Nocturnal

by Mark Allen

  “You’re quite the careful driver,” Reggie observed.

  “I have no desire to be interrogated by law enforcement.”

  “Tickets can get real expensive real fast, right?”

  The vampire considered his next words carefully. “Law enforcement and I have not always seen eye to eye.”

  Reggie took in his breath, a prelude to asking another question. But the vampire switched lanes again, and came to a halt in a left turn lane. Reggie looked ahead, and saw an all-American diner diagonally to the left. The sign proudly proclaimed they had been in continuous business since 1949.

  The vampire cranked on the wheel and hit the gas. They lunged forward, flashing across three lanes of oncoming traffic, and landed safely on a side street. The Lexus slowed immediately, and turned right into the small parking lot behind the building.

  They got out of the car. Reggie stretched his legs and arched his back, hands extended high over his head. The vampire locked the car with his keychain remote. They started walking towards the sidewalk.

  “It’s chilly tonight,” Reggie said.

  “I had not noticed.”

  “Do you even feel the cold?”

  “Constantly.”

  Reggie glanced over at his new guardian angel, amazed by the irony of that term. Dark hair, limp like old seaweed, pale skin, almost transparent, dark clothing that seemed to make him even more a part of the shadows and a thin, lean frame.

  A slight silhouette, someone who knew what it was to hunt, and also knew what it was to be the hunted. The dark sunglasses, hiding those alien black eyes, all accentuated by the long coat. Even in the semidarkness of the frigid evening that looked like it was going to become foggy before too much longer, enough light shone that Reggie could tell the coat had been treated with oils to make it rainproof. Water would bead up and roll off.

  They walked around to the front entrance. The vampire held the door open for Reggie to walk through first. Even though Reggie knew who and what the vampire was capable of doing, he had no problem walking in first, effectively turning his back on this creature. Reggie knew the vampire genuinely meant him no harm. If he had any malicious intent, the vampire could have, and would have, simply slaughtered him in the hotel room.

  Reggie stepped into the narrow foyer, and was greeted by a chest-high sign inviting guests to seat themselves. As he finished scanning the sign, he sensed the vampire step inside, the door closing behind him.

  The diner was long and narrow, with a long counter on their left, accompanying barstools bolted to the floor. The counter made a hard left about fifty or sixty feet down, disappearing from their line if sight. On the right, next to the large windows that looked out on El Cajon Boulevard, a series of booths stretched towards the back for nearly fifty feet as well. More booths lined the far wall, mirroring the left turn the counter took. Even more booths hid in an overflow area, but that area was closed at the moment. The decor was of modern manufacture, but the design in keeping with the ambience of a 1940’s diner.

  Reggie moved down the walkway between the bar and the booths. He selected a booth at the back, nearest the blocked off area. He sat down in the far seat, making sure he was facing the door through which they had just arrived. The vampire slid into the booth on the opposite side, his back towards the door.

  A middle-aged Hispanic man, with a graying moustache and an expanding middle appeared almost immediately. He welcomed them to the diner, and placed plastic laminated menus in front of them both. He asked what they would like to drink. Reggie ordered an iced tea. The vampire ordered the same. The man smiled and nodded, then disappeared as quickly as he had come.

  “I thought you could only drink blood and water,” Reggie said softly.

  “Tea is not much more than colored water.”

  The Hispanic busboy returned, placed their drinks in front of them. Each man thanked him. The busboy smiled graciously and nodded, then retreated once more.

  “So what can you not drink?” Reggie asked.

  The vampire stared out through the window a moment. “Anything other than water, and a bit of tea,” he said finally. “No coffee, unless it’s black, and I hate black coffee,” he added. “No alcohol. No milk.”

  “And regular food?”

  “I am allergic to it,” the vampire answered. “I get physically ill. Nausea, vomiting. Abdominal cramping. A rather disgusting diarrhea.”

  “Damn,” Reggie said. “That sucks.”

