Suck It Up

by Brian Meehl

  DeThanatos hesitated. He didn’t like giving his name to Lifers. But if his fellow Loners were to know who led Morning McCobb to bloodlust and destroyed the Leaguer cause, a little publicity was necessary. “My name is DeThanatos.”

  She framed a shot and hit the record button. “What kind of name is DeThanatos?”

  His gray eyes fixed on her lens. “A very old one.”

  “So, Mr. DeThanatos, you wanted to tell me about the hidden agenda of Worldwide Out Day.”

  “Yes.” He glanced toward the stage. “But it would be much better if someone else showed you the truth.”

  The clunk of the stone door spun her around. “Damn.” The door was opening again. When she turned back, DeThanatos was gone. She whispered into the shadows. “Where are you?”

  The only sound was the groaning door.

  She slapped the flip-out screen shut and turned her camera off.

  Morning squeezed through the door and ran to the front of the stage. “What are you doing out here?”

  Portia shrugged. “I wanted some fresh air.”

  “How did you know the way out?”

  “A little bird told me.”

  He jumped off the stage. His feet thudded on the floor and kicked up a cloud of dust. “You’re lying!”

  She turned away, smiling at the realization that her answer about a bird had some truth to it. Then she did lie. “I peeked under my blindfold, okay?”

  “What kind of filmmaker comes outside during the biggest event of the night?”

  “A dizzy filmmaker. I felt sick. I told you, I needed some air.”

  He stepped closer. “You’re dizzy all right—dizzy for a guy.”

  She met his accusing eyes. “So what,” she said defiantly. “He won’t be the first Leaguer I’m into. I can handle it.”

  “He’s not a Leaguer. He’s a Loner.”

  A chill skittered down her neck. Then she realized what he was up to. “Now you’re lying.”

  “We don’t know who he is, but he’s not a Leaguer. And he’d think nothing of draining you like a six-ounce Coke.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He threw up his hands. “Why would I lie to you about something like that?”

  “Because you’re jealous!” she spit back. “If he wanted to chug me, he would have done it by now!”

  Her revelation put him on his heels. He tried to probe the darkest corners of the saloon. “He’s here, isn’t he?” His eyes shot to the floor. Footprints cut through the carpet of dust and disappeared behind the bar. He whispered sharply, “We gotta go inside, now.”

  She crossed her arms and didn’t bother to lower her voice. “I’m not done with my interview. He was about to tell me some dark truth about Worldwide Out Day. He said you could tell me too. If you tell me, I’ll go inside.”

  Morning stared in bewilderment. “There’s no dark truth. Don’t you get it? He made it up to get you out here!”

  Before she could accuse him of lying again, they heard a skitter near the door.

  The tail of a retreating rodent was all Morning glimpsed before it vanished outside. They both jumped as something hissed above them. He glanced up and saw the rain of dust coming through the chandelier. The dust sprinklers had been activated.

  “Your interview’s over,” he said. “Blondie-boy just left the building.”

  She stuffed her camera in her bag to protect it from the showering dust. “How do you know?”

  “Motion detectors. Leaguers coming in and out of the mountain cover their tracks.”

  She moved through the billowing dust, banged through the one swinging door in the entranceway, and called out. “DeThanatos!”

  Morning followed her onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon. “We have to go back inside.” He grabbed her arm.

  She jerked it away. “You go.” She shook the dust off her like an angry dog and called again. “DeThanatos!”

  Across the moonlit street, standing in the inky shadow of a doorway, DeThanatos watched, and waited.

  Morning fought the urge to grab Portia and haul her inside. He could be stronger than her, much stronger. But for some reason the Loner hadn’t struck. He still had time to reason with her. “Is that his name?”

  “Yeah, that’s as far as I got before you butted in.”

  “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

  She spun on him with flashing eyes. “Do I have any idea what I’m doing? Oh, that’s funny! You’re the one that doesn’t have a clue what you’re doing ’cause you’re not you anymore!”

  He blinked away the dust in his eyes. “What’s that mean?”

  “You’re half me!”

