by Jeff Seats
His knees became instantly weak, and Craig sat on the closest rock, no longer able to stand. All he could do was watch the remains of the red-headed vampire around his feet as the stream washed them away. He became shocked by a sudden realization. When the vampire made eye contact with him, he felt like he was looking directly into Katherine’s eyes, his last partner. This vampiric devil had indeed connected with his mind, maybe not strong enough to hold him physically in place, but so profoundly that she was able to plumb the depths of his soul. His last memory of that moment was of aiming his gun at her heart. Katherine’s lovely face pleading with him to pull the trigger. “Please . . . I love you.” She grit her teeth, “DO IT!”
Then Craig was back staring at, Saunders, on a stream bank in Idaho knowing that he had to do the same, again. He unholstered his sidearm, flicked off the safety and chambered a round. He felt himself on the verge of a moral crisis; having to kill yet another friend, another death that was his fault, and knew that this act could send him over the edge.
Craig had to deliberately shut out the memory of Katherine’s death—at his own hands—and pull himself out of the spiraling vortex of doubt and the self-blame that he had more than abundantly heaped on his shoulders. Saunders was too far gone from the vampire’s bite to be conscious. Somehow it felt worse without his reassuring eyes confirming the obvious need. Please kill me so I don’t turn into one of them.
He placed the muzzle of the gun close to his friend’s heart and slowly squeezed off a silver round into his chest.
BLAM!
Then he placed one more silver round into his skull.
BLAM!
A magnet for death, that’s what he felt he had become and he wondered if there wasn’t anyone whom he cared for who wasn’t going to die in front of him.
He chambered another round and stared at the gun.
Maybe I should just . . ..
IT WAS COLD and damp. The morning temperature was a small surprise due to the unseasonably warm spring-like weather the city had been experiencing. The early flowers, crocuses, and daffodils in some areas, fooled by the temperate conditions, had started to bloom while their smarter neighbors were still playing it safe and keeping their heads down until a bit later in the season.
The boy, late teens, hard to tell from the hood he had mostly pulled over his head, sat in a recessed doorway, his temporary home for the night. He eyed a man coming in his direction, still a couple of blocks away and he might not even cross the kid’s path but it was game time, and he had to be ready for whoever might see him. He pulled a flattened cardboard box from under him, which had been insulation from the cold concrete but was now a sign. He turned it so that the letters scrawled in black Sharpie would be visible: Seeking Human Kindness.
Homelessness is a scourge of twenty-first century America. For whatever reason, there are thousands of people who live on the streets of all cities large and small. Unlike the thousands on the street because of mental health problems, drug addiction or flat-out broke, there is a subset of street kids who have found that living in the dark crannies and doorways of the urban environment to be a rite of passage.
They subsist by any means necessary—from theft, to pushing drugs, to selling themselves for sex. But panhandling is their number one go-to gambit for filling the pocket with money. They position themselves in areas where a sympathetic person might see dirty, pathetic urchins as projections of their own children—God forbid. The marks were usually good for a buck or two. And so it was to the local Starbucks that some of these kids flocked; hovering around the entrance like fruit flies flitting around a glass of red wine.
Only the most intrepid of them were ready to ply their trade when the store opened at five a.m., but you had to start early to get enough cash before quitting time to afford a six-pack to help wash the Big Mac down. If lucky, one would sit holding a sign—ANYTHING HELPS—need a real meal, tired of eating pigeon—out of money—STUCK, need ticket for bus home—and guilt some cheap ass into contributing five bucks. Occasionally you would score a seven-dollar sandwich from one of the more bleeding-heart types; enabling all the cash accumulated that day to buy some pot and a sixer or two of Total Domination IPA, or any other of the local, higher alcohol beers—just because one lived on the streets it didn’t mean you had no appreciation of the finer things in life.