  The vampire grinned at the humor. “Indeed.”

  A young woman, tall, gaunt, pink hair the color of bubblegum, and body tattoos and facial piercings, stepped up to their table. Her nametag greeted the world as Suzie, and she stood beside their table, pen in one hand, notepad in the other.

  “Good evening, gents,” Suzie said. “What can I get you tonight?”

  “Swiss and mushroom burger, medium, and onion rings,” Reggie ordered.

  She jotted down the particulars, and turned her head to the vampire. “And you, sir?”

  The vampire’s smile had vanished. His long face and narrow features appeared to be more severe behind his sunglasses. The telepathic waves coming off Suzie struck him, and he did not like what he sensed. Domestic violence, he knew. He could not tell if she was the perpetrator, or the victim.

  “Just the iced tea for me, thanks.”

  “You sure? The food’s good here.”

  “I am certain,” he responded, modulating his tone carefully. He did not want to create a scene, but he wanted her away from him quickly. He could not guarantee controlling his urge to tear her head off her body.

  “Last chance, honey.”

  And yours, he thought. “The tea is fine.”

  She spun on her heel and walked away. The vampire’s eyes followed her from beneath his dark shades.

  Reggie reached across the table, tapped the vampire’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” the vampire snapped. When Reggie continued to stare at him, the vampire said, “Something about her. Something most distasteful.”

  “Like what?”

  “The stink of evil. It follows her around, like bad cologne.” He leaned in closer to Reggie. “And this is not the time or the place to find out what it is.”

  Reggie sipped his iced tea, then remembered he had not sweetened it. He grabbed the tiny dish on the table that contained several measured packets of sugar and artificial sweetener. He pulled out four sugar packets. He opened them into the glass, where the sugar cascaded into the tea, where it continued downward towards the bottom of the glass. He picked up the long narrow-necked spoon and stirred.

  “You know, we’re still just tap dancing around the real issues here.”

  The vampire cocked his head, intrigued. “How so?”

  “I don’t believe for a minute you picked my name out of a hat. It’s no accident we met. That was no random act of kindness the other night, any more than it’s a random act you protecting me now.”

  The vampire shrugged, his coat moving upward around his neck and face. For a brief instant, Reggie thought he looked like a huge bat, like something out of an old black and white horror movie.

  “So the question becomes, or rather, the question remains, why me? Why save me? Why am I so important? More pointedly, sir, why am I so important to you?”

  “Bravo,” the vampire beamed with pride. “That is the relevant question, is it not?” The vampire took another carefully measured sip of his tea.

  “I understand why you stay in the shadows,” Reggie said. “By saving me, you’ve stepped into the light. You wouldn’t do that unless you had a damn good reason. I need you to tell me everything.”

  “Oh, believe me, my child, I fully intend to.”

  Reggie asked, “And why do you call me, ‘my child’, or ‘my dear boy’? Any why do you do it out of affection, and not condescension? And why is it that it doesn’t offend me when you do it?”

  Suzie came prancing back towards them, Reggie’s food piled on a p
late in her right hand. Reggie sat back and let her place the platter in front of him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She smiled. “You’re welcome, hon,” she said. She looked at the vampire. “How you doing with that tea?”

  The vampire reached out quickly, grabbed her gently but firmly by the wrist. Reggie watched with alarm, but said nothing. Watching, he saw Suzie’s face register alarm, but quickly go blank. Her features relaxed, her breathing slowed. Reggie knew something was going on, but he did not know what. But he knew not to interfere.

  The vampire smiled reassuringly, let go of her wrist, and patted her hand.

  “Everything is fine. Thank you, Suzie.”

  Her eyes blinked a few times, like she was coming out of a trance or a light nap. Her brow furrowed slightly, confused. Then everything seemed to be all right. She turned around and walked away towards the kitchen. She did not look back at them.

  “So what’s the deal with her?” Reggie asked.

