Nocturnal

by Mark Allen

  He had told her he realized he looked a bit pale, and that was the purpose for his inquiry. Fearing he might have something contagious, she had directed him to the appropriate section of the library, which just happened to be located in the basement of the grand, old, crumbling building. He had found some general medical books, and had begun pouring over them furiously. When he found his answer, he had almost cried with relief.

  The new vampire discovered it was a known medical fact that when a person swallowed blood, or had an upper gastrointestinal bleed, like from a perforated ulcer or similar condition, the blood would move along the digestive tract just like anything else. And the small intestine would try to digest and extract nutrients out of it just like with anything else. Sodium, potassium, hemoglobin, everything. Once this mixture - called “chime”, as he discovered - passed into the large intestine, the large intestine, the body’s water recycling plant, would do its job. It would extract all or most of the leftover water, firming up the consistency of the stool. After that, peristaltic action, a series of smooth muscle contractions exerted on the intestines, pushed the stool along its track until it passed through the rectum and exited the body.

  As it turned out, this was true of both humans and vampires. Who would have thought?

  And there, standing naked in his bathroom in the early twenty-first century, the vampire smiled at his former ignorance and naiveté. Live and learn, he thought. Well, in his case, true learning leading to wisdom did not occur for him until after he died.

  And now, as he rinsed the shampoo out of his hair, he thought back to earlier in the evening when he had killed the Slight One. Part of his Dark Abilities was being able to sense the evil in people. The other side was, if he touched them, made physical contact, his brain was bombarded with visions and memories of the perversions these people enjoyed. Usually it was shocking, even to him. But sometimes, just sometimes, it was actually painful, like an intense blade, forged of intense bright white light, stabbing him directly in the front of the skull.

  Tonight had not been like that, thank God. When the Slight One’s blood had flooded the vampire’s mouth and spilled down his swiftly swallowing throat, he had been blasted with visions of whips and chains, gay sex with Chester and twisted servitude. Chester had been the subservient one. Slight One had been the “top”. Chester had gone out with Slight One whenever the Blonde Dom had wanted, bringing home sometimes willing partners for a time of true debauchery.

  The vampire turned the water off. The showerhead trickled off rapidly. A few extra drops fell into the bathtub, then nothing. He pushed the curtain back, metal curtain rings grinding along the rod. He grabbed a towel hanging on a nearby rack, stepped out. He towel dried his hair first, then systematically worked his way from top to bottom.

  He padded silently to the lavatory. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes seemed clearer now. The blood meal earlier had given him much needed sustenance. His skin no longer had such a waxy pallor. Indeed, except for his eyes and fangs, neither of which ever changed, he could almost pass for human.

  The knife wound on his chest had already closed. By tomorrow night, there would be nothing but a scar.

  He pulled out his toothbrush and toothpaste. Indeed, another example of how similar his vampire existence was to the human one he had foolishly tossed aside. He still had to brush his teeth and floss, otherwise his breath would smell like Death itself.

  When he finished, he walked through the dark apartment and into his bedroom. He threw some comfortable lounging clothes on, then headed into the other bedroom. He had set it up as a combination office and study. He had placed a modern, tubular aluminum computer desk near the window. Even though heavy curtains adorned this window, as indeed on all windows in the apartment, he always made sure left the curtains slightly parted. That way, when he was working, trading stocks and commodities for his Asian clients, he could keep an eye on the coming daylight.

  He enjoyed his job, felt a sense of accomplishment when his advice or actions helped his clients save money in a bad market, or make money in a good one. The ebb and flow of the financial markets, much like the rise and fall of the ocean’s tides, fascinated him. Sometimes he became so intensely concentrated, he would lose all sense of time.

  When the first yellow fingers stabbed their way across the windowsill, he knew it was time to shut down work and get some rest. Depending on the time of year, the Asian markets would already be closed by then. But in late spring and summer, when the sky began to lighten well before five thirty, it could become a problem.

  The vampire sat down at his computer desk and opened his laptop. He depressed the ON button, then powered up the printer. Although Friday and Saturday were his weekend days because of the time difference between the U.S. and the Asian stock markets, like any broker, he had to stay atop international business developments as they occurred over the weekend. These developments often had a direct influence on markets.

  A CEO stepping down, a quarterly profit report that fell short of expectations, a management shakeup and shuffling of personnel, could all spell trouble for a company’s stock price, and could set off a cascade of events that could affect other companies, other sectors, even the market system itself. Even natural disasters like tsunamis, hurricanes, or in the case of commodities like corn, soybeans, or wheat, a summer drought could kill a company. The closest markets usually bore the brunt in the first instance, but often other markets would become affected, like waves rippling out across the electronic pond.

  The vampire’s main screen lit up, a real-time evaluation of the Hong Kong and Tokyo markets. Hong Kong was down twenty-nine points from their opening numbers. Tokyo was down forty-two. Along the bottom of the screen, a stock price ticker scrolled from right to left, showing companies by ticker symbol and closing price. The vampire’s eyes danced across the numbers, as he formulated preliminary plans on what he might do with his own money, and what he might advise his clients Sunday night.