  His head tilted with confusion. “Huh?”

  She dropped into an old chair on the boardwalk and dumped her camera bag beside it. She didn’t want to tell him, but now it was out. “Didn’t you wonder why you ran into the desert, then came back as a cocky actor and the super-cool spokesman they’re watching in there now? Didn’t you wonder why you started air-quoting with single fingers? What do you think happened out there?”

  He heard her words but couldn’t see her. Another vision had invaded his mind. A matrix of smoldering ash, in the shape of a body. It seemed to be held up by nothing but fiery stitches. Then the threads of flame frayed into smoke, and the matrix collapsed on itself. His voice rasped as dry as the vision. “Fire and ash.”

  “That’s right! And whose blood do you think revived you?”

  Portia’s dusty face loomed back into view. “Yours?”

  She popped up from the chair. “Yeah, my blood!” She ignored his stupefied expression and paced. “And then Birnam fed me a crock about how, with my blood in you, your veins would run with my hopes and desires. But here’s the kicker. He told me we’d share the beat of a heart surrendered to love. Talk about BS!” She stopped in front of him. “But Birnam got it half right. Your heart surrendered, all right.” She poked him in the chest with each word. “To selfishness, resentment, and envy!”

  The last word struck like a knife. He wanted her to pull it out, take it back. “No,” he whispered. “Why would I envy you?”

  “Because I’ve got something you don’t.” She threw an arm toward the moon shadows. “You’re not jealous of some guy. You’re jealous of me—of my future! I bet you’re jealous of anyone who’s gonna get past sixteen!”

  His knees buckled. He dropped in the chair with a plea. “Please don’t say that.”

  But something had broken in her. A dam of anger and hurt that could only be mended by washing him away in the flood. “It’s true! The curtain’s coming down on your dream and you can’t stand that it’s rising on mine. My dream! Of making a great film, of telling the incredible story of Leaguers.”

  Morning sagged. His chin fell to his chest.

  She stood over him, not letting up. “You had your day. You caught your big moment. And tomorrow you’re going back to New York to maybe become a firefighter, or maybe not. But your ride to the top is over.” She thumbed her chest. “My ride is only beginning!”

  A tear dropped from Morning’s hidden face, flickered in the moonlight, and splattered in the dust.

  She felt a pang of sympathy for him but choked it back. Now they were even. Both their hearts had surrendered to heartbreak.

  She turned her back on him and looked down the street of dust and moon shadow. Her rage was spent, folded into the current of a greater river: her future. Her insides quaked with the thrill of tomorrow.

  “Morning,” she finally said quietly, “I never meant to ruin your big night. If I have, I’m sorry. But right now, I want you to go away before you ruin mine.”

  He lifted his head. His tears had dried in pale tracks on his cheeks. The only thing that caught the moonlight were his shining eyes, and the glistening daggers of two perfect fangs.

  40

  Bloodlust

  Across the street, DeThanatos’s face lifted into a smile as he watched Morning silently rise from the chair
. Then he watched the vampire leap for Portia. His first attempt to sink his fangs missed, and the screaming and the struggle began.

  DeThanatos shook his head with a low chuckle. The first swill and kill was always a clumsy affair. It took dozens of victims before a vampire perfected the three Ps: “pounce, pierce, and pacify.”

  Morning was still working on his pounce. The two figures, locked in a dance of flailing arms and kicking legs, stumbled into the street. They spun, tripped, hit the ground, and broke apart in a cloud of dust. Portia yanked up her dress, jumped to her feet, and tried to run. Morning leaped after her, grabbed her arm, and pulled her toward him. She slammed her free arm against his chest, trying to fight off his embrace.

  DeThanatos heard the rip of fabric and saw the flap of cloth drop like a lolling tongue from Morning’s jacket. Something ejected from it, as if the fabric tongue had spit out an unwanted candy. Then the object was lost in the shuffle of feet.

  Morning shoved Portia against a hitching rail, caught her swatting arms, and pinned her against the crosspiece. She leaned back, trying to shift her weight and knee him in the crotch. But he was too quick. He plunged his fangs into her neck.

