wrinkled skin. He/she bends down and bites into my thigh. And he/she drinks from me. I, like, feel myself flow from my body into his/hers.

  So, like, I ache all over. I am so fucking old, so tired. But why does it feel so wrong being old? I mean, everyone gets old. That’s life, you know? I just wish I could remember my life. Did I have children? Were my breasts pretty when I was younger? What did I accomplish? No use … it’s all gone.

  Who is this young girl sitting next to me? She does look familiar, but I can’t exactly remember her… Why is her mouth so bloody? And why are we both naked?

  She bends down and — oh! — bites down hard on my belly. It should hurt, but instead it feels like a release. It’s so good. Like floating numbly on a sea of pure pleasure. Letting go of myself. Letting go of everything…

  So, like, goodbye Randolph, hello Jenny. Jenny is dead. Long live Jenny.

  So, like, I just chop up what’s left of the old Jenny and put her in little bags. Then, I put on her clothes. But, really? This is, like, nowhere near slutty enough for what I have in mind.

  So I go to my new apartment — Jenny’s apartment — and I, like, totally dress up. Vamp it up, so to speak.

  I dye my hair as black as I can get it. Then: a lacy black bustier; black leather gloves; black skirt; black fishnets; black boots that go mid-calf. And there’s my skin. I mean, I’m, like, pretty pale to start with. But I smear white makeup all over my face and then glam it up with white glitter. It makes my skin almost glow in the dark. Last touch: white eyeshadow, plus some black eyeliner and glossy red lipstick. I am, like, stunning. Out of this world. Otherworldly.

  On my way out to the downtown clubs, I drop the little bags of leftover Jenny in public garbage cans, but none close to home.

  This is fucking great. The nightlife. The music. The bars. The cute boys and girls. The hot men and women. It’s, like, all you can eat, all the time. It’s almost overwhelming. So much to choose from. I let some men and women grope me, some boys and girls kiss me. Until I find just the right one for tonight. The one who will taste just right. Then I’ll let them take me to their bed, and it’ll be my turn to kiss them.

  Alia’s Angel

  By Rhea Rose

  I tried to say no, as Alia tipped the dirty Dixie cup to my mouth. Some of the blood it contained ran down my face and into my ear, but most of it went into my mouth. I swallowed.

  She kissed my face like she always did, licking off the runaway blood. No, Alia, don’t do that. Many times I’d warned her not to touch the blood, but she always said she wanted to be like me.

  Alia usually came here alone. This time I heard a voice I didn’t recognize, a young boy’s voice.

  “What’s that in her hand?” the boy asked her.

  I tried to open my eyes and lift my head, but I could not. Until Alia arrived with the full cup, this was the longest I’d ever gone without the blood-drink. But even with her meagre offering, another hour would pass before my wretched condition would allow me to get up from the rough, dank floor boards I’d collapsed onto.

  “Don’t talk. She needs to rest,” Alia said to her friend. She crawled over to me; her warm fingers gently pulled my own thin weak fingers away from the book I held.

  Without the weight and comfort of the book, my spirit separated from my body and floated upward. My soul was accustomed to performing this manoeuvre while waiting for my body to recover from lack of drink. My disengaged spirit was stopped only by the silent, rusted fan hanging from the ceiling. From there I surveyed the room below. The two children sat beside my crooked body; their clear, soft voices sounded as if they spoke directly into my ear.

  “What is this?” Alia asked the boy, as she shuffled through the book’s pages. “It’s like looking through a window when the sun’s shining,” she said.

  “It’s called a picture book,” the boy responded. He looked and sounded older than her. “Let me see.”

  “I won’t!” Alia pulled the book away.

  “Do you wanna give the angel another cup of blood?” the boy asked.

  “I don’t have any more.”

  “I can get some,” he said, and retrieved the crumpled Dixie cup as he left the room.

  The first cup of blood Alia gave me had started to do its work; I lost track of the children then. The nourishment coursed through my body like a mo
use gone crazy. I could no longer concentrate on conversation, even if it had continued below me.

  As I gazed down, I studied my own still form. My body lay on its back separated from my soul. One knee and elbow bent awkwardly, and my long dark hair became lost in the darker shadows on the floor. My white dress spread up and behind my head like a halo. I was a broken angel lying there. Alia’s unsteady hand had spilled a trail of red across my skirts.