  He punched a few buttons on his computer, and his screen changed instantly. The graphics for the New York Stock Exchange and NASDAQ appeared. The corresponding ticker ran from right to left across the lower band of the screen. He studied it for a few moments, making sure he double-checked his numbers.

  Satisfied his investments were doing well, he sat back in his chair and stretched. The ancient bones in his back crackled and popped audibly. His gaze drifted around the room and fell to the windowsill. A pale blue glow infiltrated from outside, through the glass pane, and across the white paint. The dawn was coming, but actual sunrise was still at least a half hour away.

  Still a bit puckish, the vampire shut down his computer. He rose from his chair and crept silently into the kitchen. With no lights glaring, the kitchen waited for him in what humans would perceive as pitch darkness. But his vampire eyes saw the room in swirling gloom, shadows like black puddles, colors desaturated almost to the point seeing in black and white.

  He grabbed the refrigerator door handle, pulled the door open. He reached in quickly, grabbed a bag of the expired Blood Bank blood. He let the door swing shut while he rinsed out the same glass he had used earlier. Holding the bag upside down over the glass, he applied steady pressure, squeezing thick goopy blood into the glass until it was about half full.

  The vampire paused, considering whether or not that would be enough. Eventually, he decided gluttony was unseemly, so he tossed the bag on the counter. He picked up the glass, placed it inside the microwave. Closing the door, he set the timer for thirty seconds. That would warm it to somewhere close to human body temperature, but not so warm he would not be able to drink it.

  He had made that mistake once before. In his ignorance, he had microwaved a blood meal for too long a time. It had, of course, overheated, and had begun to cook. The vampire found out that if blood got too warm, the red blood cells would explode - a phenomenon familiar to laboratory workers called hemolysis - releasing all potassium and hemoglobin from inside the cells into
the circulating blood itself. Furthermore, the protein within the base of the cells denatured much like an egg white when fried. The sloppy result turned a perfectly enticing glass of warm red blood into a disgusting brownish mess with the look and consistency of melted chocolate.

  Naturally, such a debacle was undrinkable. It stunk to high heaven, too. It had taken him several nights to get the smell out of his house.

  Now, the vampire waited patiently. The microwave completed its cycle. The rotating plate inside provided for even heating. The dim light inside the chamber went off, and the microwave bell went off with an optimistic ding! The vampire had always thought that bell was an electronic equivalent to someone jumping up and proudly yelling, “ta data!”.

  He opened the door with the push of a button. He gingerly wrapped his fingers around the glass and pulled it out. He smiled almost instantly. His fingers warmed, not burned. The red liquid swirled and ran down the inside of the glass. The vampire lifted the glass, not unlike a connoisseur judging wine. He brought the glass to his lips and sipped, savoring the taste.

  He drank again, more deeply this time. He drank one last time, emptying the glass. He sighed and smacked his lips. He rinsed the glass out at the sink and placed it upside down on a towel on the counter to dry.

  Pleasantly full, the vampire glided through the hallway. He glanced into his office room. He noticed the pale blue glow that had been spilled across the windowsill was now wider, brighter, and had morphed almost to pale yellow.

  Sunrise was just moments away.

  The vampire headed into the master bedroom. As was his custom, he closed the door to the hallway, locked it with a deadbolt from the inside. He crossed the room; double-checked the Velcro fasteners on the window curtains. Assured they were secure and windows locked from the inside, he felt better.

  Nobody believed in vampires anymore. There were so many fakes around, so much silly merchandise, movies, CD’s, DVD’s, and all that. Vampires had now been thrust into the modern pop culture. But now, the old monsters who used to be seen as unholy villains were now revered, seen as tragic heroes, romantic Lotharios, or worse, pop icons.

  This whimsical view of something ancient and evil the humans thought of as nothing more than wisps and shadows, worked for the vampire. Anonymity had become his greatest weapon, the strongest tool in his arsenal to ensure his continued survival.

  The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the World he did not exist, right?

  The vampire, deep in thought now at the end of his night, pursed his lips. Naked, he sat down on his bed. Fatigue washed over him.

  But the Devil WAS real, he knew. The vampire had seen enough Evil in the world over the years. It ebbed and flowed, surged and waned, always getting defeated, but always circling back around in some other form.

  The slave trade.

  Nazi Germany.

  The rise of the Soviet Union.

  Public lynching in the South carried out by racists with an agenda.

  Communism in Cuba, Korea, China.

  Dictators that live like Gods while their own people starve outside the palace gates.

  Sheiks, strangling the world’s economic neck like a proverbial chicken because they wielded control over production and export of a black gooey substance that existed mostly under their sands.

  Religious fanatics that guided their flocks to mass death and destruction in places like Guyana.

  But God existed, too. There was goodness in the world, too. There was compassion, mercy.

  People dedicated their lives to servitude and poverty to help their fellow human beings. High-priced American doctors, who every year, spent part of their time in third world countries providing free medical care to the world’s neediest patients. Even the random young person who helped an old lady up the stairs with her groceries qualified.