  Her scream parted DeThanatos’s lips, revealing his fangs. They dug into his lower lip, drawing beads of blood. DeThanatos never liked to watch. But seeing Morning drink the poison that would kill the Leaguer cause was worth the exception.

  For Morning, it was more than drinking. More than pulling a warm liquid in and swallowing. It was swimming through a slipstream of sensation. There was the touch of fluid velvet caressing his lips, mouth, and throat. There was the sound of her blood coursing into him like a swollen river, and the double thud of her heart concussing like unseen fireworks.

  Of all the sensations, nothing compared to the taste. It was spiced with euphoric flavors—chocolate, berries, cinnamon, caramel. They exploded on his tongue and swirled through his head. But the strongest flavor was one he’d long forgotten. It detonated in his mouth and shot tremors through his body. There was no describing it, only its effect. It shook his bones with excitement. It flooded him with hope. It pitched him into the confluence where blood and dream become one. It was the ultimate reward of bloodlust. A plunge into the river of delirious youth.

  As he cavorted in the forbidden well and swilled the essence of mortal beings, an image intruded. Portia’s face loomed in front of him. In his mind, he turned away, but wherever he turned her image waited, fixing him with dark eyes. Then there was a flash of white; he felt her stinging slap on his cheek. It was so real his eyes flew open and he yanked his fangs out of her neck.

  He immediately realized it was just a vision, another memory returning from the desert. Portia’s real face was right in front of him. Her eyes were unfocused, limpid, her skin pale and iridescent in the moonlight. He skimmed down the white road of her neck and found the double wound. All he wanted was to leap back into the river, to plunge his cooling fangs back into the hot lava still coursing through her.

  She moaned. Her foot jerked like a dreaming dog’s. It kicked something in the dust. The object slid into Morning’s view. He thought nothing of it, and bent toward her neck.

  But as his fangs sought her wound, the object caught his eye again. He froze. It looked familiar. He tilted his head quizzically. Then came the slap of recognition. The wafer of wood—the Maltese cross—the good-luck charm Sister had found in his room and tucked in his pocket.

  He tried to look away and dive back into the wound. But the cross stared up at him like a four-pronged eye: a silent accuser.

  Then everything slowed. A drop of blood fell away from his lips. He watched it tumble down. It hit the wafer of wood, leaving a crimson splatter on the blue cross.

  The jarring combination paralyzed him. His memory was not so easily stilled. Images loomed into view. The cover of Watchmen: the arrow of blood on the eye of a smile button. The first panel: the yellow smile button, the sign of the first murdered masked hero—the Comedian.

  He blinked in shock. The smile button was gone, replaced by the blood-spattered cross in the dust.

  He struggled to clear his mind, but a new wave of images crashed through him: firefighters crawling over the jagged ruins at Ground Zero—the North Tower collapsing in a devouring gray spider of dust—the ashen web of his body crumbling in the desert—the flash of a vampire’s fangs coming at him—the old fireman beckoning him to the fire table—Portia’s fist squeezing out a stream of blood—the blood plunging toward a pile of ash—blood spilling over the Maltese cross.

  With eyes shut tight, he violently shook his head, trying to free himself from the chaos. He yearned to open his eyes and discover everything had been a nightmare. He opened them and saw the spackle of blood across Portia’s neck. And the wound. It was no nightmare. He had succumbed. Her eyes were more limpid and lifeless than before. He held a finger to her neck. She had a pulse. Faint, but she was still alive.

  He scooped her up, carried her back to the boardwalk. He set her down in the chair and dashed inside. He had to find Birnam.

  Across the street, DeThanatos watched the flapping saloon door with burning disdain. Then his gray eyes shifted to Portia. “I hate leftovers.”

  41

  Negotiation

  Having set off the sprinklers again, Morning dashed through the fog of dust. As he jumped onto the stage, he heard the stone door opening.

  A moment later, Birnam came out and saw the blood and dust caked on Morning’s mouth. Penny emerged behind him. Seeing Morning, she gasped and pushed past him.

