by Lewis Aleman
That junk my body’s trying to fight off is strong. Don’t even know if I’m only getting a little break here—break might not last long, and this could be as good as I’ll be all night. Could definitely get worse. Don’t know what it is. Know it’s something trying to knock me out—or kill me.
Second time I’ve come up here this evening looking for a girl. Second time the girl’s not where I told her to be. Bar is empty. Angie lied to the cop for me. Thanks, girl.
“Hey, man,” Danny says nodding toward the bathroom, “You better get cleaned up before we try to get out of here, or those cops are going to harass you, man.”
He pulls his arm off my shoulders. Knee shakes on the first step toward the bathroom door.
“Are you gonna be alright, Simon? Need some help, bro?”
“I’ll be alright—just took a beating.”
Hand grabs the handle. Jiggles but won’t turn. Locked. Perfect—right in tune with the rest of the night. Whimpering—coming from behind the door.
“Ambrosia, is that you?”
“No one’s in here—I mean it’s occupied!” calls out from inside the tiny bathroom.
Eyes close in frustration—did she really just say that? Head swirls. Thought no one outside a cartoon would ever say something as ridiculous as that. Blood feels hot. Nails press against the door—hand shakes, wanting to rip a hole through the wood and pull her out. Gotta get a grip—too angry—overtaking me. Boiling inside me.
“Ambrosia, this is Simon. Do you hear me? They’ve got Ruby—we need to go get her now.”
Whimpering.
“Now, Ambrosia!” I scream, hoping it wasn’t so loud that the police could hear me downstairs. Didn’t mean to be that loud. Hot rage set the volume, not me.
Door squeaks. Face peeks through small crack. Blue eye shadow’s run down her cheeks, mimicking her twin ponytails.
Twin Goons stand at either side of the door that keeps me contained. Not biological twins, but mirror images of the same violent hatred.
Walls painted dark blue and black. Swirled. Creepy. Don’t know if they painted the sheetrock to look like a dungeon to terrify captives like me or if it’s just what appeals to their savage taste.
Deep inside Roderick’s house. From the outside doesn’t look like much—typical New Orleans white-wooden-siding raised house. A converted apartment complex. One large front porch with white columns—its ceiling a second-floor balcony with wrought iron railing leading to a room I haven’t been to.
They dragged me up the steps, across the porch, through the front door into the main hallway that leads to the stairs and all the former apartments—all three floors of them. Large archway-sized holes have been ripped in the walls where the doors used to be, allowing open access to all the apartments. The tears in the walls are jagged—not cut with tools—probably ripped open by angry vampire claws. The whole thing makes me feel like I’m trapped in a deep cavern instead of a house on St. Charles.
Saw few people in the opened hallway. Men who looked like vamps—four, maybe five of them. Girls who looked human. Thought for a second that I saw Maxine.
Paint peels in many parts of the house—looking diseased. Chandeliers hang dusty, weaved in cobwebs, and offer only dim flickering light. Even the grain of the floor looks menacing and hostile as it’s scuffed, stained, and dirt-covered.
Up the staircase, they brought me to the second floor. Carvelli and Quint lifting me at my elbows off the ground—rough, tight grip—carrying me through the only remaining doorframe I’ve seen inside of this house—into this dark room of blue midnight and pitch black.
Door closed behind them, leaving me in the room that eats away hope. I’ve heard them shuffle and grumble outside the door—certain they’re still out there, making sure I don’t do anything stupid. I’m just the bait for Simon and Ambrosia to come into this horrible house.
Simon.
Have no idea if it’s night or day. Probably only been here an hour or two, but left with nothing to stare at but the deep, absorbing gloom of the walls, every second takes its time upon the nightmare stage in my mind before bowing off and giving way to the next.
Eyes raw. Simon. My eyes can’t forget Simon. He looked so sick when they dragged me away. Worse than when he came back to the woods all dry.
God, let Simon be alright.