  These two forces were continually at odds. Diametrically opposed, they constantly battled one another to a stalemate of sorts, forever, throughout time.

  Yes, God definitely existed; the vampire was certain of it. But the vampire just didn’t understand Him.

  Shrugging off melancholy thoughts, the vampire laid down in bed. He pulled the heavy quilt up, way up, past his chin. He was not cold, but if anything happened to the curtains, the quilt was thick enough to protect him from sunlight shining across the bed.

  He quieted himself, as he had learned so many years ago. He stared at the ceiling, but did not focus his eyes. He looked through the ceiling, past the ceiling, and into nothing at all.

  Then, the dawn broke outside. The sun peered over the horizon, bathing the treetops and the streets with golden light. Inside his apartment, snug in his bed, the vampire... died.

  It happened in the same manner it always did, every morning, every dawn. A small sigh of air escaped his lungs. His black eyes changed, went pale and milky. His skin dehydrated, sank around the bones, stretched across the hollows of his body, sticking to the tendons. His lips pulled thin across his lower face, then slowly retracted back in rictus, exposing his teeth, his fangs, which yellowed and turned dull. Skin cells, dead and desiccated, curled upward and flaked, forming a light dust across his grayish blue forehead.

  Barring any kind of unforeseen circumstances, the vampire’s lifeless corpse would lie in the bed, unmoving, quilt pulled up past its chin, dead to the world. And it would lie there until nightfall, at which time, the vampire, through twisted forces of nature he still did not comprehend even after all this time, would come back to life, reanimate, and continue on with his long, slow nocturnal existence.

  Journal entry, Monday, February 1st.

  In 1897, a drunken Irishman, well known and laboriously tolerated for his notoriously highbrow aspirations and his equally notorious lowbrow abilities published what would become his most enduring literary achievement. It was not the only contrived and vulgar ghost story he would impose upon the world, but it would be associated with him throughout his life, after his death, and on to this day. In his novel, he called vampires “children of the night”.

  And for one brief, shining moment, he was absolutely correct.

  Bram Stoker, a modern man of his day, had not believed in his own product. He had approached his story from the position that his main character and his strange brides, the infamous “children of the night”, were nothing more than myth. A fable to tell around the campfire and frighten children.

  Stoker could not have been more mistaken.

  Stoker’s vampire was a fictional composite, based on a real-life Romanian warlord of particular brutality who had fought the Turks during the Middle Ages. The vampire brides were pure fiction, plot devices to up the sex factor as they seduced their victim, Jonathan Harker.

  I think Stoker was afraid of women, afraid of the sexual powers they lorded over men. He published during the so-called “gay 90’s”, something of a sexual revolution for that generation. Of course, syphilis and gonorrhea became more prevalent, so the old “promiscuity equals death” thing was an underlying theme in his novel, along with seductive women being only out for a man’s body fluids.

  Stoker paid real vampires a disservice, due to his ignorance and lack of belief. He was constrained by his own fears and sexual hang-ups, so I forgive him. He drew all the vampires in his fable as one-dimensional characters, pure evil, only after blood and domination, motivated only by lust. And to be fair, I have met a few vampires like that in my time.

  But I have also met vampires who with an affinity for humans. Even after death they identify with mortals, have a problem drinking blood from a living host. I personally don’t get that, but, whatever. Maybe they stay connected with their past.

  I find the practice impractical and imprudent. I only felt close so few people when I was alive, and felt a disconnect from others. So I keep humanity at arms’ length, especially since I have been dead for almost a century.

  Stoker makes me giggle.

  We do not turn into wisps of smoke. We do not turn into wolves, bat
s, or anything else. We cannot command the beasts of the field, nor the winds, nor the seas. Nor do we hypnotize our prey or put women into a swooning trance of orgasmic delight. The only place where that happens is the Late Late Show.

  We simply... are what we are.

  Vampires are not social creatures. Apex predators, we are solitary by nature. Continually in motion, we spend our time searching for prey.

  Some of my kind prefer their food to come to them. Ambush predators, I call them. Hanging out in alleys, stalking Skid Row, pretending to be drunkards, meth heads, whatever. If that is how they wish to do it that is their business. I find it inefficient.

  As a rule, we have no need to set ourselves up for “vampire groupies”. Quite frankly, I have never understood the attraction. To see someone become so enthralled that they willingly submit to periodic draining.

  That whole “moth to the flame” thing, I guess.

  They eventually get drained one too many times and they die. Then the vampire responsible must make a choice. Either welcome a newborn vampire into this world of shadow and mist, or destroy the body immediately.

  We pass for human as long as no one looks too closely. On the occasion that we cross paths on the hunt, we give each other a wide berth.

  Too many hunters panic the herd.

  But, of course, Stoker had not known any of this; that the legend of the vampire is much more than legend, more than an allegory to explain the humans’ fear of death. It was more than a Victorian “smoke and mirrors” cover up for sexual intercourse and its accompanying transmittable diseases.