This kid was one of the more industrious types, and if it wasn’t going to be this guy, then it would be someone else. He heard the coffee shop door across the street close and got himself ready. This time he’d do the ‘looking-down-at-the-sidewalk-not-saying-anything’ routine. He felt a little added drama would seal the deal, so he reached into his pile and pulled a pathetic, weather-worn bongo drum into his lap and began to beat on it in his version of tribal expressionism. The kid cast his head down, pretending not to care if anyone saw him, until he saw a pair of bright white Nike’s in front of him. He looked up. A man held out a banana. A banana? Shit! And an overripe one at that. He hated overly ripe bananas. He nodded in fake appreciation, smiling as if the guy had done him a tremendous favor. The man continued to his car carrying a breakfast sandwich and grande mocha. Fuck you! Cheap bastard. But the earlier target was still coming in his direction. First, he stashed the banana; it wouldn’t help his plight if he looked too prosperous. Then he uncovered a metal crutch, which he propped up against the door behind him—it never hurt to lay it on thick sometimes— and resumed beating on his drum with renewed vigor.
As his prey got nearer, it was apparent this man, too, had no sympathy for someone down on his luck. The guy walked past. But instead of looking away, like so many of the good citizens of Portland, he scrutinized the kid. For a brief moment the boy thought that he recognized something in the man’s eyes: desire. A look some of his friends on the street succumbed to; allowing themselves to be used in such a base way, if only for a moment in a warm bed and the semblance of being loved. The extra cash didn’t hurt either. But when their eyes connected the kid knew he was just being judged again. He stared back at the man. A look of contempt spread across the kid’s dirty face, and he gave the man what he believed to be his best “fuck you, too” look. Just as the man passed beyond eyesight, the boy decided not to let that S.O.B. get away without some further input. “Thank you, SIR!” He spat out in his best sarcastic voice and flipped him the bird as an exclamation point.
Oh well, just another day at the office. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. American Spirits. He lit one and inhaled deeply. If that asshole was any indication, this day was going to be another rough one. Well, at least he had made it through the night again. Not like so many of his mates. In the last year, nights on the streets had become very unsafe. Shelters that would sit half empty were now overflowing. People who refused to use them, except in the worst of conditions, now flocked to find sanctuary from the nighttime streets. Those who couldn’t find a spot in the packed shelters crowded the sidewalks outside, trying to find a safe environment in which they could sleep, hoping that just the very act of being a part of a larger group would give them security, safety in numbers and all that rot.
Inhaling again, the boy looked up into the overcast sky. The clouds were lightening, signaling the beginning of sunrise. He knew during the day he would be free from harm, at least from what was out there lurking in the night. Finding a place to sleep during the day, however, was more difficult, but he might get lucky and score an open chair in the library reading room. If he had any money, he could catch a few winks at the Starbucks across the street, but he knew the drill, no purchase, no sitting.
««« ‡ »»» THE SKY WAS beginning to lighten, and the man had to make it inside before the sun was entirely overhead. The overcast and rain helped keep the intensity of the sunlight from doing him too much damage, which was why he felt it safe enough to be out so late, or early as it would appear. He knew that was pushing luck, but he was a risk taker, always had been, even in the condition he was in; loaded after a night of
reveling. Besides, along with risks came great rewards.
Continuing down the wet sidewalk, he spotted a pair of sneakers jutting from the recessed doorway of a small shop. The closer he got, the better he could see the telltale signs of a street kid: an unkempt pile of food wrappers, a couple of coffee cups, cut-up cardboard boxes laid flat to serve as an insulator from the cold concrete, and of course, a skateboard. The homeless youth was sitting cross-legged, beating on a small drum as though he were trying to conjure up the Street God of Cash. A crude sign pleading for assistance was propped up against one of a ratty pair of Chuck Taylors that barely hung on dirty feet. He was staring across the street into the Starbucks window, willing someone to take pity on him.
