Evolve: Vampire Stories of the New Undead

by Unknown

  “I’m not in the cause-fighting business,” Jessome said.

  “That isn’t all that I am looking for,” I said.

  Jessome considered that. “Convince me,” he said.

  “They voted for Ronald Reagan,” I noted. “They voted for Clint Eastwood. They voted for Sonny Bono. Hell, they even voted for Jesse freaking Ventura.”

  “Were the four of them all vampires?”

  “They were images,” I said. “That’s all the general public is looking for.”

  “I thought vampires didn’t cast images.”

  “No, but we can project them.” I said. “Larger than life.”

  “Do you figure you can fool most of the people enough of the time to count?”

  “All I have to do is tell enough lies to sound like it’s the truth,” I said.

  Jessome thought about that.

  “It’s just not going to happen,” he said. “America will not elect a vampire.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  Jessome shook his head with authority.

  I was patient. I needed Jessome on my side. It was his clout and his know how that would open doors that I would otherwise not be invited to enter.

  Politically speaking, invitations can be awfully important, especially when you’re a vampire.

  “All it will take is a matter of votes,” I said. “I’ve got a platform. I’ve got charisma. And I’ve got a gimmick.”

  “Sure,” Jessome said. “It’s a hell of a gimmick. What other candidate sleeps in a coffin?”

  “Listen,” I told him. “When the pot boils down to dry, politicians are nothing more than a pack of slimy leeches. Everybody knows that politicians suck. I just intend to be honest about it.”

  Jessome still wasn’t listening. He needed some convincing. So I played a vampire’s ace-in-the-hole and looked him squarely in the eye.

  “Political promises go in one year and out the other,” I told him. “The important thing is to keep a straight face when you’re making them.”

  Jessome kept listening. I could not tell if my stare was working.

  “What most voters are looking for is a candidate who is a natural leader,” I explained, attempting to enforce my will upon him. “Bluntly put, they want somebody to lead them.”

  I kept looking him in the eye.

  He didn’t blink.

  Agree with me, I thought.

  I waited for that blank nod but Jessome was two steps ahead of me.

  “Don’t bother trying any of your Jedi-Lugosi mind control tricks,” Jessome said. “I’m wearing a set of contact lenses that have been blessed by a bishop, a rabbi, and an Alabama telemarketer who caught me by cell phone at a weak moment.”

  I smiled at that. I shouldn’t have, because a vampire’s smile is anything but encouraging. Still, I had to give him credit for surprising me. I had fully expected the crucifix. Everybody knew that one. However, I hadn’t expected the thrice-blessed contact lenses.

  “I don’t imagine you’ve ever had any weak moments,” I told him. “Not as far as I can see.”

  Jessome almost smiled. “Every week or so I allow myself at least one moment of weakness,” he bragged. “How else do I stay so humble?”

  “So, can I count on you?” I asked.

  “You’re determined to do this?”

  I nodded.

  “Determination is a key factor,” he said. “I wouldn’t do this if I thought your heart wasn’t in it.”

  He let that sink in.

  Finally he said, “Let’s do this.”

  I grinned. To hell with the image.

  My idea had just evolved into a plan.

  To be completely honest, the original idea had risen up in my imagination shortly after the launch of the reality television show, one year ago.

  Do you remember that show? Just about three years after the great coming out of the undead? The show hit the air waves and Survivor was promptly voted off of the island. Trump fired himself and American Idol grew tone-deaf.

  In short, the show was a phenomenonal success.

  In my opinion whoever thought of the original concept for the show ought to be slowly turned on a rotisserie spit over one of the hottest pits in perdition. I mean, can you believe the title they came up with?

  Who Wants to Be A Vampire?

  What I would like to know is just who in the hell sat up at night for at least three and a half minutes of an existence that they will never successfully retrieve, dreaming up that particular title?