  He tried to stop her. “Please, don’t—”

  “Let her go,” Birnam ordered.

  Morning released her arm. Penny rushed down to the saloon floor. As she frantically searched for her daughter in the swirling haze, Birnam raised an arm and stretched his fingers toward her. She jerked to a stop next to a table, her arms fell to her sides. Her eyes stared blankly ahead.

  Morning gaped in amazement.

  Birnam lowered his arm. “Close her eyes so they don’t fill with dust.” Morning sleeve-wiped his mouth, moved down to Penny, and did as he was told. Birnam walked to the edge of the stage. “Some Leaguers retain the old powers,” he explained. Morning felt his condemning eyes. “And some Leaguers can’t restrain the old desires.”

  “I know,” he blurted, “but she’s still alive! We have to save her!”

  “Where is she?”

  He rushed toward the door. Birnam followed.

  Morning escaped the cloud of dust billowing onto the boardwalk. He stared at the chair. Empty. “She’s gone!”

  Birnam scanned the street. The bright moon hung high in the sky. “Why did you two leave the mountain?”

  “I followed her,” Morning tried to explain, unable to hide the panic in his voice. “She was planning to meet the Loner. His name is DeThanatos.”

  Birnam stiffened, then let out a sigh of resignation. “Ikor DeThanatos. I should have known.”

  “You know him?”

  As Birnam stared into the middle distance, his face pinched with concern. “We’ve never met. He’s the only Loner who refused to sign the peace agreement at the end of World War V.”

  “I don’t care what he did or didn’t sign. He’s got Portia!”

  “Yes.” Birnam nodded. “Which means she’s still alive.”

  Morning sucked in air and hope. “Really?”

  “Loners are predictable that way. Empties get left where they lie. Unfinished vessels get saved for later.”

  A pickup truck followed a two-lane highway snaking through low mountains.

  DeThanatos steered the pickup he’d stolen from one of the partygoers who had returned to Leaguer Mountain. He still wore his ragged cowboy gear. Portia, pale as ash and held up by a seat belt, jostled in the passenger seat.

  Her eyes fluttered open. She tried to turn her head, but she didn’t have the strength. Her neck throbbed from the wound, now surrounded by an ugly bruise. In her semi-conscious state, all she c
ould make out was the pool of headlights and the road sliding through it. Her mouth was parched, her lips felt cracked. “Where am I?” she rasped.

  “In a safe place.”

  She recognized the young man’s voice. “What happened?”

  “Morning tried to kill you.”

  The memory flooded back. She exhaled sharply. She felt like someone had punched her in the chest.

  DeThanatos gave her a moment to recover. “That’s the secret I wanted to tell you. In the end, Leaguers are no different than Loners. But Morning did a pretty good job of proving that.”

  More of the night came back to her. “And you’re a Loner.”

  “Yes, I don’t live a lie.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  He chuckled. “No, I’m trying to protect you.”

  “From whom?”

  “From Morning, Birnam, and any Leaguer who wants to cover up Morning’s little deviation from the grand plan.”

  Portia winced with pain and confusion. “Why would they want me dead?”

  “You just became the proof that the great Morning McCobb isn’t who he says he is. That the Leaguer Way is a farce. And that a ‘harmless vampire’ is the most creative lie since ‘wardrobe malfunction.’”

  After Morning’s attack she couldn’t disagree. And DeThanatos was protecting her. At least for now. “Where are we going?”

  “To a sacred place. To a place that if they send Morning or anyone else after you, we can destroy them.”

  She braced herself against the pain and turned her face enough to see him. “You want me to kill Morning?”

  “You may not have a choice.” He lifted a bottle off the seat, used his mouth to break the seal on the top, and put it in her hand. “Drink it. It’ll help you regain your strength.”

  In the dim glow of the cab she recognized the label of an energy drink. She couldn’t get the lid off fast enough.

  Morning ran down the moonlit street. He shut his eyes and blocked out all sensation as he laser-focused on a great horned owl.