The man grinned to himself. Too bad the kid didn’t have the touch. That’s what he liked to call it, “the touch,” being able to make humans do his bidding through mental powers he had learned to use over many years, a favorable byproduct of his . . . condition.
He was close enough now to see the face of a boy—teenager —hard to tell from the hoody pulled over his head obscuring his face. As he passed the doorway, he and the teen made eye contact. The kid’s eyes spoke with contempt at yet another Portland liberal walking by without giving him the courtesy of dropping a few quarters in his cup. The intensity of the boy’s countenance made the man think maybe the kid did have the ability to influence other’s minds. But, instead of bending them to take pity on his plight, he very capably elicited the feeling of contempt; a distaste for this street person and all the others who acted as though they deserved a handout, and screw anyone who passed by without dropping off a few shekels.
Their eyes followed one another as the man passed the dry haven the youth had staked out. The boy’s eyes flared with hostility. The man’s eyes showing no acknowledgment of the kid’s clear situation—but there was an assessment; not meant as a moral judgment, more like an appraisal.
“Thank you, sir!” the boy said, voice dripping with sarcasm. The man continued past the kid, hands in his pocket and collar up. He came to the end of the block and stopped. He checked his pocket watch—an old timepiece from an earlier life and a younger, simpler Portland—time for the sun to rise. He’d had a successful night of it, and he really should be getting inside, but sometimes even after a filling evening he still was not sated. Looking around, he saw no one else about. It was still a bit early for the dog walkers or joggers. The Starbucks across the street was empty except for the two baristas and the old couple sitting with their backs to the window. Well, then, why call it quits when a nightcap was in order?
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled tendollar bill. The man never carried change; even in this day and age, the possibility of a real silver coin finding its way into his pocket and onto his hand was a pain he could do without. It was a bit like Superman carrying around a piece of kryptonite. He walked back toward where the street kid was smoking a cigarette. A disgusting habit. Well, at least he wasn’t going to die from cancer.
When the man stepped back in front of the boy, he could see the kid had been fuming over being ignored. But, when he spied the greenback in the man’s outstretched hand, the scowl vanished, and a slight smile made its way across his face, which grew broader in a metaphor for the sun rising and the dawn of a better day. The boy rose to his feet to accept the tenner and make his way across the street for some breakfast and shut-eye. But the man grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back into the shadow of the protective alcove.
“Hey! Get your fucking hands—” The boy’s voice trailed off. “This will be so much easier on both of us if you relax.” The boy heard the man’s voice in his head. But he no longer could respond or, for that matter, move.
The man reached for the zipper of the boy’s hoody and pulled it down. A bandanna was wrapped around his neck, which the man discarded revealing a dirty, yet invitingly youthful, throat. The man so wanted to stroke the boy’s exposed neck, to savor the moment, but he had a bit of a rush on what with the sun rising. This was where the risk lie. Potential death by sunlight or discovery as he sucked the life out of the kid. Still, foreplay was for darker more secure dining locations. The Adam’s apple of the boy slid up and down as he tried to swallow away his fear. The man leaned and opened his mouth allowing the razor-sharp incisors to jet out and puncture the young skin.
Headlights from a car arced across the store entrance as it turned a corner. The man was cutting things close. He was not going to be able to drain the boy. Too bad. He found the street kid’s blood had a certain flavor that appealed to him. He could always stop and bring the boy back with him—but no. The sun was dangerously close to causing his skin to burn, and the boy would hinder his speed returning to shelter. Besides, there were plenty more like him to be easily plucked from the streets. No, he could only drink enough to kill the boy and little else. He took one last swallow and then let the lad slump back to the cold cement, the ten-dollar bill still clutched in his right hand.