  My condition was recent. According to the ex-lover who passed the disease on to me, it was the latest in uber sexually-transmitted diseases; unlike the STD’s that had come before, this new virus enhanced my immune system, denying all illnesses access to any vulnerable bodily systems. The malady would add several centuries to my existence, but it had its drawbacks.

  This evening at the bookstore, as I selected the story book for Alia, a long, thin man accidentally walked through the store’s plate glass window. Blood spurted from him, like a burst boil. I gagged and ran from the store, the unpaid-for-book in my hand as I fled the scene.

  I started flying to escape both the sight of the blood and the desire to lap it up like a thirsty dog in the street.

  In the sky I became lost inside a choking, industrial cloud of darkness and the terror of the hydro lines and the tall buildings buried in the fog numbed my brain. I don’t know how I was able to fly. When I’ve been most desperate the ability to fly just comes to me, and somehow I always end up here, through the window of this dreary, brick warehouse. I’d crash onto the oily, damp wooden floor, an old place used a hundred years earlier for storing grain until the trains no longer came to load and unload.

  The empty windows held pieces of board like broken teeth; arched night holes gaping like the mouths of dead men who’d uttered their last cry.

  Sometimes, at home while I slept in my clean bed, I dreamed of the arched windows. They became my mouth sucking, and my eyes, black and empty of any light.

  The building and the people inside it were condemned. For decades, the shuffling, sighing shadows of street refugees, who had boarded out most of the light, found shelter in the ruined place. Human rats.

  But as foul as they’d become, they were not like me, a creature unworthy of the sun. Daylight made me weak. The same light would make them strong if they cared to stand in it for any length of time.

  How much longer must my body lie down there? How much longer must I float up here?

  Then I heard Alia and her friend.

  “I want to give it to her,” the boy said.

  “No. No one goes near her but me.” Alia took the fragile paper cup from his hand, pressed it to my lips. The blood filled my mouth, pooled, and very slowly dripped down the back of my throat. A soft gurgling sound escaped me.

  “She’s not drinking it,” he said.

  “Shhh,” Alia replied. She pushed my head and the blood spilled from my lips. Catching the flow with her small hands, she smeared my face, attempting to push the slippery red fluid back into my mouth. “Drink it, Angel. Please, Angel, this is good for you. Angel, Angel. Wake up!”

  “She’s dead,” the boy pronounced.

  But he was mistaken. My soul sank slowly like damp eiderdown into the body to which it belonged. I knew I was back when I smelled the coppery blood — old, nearly dead haemoglobin. I inhaled my own fetid breath. Garlic and Feta. I loved salads and old blood.

  “Look, she’s alive!” Alia said excitedly. “Angel, you’re okay.”

  Her arms wrapped tightly around my neck. She helped me sit. “Tell him, Angel. Tell him you’re from heaven.”

  Yes, once I told her that I’d come from heaven. But truly it’s Alia who is angelic, though unkempt. I’m certain that if I poured a bucket of warm, soapy water on her, she would appear golden and cherubic.

  The boy stood beside her, defiant, doubting; he’d guessed that, though I’m from the clouds, I am not from heaven.

  “Alia,” I whispered. “Alia, you’ve saved me, again.”

  “I love you, Angel.”

  “Who’s your friend?” I never took my eyes from the boy. He was afraid, but assured by Alia’s familiarity with me. He held my stare, and I realized he knew about me, about my kind. He’d seen someone like me before!

  “People call me Peer,” he said. He stood taller than Alia and his brown hair was fuzzy at the back where he’d slept on it.

  “Pierre?”

  Alia laughed. She broke into a fit of giggles and Peer smiled. All of his teeth were brown. “P—ear,” he said. “Can you read this?” he asked me, and he pulled Alia’s book out from under his jacket.

  I looked at Alia with undisguised disappointment. She’d given him her new book!

  “For more blood,” he said, as if he’d read my mind. He stepped toward me with the book. I took it and he sat in front of me, legs crossed. I sat too, and Alia sat in my lap. I wondered that they didn’t shiver in this cold, dark place, but this was their home and if they grew cold they knew better than I how to make themselves warm.