  As banal as it sounds, the title worked. The ratings soared as people tuned in — despite the fact that a rumour was hastily released by a high-ranking executive employed by a competitor network. The rumour hinted that some form of over-the-air vampiric mind control was directly responsible for the show’s immediate success.

  In response, the ratings soared even higher.

  The executive responsible for the release of the rumour promptly disappeared.

  Further rumours hinted that perhaps the legions of the undead were responsible for the executive’s mysterious disappearance.

  Like that bat that glued himself to the space shuttle, the ratings hit the freaking moon. From one side of the country to the other, contestants battled for the opportunity to join the ranks of the undead. They bleached their skin, endured painful dental implants, learned to sleep comfortably in a coffin and cultivated a taste for human blood.

  The entire phenomenon was a pure and undeniable affirmation of the power of the wanna-be — the same driving force behind hair dye, pectoral implants, Viagra and air-brushed photography.

  We all want to be something we’re not.

  After years of coveting the lives of movie stars, rock singers, professional wrestlers and long haul winter truckers, a new yearning had emerged from the shadows. A brand new age-old creature, coaxed out of the darkness and into the daylight, thanks partly to the development of powerful 1000+ SPF sun blocking agents developed in order to counter-act the increased UV radiation that was no longer being filtered by the dying ozone layer.

  Life as humans knew it was undergoing an unexpected change. They were learning to hide from the sun.

  A kinship was evolving.

  It was time for the vampire to take his rightful place on the center stage of this planet.

  Three weeks into the campaign the struggle began to heat up as we got down to brass coffin nails.

  “You’ve got three men to worry about,” Jessome said. “Samuel Garton, Nelson Hackle and Harold Lee.”

  “I’m not worried about Samuel Garton or Nelson Hackle,” I said. “They don’t really seem to be paying much attention to my campaign.”

  “That is in your favour,” Jessome said. “Because you’re a novelty act, they don’t take you that seriously. You’re coming in under their radar of credibility, but if you want to be taken seriously, you need to take them both very seriously.”

  “Seriously?” I quipped.

  Jessome didn’t like that one bit.

  “Did you hire me as a campaign manager or a straight man?” Jessome wanted to know.

  “Both, actually.”

  Jessome refused to grin. As far as I could tell the man had all of the joie de vivre plus the sense of humour of a four day old ripening cadaver.

  “Samuel Garton has maturity and experience on his side,” Jessome went on. “He’s in office already, so he just has to keep his balance and he’ll beat us. We need to push him off balance.”

  “Any ideas on that?”

  “I have some photographs that will wobble his platform nicely,” Jessome said.

  He showed them to me. They were definitely thought provoking. I didn’t think one man could successfully satisfy so many leather-clad women. I wasn’t sure what to make of the Doberman.

  “That’s the advantage of being a vampire,” I said. “We’re paparazzi proof.”

  “Exactly,” Jessome said.

  “I think I recognize one of these ladies,” I said.


  “It might be he wasn’t wearing a set of thrice-blessed contact lenses when he laid eyes on her,” Jessome allowed, tapping a finger beside his right eye socket. “You aren’t the only vampire on our team, you know.”

  I hadn’t known.

  I wondered what else I didn’t know.

  And then I decided that ignorance was bliss.

  “Well I hope he had fun,” I said.

  “What he remembers of it,” Jessome allowed.

  “And Nelson Hackle?”

  “Don’t worry about Nelson Hackle,” Jessome said. “Plans are already in motion.”

  “Anything I ought to worry about?”

  “Deniability is an asset.”

  I could take a hint. Politics was a dirty business — a profession that made mass murder and habitual exsanguinations appear immaculate by comparison.

  “That leaves Harold Lee.”

  “Harold Lee sees you as a threat. He’s already launched a smear campaign centered on the slogan — DO YOU WANT TO LET THE LIFE BLOOD OF THIS STATE BE SUCKED OUT BY VAMPIRIC GREED?”

  “Catchy.”