Door opens. Something evil steps into the opening between the cruel, twin shoulders of the guards. He’s come for me, and it can’t be good.
Whatever’s in me is bad.
Really bad.
Must be what they put in Edgar that almost killed him. Might’ve put more in me—might’ve even put something worse in me.
If I’m dead in a few hours, we’ll have the answer.
Every breath makes me angry. Hot, uncomfortable blood surging through me. Keeping my eyes open infuriates. Every sound, even the growl of the engine that I’d normally love, tears into my aching head like jagged claws.
“Why are we driving anyway? Can’t—can’t you guys fly?” a blue-tinted question comes from the passenger seat.
Talk about annoying noises.
“What makes you think we could possibly fly? Do you think there’s some kind of mystical vampire flatulence that propels us gracefully through the air?”
Finding it harder and harder to stop the agitation that this sickness is breeding inside me.
“Well, what about the whole bat thing?” her voice getting higher and shakier, keeping her head aimed at the radio or her shoes—she hasn’t looked at the road once since I got the car up to speed.
“Don’t you go to school, Ambrosia?”
That came out much harsher than I meant. Losing control. How’s this gonna affect me when I get to Roderick? Reckless. Gonna make me reckless. Not good.
She twirls a blue ponytail between her fingers and looks at her feet.
Keeping my eyes focused on the road we’re blazing down over the red, raised, cowl hood, “Look, I weigh 215 pounds. Even if you ignore all the impossible biological problems with turning into a bat, where would all my mass go? Ever see a little bat that weighs over 200 pounds? And if you did, do you think it’d fly?”
Trying to keep level. Rational.
“So, am I going to turn into one of you guys?”
She’s not going to make this easy.
“Turn into one of us guys? Not without a sex change.”
“No,” she says laughing. As annoying as her voice and all other sounds are to my dizzy head right now, there’s something soothing about the childlike tone of her laugh, “I mean—I mean like you.”
“What’d’you mean like me—able to finish a simple question? I hope so.”
“No,” no laughter this time, she whispers, “a vampire.”
“You don’t have to whisper it, Ambrosia. The others can’t hear you this far away, and I already know I’m a vampire.”
Silence.
“Well, am I? Am I going to become like you? Is that why he wants me so bad?”
“No,” I grumble, losing the fight to be pleasant to the infection, “You can’t turn a born lion into a tiger by getting the tiger to bite him. It’s genetics. You have human genes that make you human. We have vampire genes. A little blood and spit can’t change that in you.”
Silence. As good as peace can be with Ruby in trouble. My eardrums relish in the reprieve.
The violation starts again, “Where are we going then?”
“A crack house.”
She chuckles, waits, and asks, “No, really, where are we going?”
Slowly take my eyes off the blazing road, “A crack house.”
“What?” she squawks, “Why are we going to a crack house? Is that where they took Ruby?”
“Look, I need to think. My head’s all jumpy from that crap they injected in me. Need to focus. Need a plan to save Ruby.”
“Why are we going to a crack house? Is she there? Oh my God—is Ruby in a crack house?”
My skull threatens to crack under
the strain of her words.
“No, she’s not there. Need to get someone who knows where she is.”
“What-do-you-mean-you-don’t-know-where-she-is?” question flies out of her as if it were one word loaded into the slingshot of her mouth.
While I marvel at how fast such a slow mind can sling words and remind myself to fight the harsh thoughts—fight the malady brewing in me, she flings out another barrage, “Don’t-you-guys-all-sleep-in-the-same-place-for-protection? All-in-coffins? Don’t-you-know-where-they-all-are?”
“No, vampires don’t sleep in coffins. We don’t like to tip off the humans that we’re vampires—it’s the whole mob with pitchforks and torches thing. Best to not let them know about us. Sleeping in a coffin is a big tip off—plus, why make it easy on anyone to bury you alive?”
“But—but you don’t know where they are?”
“No, Roderick and his goons all hang out somewhere. Only Roderick lives there—just a place to party for the others. They move it every few years—haven’t been with them in decades—don’t know where they are now.”