  It was dark outside, but by now my eyes were so sensitive to light that I could see the insects that scrabbled in the cracks searching for anything to eat. For the children it was difficult to see.

  I waited for the clouds to blow away from the moon. In that quick light we flipped to the pictures and studied them. I slowly and carefully read the story to its end.

  Alia had fallen asleep. Only Peer and I continued to look at the pictures.

  “You’re a real monster, not like the funny one in this book,” he stated, somewhat randomly.

  “Yes,” I said, surprised by my own admission.

  “My mom used to be like you.”

  “Really?” Many questions welled inside me. My head ached with queries, but I didn’t want to scare him away.

  “You haven’t killed anybody yet, have you?” he asked.

  “No,” I said as gently as I could.

  “You’re going to kill Alia.”

  “Never! I love—”

  “I know. My mom said she loved us, too. But she killed my sister and my older brother.”

  “What?” I was stunned, barely able to comprehend what I was hearing. I never dreamed others like me lived, others who murdered their own families to satiate themselves. Whole families lived somewhere in this old building. But I didn’t care to explore and find out what the inhabitants were about. At least those who exhausted themselves here could find comfort in death. I wasn’t sure that I could die. Alia, I knew, took the blood she fed me from the addicts housed here. Peer, I was certain, got my second cup from someone recently dead. I hadn’t killed anyone yet, but I knew one day I might kill to get my drink.

  “Mom belonged to a group of people like you. She told me she had to wear white, like you. When you finally kill, then you can wear any colour, even red,” he said, matter-of-factly. “White’s the only colour you can stand to have rubbing on your skin until you kill to drink. Mom said the other colours hurt, especially red.”

  I stood mute, riveted. I drank in his words like another cup of blood. When he paused, I wanted to shake him, tell me more about the others.

  Then Alia stirred, waking up, and I wanted her to go back to sleep.

  “Angel, Angel, hold me,” she said. I picked her up. “Can I fly with you? Can you take me to heaven and show me the clouds?”

  I looked at Peer.

  He shook his head.

  “No, sweetheart, I don’t even know how I fly.” But she’d already fallen back to sleep.

  “She’s why you come here. Eventually you’ll convince her to let you drink from her,” he said.

  “Why didn’t your mother kill you, Peer?”

  He stopped talking then and looked to the floor. I mistook this for fear. Maybe he thought I’d take his information and use it against him. But when he looked back at me, a strange smile lit his face and the light from that smile flicked into his eyes. He had a secret. A secret I would never learn from him, at least not like this, not by straight-forward questioning.
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br />   “What do you want, Peer?” I asked. I knelt in front of him. “How can I help you?”

  “Don’t hurt Alia. Don’t come here.”

  I shook my head. No, anything but that.

  “I want my family, but they’re dead. Alia’s not. Not yet.”

  Peer’s pain and his courage touched me. He and I and Alia were the walking dead. They had more life in their veins than I, but they walked in this tomb under the cover of death and darkness. I clung to a tiny bit of life. Somewhere in me, cells continued to exchange gases that kept me partially human. I was a monster and yet I walked and worked among the living, a place these two had more right to.

  “Don’t take Alia,” he said.

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  He shook his head. “You promise but you can’t keep it. Take me. I want to live with you. You can buy more books and read to me.”

  I cried. Yes, I’d take him from here. I’d read stories to him for as long as I could. But how could I not come back here when the drive came upon me? I’d be back because Alia knew what I needed. How could I abandon her? Her angel, gone forever.

  “What will happen to Alia? I can’t leave her,” I begged.

  “She’s happy. When you don’t come back you’ll turn into a dream for her. She has lots of dreams and many pretend friends. She’ll forget.”

  Forget? I searched him with my eyes. I looked for a selfish motive. There wasn’t one in him. I rejected what he said about Alia and yet his words bit deeply. What did I know about her? Alia’s parents were still alive, living somewhere inside this broken castle. She told me about them. I told her that I needed blood. But what did she need?

  Peer was alone.

  Perhaps the only good thing I could do was take Peer, read to him, and maybe he would see that though I was a monster, I wouldn’t hurt him, or Alia. I wanted to believe that about myself.

  I looked over my shoulder at Alia. She lay sleeping on an old blanket she’d pulled out from somewhere.