  “We’re countering with SAY HELLO TO THE NIGHT LIFE.”

  I groaned.

  “Vampires don’t appreciate puns?” Jessome asked.

  “Not puns as bad as that.”

  “Don’t sneer,” Jessome said. “It isn’t becoming.”

  “Hello to the night life?”

  “There is a direct correlation between the number of words in a political slogan and its ultimate effectiveness,” Jessome explained. “Simply put, the American populace has a low tolerance for word-windy bastards.”

  No wonder Jessome had never run for office.

  “Or perhaps they’ve just got a short attention span,” I said.

  “I’m sorry.” Jessome arched one eyebrow in as close an approximation of wryness as his inner reserve would allow. “Did you say something?”

  The first vampire came out to the world on a late night talk show, hosted by an interviewer who looked a little like a genetically modified clonally tri-hybrid of the worst features of Carson, Leno and Letterman combined.

  Between the thick layer of mega SPF sun block and the added layers of make-up that were required to actually allow the vampire to appear on television screens, folks who unintentionally channel-surfed into the broadcast thought that they were either watching an interview with the latest member of the Blue Man Group or a promo for the upcoming Watchmen part six — Doctor Manhattan: Bigger, Bluer and Uncut.

  In spite of the indigo misconception, the word got out.

  Vampires were real.

  The media was crammed with government-sanctioned leech-hunts and good old-fashioned home-grown vigilantism. The price of garlic hit new world highs. Local churches did a booming business in blessed crucifixes and vials of holy water. Synagogues sold the Star of David. Bram Stoker’s Dracula hit the bestseller list and Stephen King announced that he was working on a twelve-book sequel to Salem’s Lot.

  The increase of public pressure gradually brought the rest of the vampires out into the daylight. Whether they liked it or not, the vampire race was suddenly newsworthy. A combination of spin-doctoring, big budget advertising, talk show appearances and random drive-by Youtube shootings accomplished what years of Christopher Lee, Anne Rice and Stephenie Meyer had never dreamed of.

  I don’t believe every vampire appreciated the sudden exposure. A lot of them would have preferred to remain safely hidden in the realm of urban myth, cheap movies and wistful goth fantasy.

  Who could blame them?

  One lone exhibitionist brought centuries of tomb dust and tradition to a sudden unsanctified kneeling halt, squarely in the heart of a hundred foot-candle spotlight.

  As the notoriety of the vampire populace increased, minority activists nobly stepped in to champion this here-to-for unacknowledged group of the culturally disenfranchised. The need for undead rights soon overtook the proactive lobbyists who had previously dedicated their existence and their undeniable need for a stable income towards fighting for the rights of beached killer whales and wartime refugees, AIDs victims and the homeless. Politicians began to cultivate relationships with the ranks of the undead. Photo ops and graveyard ribbon cuttings became synonymous.

  As election time drew near, the mudslinging began. Rumours were spread that certain vampire-friendly politicians were nothing more than a pack of Renfield-like pawns of the vampiric race.

  Which was exactly where I came in.

  Two weeks prior to Election Day, Samuel Garton made a discrete withdrawal from the candidacy race. He blamed it on family pressure and a need to reprioritize his life. He had seen the Doberman and leather girl photos. Scandal and divorce had no place in his plan of action.

  Nelson Hackle, on the other hand, was the victim of a mysterious midnight mugging on his way home from the theatre.

  “He must have put up a fight,” Jessome said. “I can’t understand it, myself. He didn’t have that much in his wallet.”

  “Was that in the police report?” I asked. “How could you find out a detail like that?”

  “Ways and means,” Jessome assured me.

  Do you think I was being callous?

  Eggs needed to be broken.

  Eyes needed to be poked out.

  When you enter politics, check your ethics at the door.

  “So that brings it down to myself and Harold Lee,” I said. “Will he be mugged as well?”

  “Now that would be quite an unacceptable coincidence, wouldn’t it?”