  The vampire, who had been watching her walk away, turned his attention back to his companion. “She is a victim, not a perpetrator.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Already done. I suggested to her to leave him.” The vampire leaned forward, then whispered fiercely,” Real men don’t hit.”

  “You think she’ll do it?”

  “Unknown.”

  Reggie picked up the rolled napkin, which had his silverware inside, and unrolled it. He placed his cutlery on the table beside his plate, laced the napkin in his lap. He picked up his fork, and stabbed at the steaming food. The vampire watched him hoist the first bite into his mouth.

  “You want to know why I saved you. The answer is simple.”

  Reggie looked at the vampire, waiting for the next shoe to drop.

  “We are... related.”

  Keeping his face carefully neutral, Reggie asked, “How so?”

  “By bloodline,” the vampire answered. “You are my direct descendant.”

  Reggie, not believing, cocked his head to one side. “You do realize that... well, that.....”

  “What?”

  “Well, that... that you’re white, and I’m black.”

  “Skin color matters little when two people are truly in love.” Loss and sadness resonated in the vampire’s voice. The corners of his mouth turned downward. His chin dipped, his body sagged, decades of regret weighing him down.

  The morose tone made Reggie sit still and pay attention. He hardly dared breathe.

  “Reginald, my lad” the vampire said, taking off his sunglasses and looking directly at Reggie, “this will be difficult for you to believe.”

  “What?”

  The vampire removed his opaque glasses. “I am your great, great grandfather.”

  Reggie searched the face of the creature sitting across from him. He recognized earnestness in the vampire’s voice. He saw no hint of guile in those unblinking eyes.

  Reggie cleared his throat, took another bite of food. He needed a moment to turn things over in his mind, to think. After chewing and swallowing, he sipped his iced tea. He was buying time, stalling. Then he looked directly at the vampire.

  “First, put your shades back on. No one needs to see that.” He waited as the creature across from him complied.

  “Now. I think you’d better tell me the whole story. And I mean, everything. Leave nothing out.”

  “Everything,” the vampire repeated wistfully. He looked at Reggie and nodded. “I promise.”

  Reggie smile encouragingly, then continued eating. His companion, the ancient creature sitting across from him, this vampire, began to tell his story.

  The story of life.

  A story of violent death.

  And of a rebirth into darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The first thing you should know is my name. The one my parents gave me, my human name. It will become relevant as this conversation continues.

  I was born of man and woman, just as you were. I was named and known as Edwin Thaddeus Marx. Does the name ring any bells? No? Did your mother or grandmother ever mention someone named Eddie? Eddie Marx? Did you ever meet your Great, Great Grandmother, Danae? No? Yes? Perhaps when you were quite little. We shall progress to that in the fullness of time.

  I was born in Hoboken, New Jersey, October 14, 1889. The family name Marx is of Germanic origin. It goes back, in various spellings well over a thousand years, both in Germania and other parts of Eastern Europe. It shows up in several Germanic and Slavic languages, in one form or another.

  My father, of course, was an immigrant. He was a butcher by trade. No big surprise. This was a time when young men often grew up working whatever the family business happened to be. My father, my father’s father, and his father’s father before him, had all been butchers, both in the old country and here in “the New Land”. That is they called it.

  The Land of Opportunity.

  My parents’ dreams of wealth and comfort were much sweeter than the reality they faced. As you and I know, reality rarely lives up to the hype.

  My mother was Bonnie Johns. Johns is an Anglo-Saxon name. It is probably where “Thaddeus” came from. Her people had started out in England. They moved to Ireland in the Middle Ages when England was trying to repopulate that country. Land was cheap. In some cases it was free. So Commoners could move to Ireland, stake a claim, receive ownership of the land, and live there. Instant equity, instant prosperity. Then the Potato Famine changed all that.

  But I digress.

  Bonnie Johns became Bonnie Marx when she married my dad. Back then, all women did that. Keeping a maiden name, or becoming a hyphenate, was never contemplated by the women of the time. What can I tell you? It was a different time, a different society with different norms.