“Keep it,” the man said to the boy. “You earned it.” The man pulled up the collar of his jacket and put on a stocking cap covering his hair. Portland! I love this town. A meal on every corner just like in the old days. He began to pick up his pace with the brightening sky. He had over-celebrated the Master’s return. The overcast was unquestionably a lifesaver because this time he had absolutely pushed the boundaries of how long an immortal could be out after sunrise, which usually wasn’t very long, but unquestionably not this long. The weather was why he loved the Pacific Northwest—such gloom for so much of the year—though that had been changing. The whole global warming argument baffled him. Of course, the climate was different now. Just ask someone who had been living in the region for nearly 150 years. They’d tell you.
The climate wasn’t all that had altered over the years, either. Portland just was not the same wild west town that it had been when he first had strolled the streets in his hedonistic youth. Exiled by his stiff New England parents to the ends of the earth, he was sent to Portland with nothing more than a monthly stipend and a warning to behave himself. In 1878, Portland had a split personality. There was the north end where the upright, lawabiding lived and the area around the docks where the bars, houses of prostitution, and gambling halls clustered, ready to service the sailors, loggers, and ranchers who were looking to lighten their pockets of hard-earned money.
That was a much different Portland to be sure. The kind of town where a young man with deep pockets could lose himself. He wasn’t ambitious and had no desire to reform, as his father had hoped. The prostitutes and faro games and booze were enough to keep him busy for a very long time. And when all that became too ordinary, the opium dens in Chinatown provided new avenues to explore. That was where his ultimate downfall had occurred. Or was it an awakening?
Stumbling out of one of those basement establishments, still in an opiate haze, he got himself turned around and opened a door he thought would lead to the stairs. But instead, he found himself in a sort of a hall that angled into another. Instead of continuing straight he took a left at the junction and proceeded until he stepped in a muddy puddle of water, where he stopped. He reached out to steady himself and touched a wet, rough-cut stone wall. Realization hit. He must have discovered one of the many tunnels he had heard whispers of—the passages first created for merchants to avoid busy muddy streets when getting their goods from the docks and into basement warehouses. He’d heard other stories of the tunnels as well. Stories of how crimps would use them to haul drugged loggers and farm boys down to awaiting ships.
Other passages were supposed to interconnected with these established tunnels, and used for much more nefarious purposes. It was here where he met the Master. He thought his drugged, befuddled mind was still playing tricks when, out of the shadows of an already dark tunnel, black tendrils swirled around him. He felt sticky webbing like spiders’ silk touch his skin. The filaments playfully danced around, engulfing him. Then they blended, merging and solidifying. At f
irst, he could not understand what he was seeing. The more he tried to focus on the threads the harder it was to see anything. When he let his eyes relax, however, he saw the fibrous wisps merge and form into the shape of a man blacker than the darkest shadows.
Then he heard a voice in his head.
“Anthony. Do not be afraid. I want you to join my family.” He surprised himself with his answer, “Yes, my master. I wish
to join as well.” But that was long ago, right now the sun was dangerously high, and he needed to quit dawdling and get inside. His pace quickened as he turned the corner off Hawthorne and rushed down the sidewalk towards safety. He paused in front of an old Victorian with the overgrown garden. Anthony lifted the latch on the gate and scurried to the side of the house. He removed a key and opened a door. None too soon too. He had felt the back of his neck heat up. The burning smell was unmistakable. The sun had started to do its work of cleansing the earth of his kind.
He closed the door and made sure the shade over the glass panel was firmly pulled shut. Then he turned left and went down into the basement. He liked living in this part of town. First a working-class neighborhood, then one for hippies and drop-outs, now the home for hipsters, millennials, and drunk college kids as well as immigrants from almost every state in the union. He didn’t over-abuse the easy access to the low-hanging fruit that was provided to him, that would draw attention. But then again, here they were. And the influx of nameless homeless people sleeping in the doorways and under the shrubs made it a lot easier to not have to stray too far from home.
This part of Portland had always been good pickings. And he had a great location, far enough away from the stumbling drunks around the BAR-Muda triangle up Hawthorne at 49th, but still close enough to be able to get anywhere in town he wanted to go. And Uber made things so much easier.