  “Quite,” I said. “Only I’m certain I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  Jessome let that comment slide.

  “The polls have us marginally ahead,” he informed me. “We don’t really have to do anything at all.”

  That wasn’t good enough for me. I had come too far to take chances now.

  “I don’t believe in polls any more than I believe in coincidence,” I answered. “And unless you’ve replaced those blessed contact lenses with a pair of all-seeing crystal balls, I’m not all that comfortable with depending upon luck.”

  “There’s nothing crystalline about my balls,” Jessome said. “Politics is always a crap shoot.”

  “How do we load the dice?”

  Wordlessly, Jessome held up a small vellum envelope.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s in that envelope?” I said. “Or is this the second half of your mind reading act?”

  Jessome smiled. “It’s an invitation. A personalized invitation.”

  I took the envelope from him.

  His smile widened, just a little.

  “Enter freely,” he said. “And of your own will.”

  Two nights later I used that personalized invitation to enter Harold Lee’s bedroom. I stepped out of the shadows, resisting the impulse to say something corny like I’ve come to drink your blood!

  “I’m the Batman,” was what I settled for.

  Then I had a good long talk with Mr. Harold Lee.

  The next morning Harold Lee met with the local Baptist minister and told him that not only was God dead, but He was most likely buried in an unmarked grave. From there, he moved on to insult both a rabbi and a Muslim religious leader, simultaneously.

  He ended the day by insulting a Malaysian shaman. Oddly enough, Mr. Harold Lee wasn’t even aware that he spoke perfect Malaysian. Following his rain of politically incorrect faux pas, he found himself on the receiving end of a sudden boycott, a jihad, a Sunday edition of the newspaper crammed full of abrasive political cartooning and the gift of a cursed Zuni fetish doll.

  It was a politician’s wet dream.

  I was voted in on a mud slide.

  A month after my election, the honeymoon was over.

  “You can’t do this,” Jessome said. “Congress will not stand for it.”

  “This country has a soaring crime rate,” I said. “Police forces are seriously undermanned.”

  “The budget will address thi
s,” Jessome said. “It always has.”

  “Our fiscal budget couldn’t address a self-addressed envelope,” I said. “We’re in the middle of a war on poverty, crime and ignorance.”

  “I won’t deny that,” Jessome said.

  “A war that we’re losing.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  I wasn’t listening. This was what I had fought so hard for. I wanted to get elected in order to make a real difference.

  There needed to be significant change.

  “There’s no room for debate,” I said. “You’re supposed to be my aide, so aid me.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll find myself another aide, more helpful than you.”

  One more sigh.

  “What do you want to do?” Jessome asked.

  “I’ll talk to Congress tomorrow.”

  “Do you really think they’ll listen?”

  I smiled, letting my teeth show. I was the governor now. There was no more need for any false faces.

  “Not all of them are smart enough to wear contact lenses,” I pointed out.

  That summer the first squads of undead police were officially activated.

  What better deterrent for criminal activity? At any moment the night might come alive with police who could not be shot or stabbed or escaped from.

  In two months the crime rate dropped by twelve percent. After that the situation evolved. By the third month criminals began arming themselves with holy water, wooden stakes, garlic and crucifixes.

  “We’re not winning,” Jessome said. “We’re just escalating the situation.”

  “I’m a vampire,” I said. “I have endured a lifelong standing tradition of situations escalating to torch and pitchfork and worse. Besides, if they’re carrying crucifixes and holy water, that means they’re leaving the assault rifles at home.”

  “Do you think that’s funny?” Jessome asked.

  “I’m still smiling,” I said, with a shrug. “In fact, we’re looking at increasing the percentage of vampires on the various police forces. It’s not just major crime that needs to be addressed.”

  “Are you planning to start taking down jay-walkers?”

  “If need be. The populace is ripe for a stronger state of control.”

  He took that in. “Are there that many of you?”