“How do you not know? Aren’t you one of them?”
Vision seems to be tainted in red. An angry red that doesn’t like seeing any blue. Irritation swells.
“Haven’t you been paying attention at all? Did you see us hanging out together, partying, and having a beer last night, or did you see them kicking the hell out of me? Not sure—was a little drugged up—oh yeah, they did that too. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure they were kicking the hell out of me.”
“No, I mean—don’t you guys have a vampire order? A coven or something?”
“No, there’s no order. We don’t get together too often, but Roderick’s been stirring everybody up to hunt me down to get to you.”
She looks like she may cry.
“But no, we don’t get together too often. No covens. It’s hard to wrangle up a bunch of blood junkies. Spread all over the city doing something perverse or recovering from something perverse—we’re not easy to organize. It’d be like making a club of crack addicts—you’d never get anyone to show up for the meetings. Sometimes they’ll show up for a party—guess that’s what Roderick’s doing now to get them together and keep them there—giving them drugs and whatever else they want.”
Shock of frustration shoots through me—body feels so sour. Stomach burns—fever—head pounding. Strain to hold back foul mood. Losing.
“What’d you expect—a vampire picnic—a bunch of vampires all suited up playing a secret game of baseball in the middle of the woods? Come on.”
Don’t want her feelings hurt, but my mind could use the silence. If I just let her be hurt, she’ll stay quiet. Mind could rest—recover. Guilt overtakes the anger for a moment.
“It’s alright, Ambrosia. That stuff’s making me mean—making me feel so sick—need some time to get it under control.”
She still looks like tears are imminent.
“C’mon. Ask me what you want to know. Know you have questions.”
She smiles bashfully, pushing her head down and shoulders forward.
“It’s alright. Ask.”
“Don’t—don’t you guys…shimmer?”
“Only if you shove glitter up our asses.”
She laughs so hard a little stream of mucus shoots out her nose and onto the black vinyl dash.
She puts her hand over her nose.
“You better clean that up. My friend Danny’s a nice guy, but he’ll kill you over this car.”
“Sorry,” she says, still laughing as she wipes it off with her hand and then on the floor mat, “Just what I need: one more person trying to kill me.”
Sudden anguish surges in my head. Pangs—throbs—aches. Feels like my skull is tearing into pieces—every tiny noise is an earthquake ripping it apart further and deeper. Strain with all my might to keep eyes open and on the road.
She sniffles and asks, “So where do vampires come from?”
Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” plays on the radio—a wailing, beckoning vocal.
All the sound—even the pleasing sound—too much for my head—don’t respond to her. She still looks down and away from the windows, not noticing the expression on my face.
She repeats, “C’mon, where do you guys come from? Europe—Transylvania?”
Throbbing too bad—can’t talk. Point to the radio, trying to make her think I want her to be quiet so I can hear the song.
The lyrics talk about an exotic, frozen land.
“Oh! Vampires come from Alaska?”
“No,” I shake my head, laughter threatening to take over, even through my dizzying, spiking pain, “I was just trying to shut you up—those were Led Zeppelin lyrics—and they’re not talking about Alask—”
“The drummer only has one arm?”
“No, that’s Def Leppard.”
“The guys who sing ‘The Boys Are Back in Town?’”
“No, that’s Thin Lizzy.”
Putting her hands at her hips, twisting playfully in the bucket seat, and batting her eyelashes, she asks, “Sexy, Thin little Lizzy, like me?”
“No, that would be Little Dizzy.”
“Hey, my head’s full of all kinds of useful things—I’m no ditz.”
“You are truly a fountain of misinformation.”
“Thanks…I think.”
“Keep thinking, Ambrosia—the answer will come.”
She smiles.
Pat her shoulder and slow the car down to double digits. The crack house comes into view. Tires scream as I bring the car to a stop. Hope it’s the last screaming I’ll hear tonight, but I doubt it.