  A different world.

  I was an only child, which was unusual for that time. Birth control as we understand it now was practically nonexistent in those days, except for the rhythm method and the “sheath” – what you would call a condom. I seem to remember overhearing my mother and father talking about the terrible time she had in childbirth with me, and that the doctor had said other children were not possible. It is a vague memory, as I was very young. I am sure they thought they were having a private conversation. Such matters are usually considered “husband and wife stuff”, intimate things kept private between a married couple.

  But a six-year-old boy growing up alone and inventing imaginary knows how to hide under a bed and keep still and silent. The plaster walls and wooden floors of our cramped apartment did the rest, allowing the slightest sound to reverberate and carry.

  My dad worked hard for his money, and did not make a lot. Often, in hard times, when times were tough for everyone, he was actually paid in meat. We might have gotten behind on the rent a few times, but we never went hungry.

  Can you imagine something like that in this day and age?

  My father never actually owned any of the butcher shops he worked in. When he came here, he had to start over at the bottom. An entry-level position. He was strictly the hired help, and back then, just as now, no one makes more money than the boss. No big deal, no resentment on my part. It was simply how things were.

  My father died when I was eleven, in 1901. He took ill in the fall. It did not start out as much, just a cough. Then the fevers started, the cough became productive, and he got sick, weak, and pale. The cough got worse, more liquid in noise. We knew he was in a bad way. His skin went to ashen gray. He had bluish tint at the lips and fingernails.

  We finally called a doctor who took a look, told us it was pneumonia and there was nothing he could do. Dad was too far gone, the case too advanced. The doctor said he was sorry, and left.

  Naturally, I understand now what was happening. Bluish skin is called cyanosis, and it is caused by hypoxia. At the time, I just knew he looked like a dead man.

  His cough got worse, his sputum g
oing from yellow to green, and finally to brown and red, tinged with blood. Every time he tried to wheeze in a breath, you could hear the fluids gurgling.

  He died that winter. It was a blessing. His muscles had withered to nothing. He looked like a skeleton covered in flesh. I was there in the room when he passed. His final breath left his chest with a small sigh, his eyes partly closed as the ciliary muscles relaxed, he went limp, and that was it. His remains just lay there, silent and still, meat on a slab.

  My father was only forty-one years old.

  Mom and I were, of course, devastated. We faced a bleak, uncertain future. These were the days before life insurance was available to those of us of “modest means”. Life insurance then was a luxury of the rich.

  We were on our own.

  Then we realized we were lucky in a way, luckier than most in similar situations. Mom had mad skills as a seamstress. Within a week, she started taking in work from people in the building where we lived. We had to make ends meet so we weren’t tossed out. Her work was so consistently good that before we knew it, she was handling work from not only our building, but from all over the neighborhood.

  Even with Mama’s sewing, food was scarce. There was no welfare, no food stamps, no housing subsidies. The neighbors helped when they could. They would bring extras they had, leftover food, that kind of thing. Sometimes, hand-me-down clothes, shoes their children had outgrown. They knew our circumstances. They understood. And being the good decent compassionate folk they were, they wanted to help out.

  We even had to take charity from the Church a time or two. That embarrassed Mama the most. She could rationalize the gifts from our neighbors as them just being “neighborly”. She was being “polite” to accept “gifts”. She told herself that if they offered and we accepted, it was okay. As if we did not truly rely on them to stay fed and clothed. But going to the Church, that was different. That was desperation. There was no way to sugar coat that.

  Thank God for Mr. Brennerman. If I ever see heaven, I hope I see him. I’d like to say thank you.

  Brennerman owned the butcher shop where my worked. And when I say he was old, I mean old. This guy was seventy if he was a day. Tall, lean, a shock of gray hair that was almost white, and a thick handlebar moustache. Tough as a two-dollar steak. Worked every day of his life. He died at his butcher table. I kid you not.