“Now, what would make you think such a terrible person is coming for you?” Roderick asks—the two of us alone in the blue and black room with the two guards still outside the door in the hallway.
“Don’t say that about Simon—you’d never talk about him like that if he were here.”
Three raw rips on Roderick’s cheek—jagged and red. So raw they look as if hatred hisses out of them. One is much deeper—the other two look like they only skimmed him—leaving dotted marks. Odd. All of the vampire fingernail wounds I’ve seen so far have been deeper—more precise—and always in a set of four. These look different.
“I’m sure he will come, Ruby. Come blazing in here like an action hero and be killed before he has a chance to see you again.”
The thought of it steals the words from my throat.
He reaches out to touch my cheek—scratch wound on the back of his hand similar to the one on his face—this one with two deep grooves and two skim marks.
Pull my head away, and he stops his hand—holding it in the air not far from me.
He says, “What made you think I was talking about him, dear thing? Is it that you’re afraid he won’t come? Is that why you immediately thought I was talking about Simon?”
Pull my head further away from him, looking at the blue and black walls.
“No, Ruby, I was talking about your little blue-haired friend.”
“What about Ambrosia?”
“She’ll run and hide—a coward. She’ll never try to save you. She’ll run from us—run from Simon. Never cared about anyone more than herself—why would she rush here to take your place? Where was she when we grabbed you at the bar?”
I don’t answer, still looking into the blue-black.
“Tell me, Ruby—why didn’t she come take your place then? She was there—we saw her—lost her in the chaos, but she was there. She knew we were after her, but she let us take you. Why is that?”
“Maybe she didn’t have a choice. What was she going to do—beat up you and your two goons all by herself?”
Grumbling in the hallway.
“I’d bite my tongue if I were you, little one. They’re told to guard you only—not to hurt you unless you try to escape. But, I can’t watch them every second. Best for you to not make them angry. ‘Course, once I have what I want, I don’t care what they do to you.”
&n
bsp; Those words bring horrible images to my mind—seem so close to reality—could happen between these same ghastly walls—they’re just outside the room right now.
“That’s right, Ruby, worry about it. Worry about all of it. It’ll all be soon upon you.”
“We’ll see.”
“Yes, we will. Very soon,” pausing, “But back to your pig-tailed playmate, do you know what she says about you?”
“Don’t care.”
“Do you?”
“Not if the words come from you.”
“Well, let’s just find out. Few weeks ago, met her at ‘80s Night—came back with me to one of Edgar’s filthy hangouts. Did she tell you that?”
“Yeah,” I answer before I can remind myself to keep quiet and not play his game.
“Well, late in the night we got on the topic of you. Care to guess what she had to say?”
“Wish my friend Ruby were here so we could both strangle this filthy vampire in his sleep.”
Flashes his fangs for a moment and then turns his mouth back into a storyteller’s smile, “How about ‘I only keep her around as man-bait. She’s pretty enough to bring the men in, but she’s so boring that they all end up with me instead.’”
Nights flash before my eyes where that situation did happen. Many times I was sitting at the bar or a booth—somewhere out of the action. Guys would introduce themselves, sit down, talk awhile. Eventually they all danced. They all drank more. I sat. They did end up with Ambrosia. Me with my pillow.
“You were nothing more than a pretty toy for her to wave in front of the boys—she knew you weren’t interesting enough to keep any of them for yourself—knew she’d have no trouble taking anyone she wanted from you by the end of the night. Used you for your beauty—knew she could abuse your plain, boring personality to steal any man from you.”
“Shut up.”
“Whether I’m silent or loud, it’s true. My silence won’t change it.”
“Liar.”
“Well, if I am, you have nothing to worry about, but the troubled look on your face tells me you know it’s true—know she never really cared about you—just a party favor to make her own night better—never caring about you or your night or you meeting someone. It was all for her. Coming here tonight would be all for you. She’d have everything to lose—nothing to gain. Doesn’t sound like Ambrosia—you know it. She’ll never come for you.”