by John Falin
“Thanks, I think.”
“Not all of us are so uptight, Adriel. There is no doubt that we are in serious times, but what is a long life if it cannot be enjoyed?” One hand clasping my shoulder and the other still lightly in my hand, we seem like old friends. I disarm and my shoulders relax. He smiles, never breaking eye contact. Without moving, he says to a vamp ten feet behind, “Seth, you may have bitten off more than you can chew.”
I wish he wouldn’t have said that. Surely he realizes that Seth will make me pay for that one. Bryn cups my hand in both of his and, with a pat, let’s go while drifting away with a smile that’s half humor, half mischief. I decide to greet my new mentor, rotating to face him in trepidation. It feels like I’m back in the old dojo with my former master when I start the process of bowing by instinct and catch myself before the full respect is given. Seth must understand this tradition and is offended by the lack of follow-through—great.
He says, “I have been commanded to train you in the subtle art of combat. From what… Hanz and Franz… have told me, you have some fighting skills, but mostly they say you have, how do they say, balls. Here is your new best friend.”
He tosses a bokken and I reach for it, grabbing the slippery handle, and clench it tightly in case of an immediate strike. I notice the wooden sword is constructed from white oak, the densest and sturdiest of the woods, so I inquire, “What’s with the white oak?”
“Our bones are too dense for us to properly learn from an average or cheaper bokken.”
“When you say learn, I hear the sound of this crashing against my head.”
He sneers with delight. “Thank you for the inspiration.”
Within a nanosecond, Seth is already in flight to make me pay for Bryn’s comment, raining down a series of quick and aggressive attacks that I parry, matching his speed, though clumsily. He stops suddenly and allows me a second to strategize my next move. After years of training, I know this is his measurement of my skill by testing my reaction and behavior. I’ve never been one for defense, so I lunge and feint, but he doesn’t bite. I then start my own attack with savagery and its brother, tenuous control. He blocks easily, makes a slight adjustment, and lands his sword directly on top of my head, knocking me to the ground as the swelling shadow of unconsciousness tries to settle in.
The shadow nearly envelops me, but leaves one tiny presence of light that competes to reclaim its position. I join the effort in this hazy struggle, but the cost is mental exhaustion. Not good. Instead of groggily standing up, I jump to attention and shake off the lingering cobwebs… Never show weakness in a fight.
He says with arrogance, “Are you ready?”
“Bring it, asshole!”
That probably isn’t the best response, as his composure shook for a moment in prideful anger. I match his anger and raise him one. “Fuck you!” Neither of us waits for the other to attack as we both charged with blatant intensity. This time I focus on my only advantage, speed. He lunges straight forward and I instinctively somersault over to my left, avoiding the thrust that was meant to impale me. I never settle, instead using a flurry of activity to imbalance his attack and perhaps even throw him off guard to create an opening. My movements are near a blur of assertiveness, and after several swipes and blocks, I chop down with blazing speed as he moves to the side in mild panic. The bokken misses his face by millimeters and ruffles the sweat sprinkled on his forehead. He recovers quickly and centers himself. Seth’s control is overwhelming and the dawning realization that I am outmatched seeps into my confidence. He intuits this epiphany, building momentum in his favor. I make a final aggressive lunge as he sidesteps, parries, and strikes my wrist with such force that it goes numb. The bokken drops from my limp hand in betrayal. Without hesitation, he lowers the bokken in his left hand, drops to his left knee, and strikes upwards with an open hand—directly into my chin. The impact was so powerful it launched me in a vertical spin and I land with a back roll, but I don’t have enough strength to immediately get on my feet.
The sting of a fresh gash moistens my chin as my eyes blink in slow motion, catching his blurry and final strike downward. Within a second, I feel the edge of warm oak sticking to my sweaty neck, symbolizing his power over me, but I never acquiesce as I stand tall and require him to raise the sword to match my intimidating height. With a calm but unsteady breath, he says, “You have a better-than-mediocre set of skills, Adriel, but it is obvious that you don’t lose often because your defense is horribly lacking.”
With pride wounded, I reply, “Usually a fight that uses a weapon is over in two or three moves. I’ve always found offense to be a more effective means of survival.”
“We are not humans who injure quickly. You will need to learn patience.”
“That’s never exactly been a strong suit of mine,” I reply with a humph.
“Keep in mind that your twenty or thirty years of training have little comparison to my thousand, or Cassius’s near fifteen hundred.” He stalls to let that sink in and continues. “The waers will not have a weapon, but you’ve experienced their fierceness and they have had centuries to perfect their craft as well. You did well last night, but for reasons yet unknown, it seems they were under orders not to kill you and had obviously never fought a vamp with your unique skills. They will not let that mistake of ignorance happen again. If you accept my instruction, you may have an opportunity to live through this war.”
I hide my thoughts because I haven’t decided if it’s my war, or if I want to fight with his side. He lowers the wood sword and changes tone. “I have trained and fought many in my years and have never come across a being so quick and who can leap as you do, but you are weak.”
“What do you mean ‘weak?’”
“You are the most… delicate of vamps.” Ouch. “You heal with uncanny speed for one so young, but if you are ever grasped…” He lets that trail off for dramatic effect.
“Well, Seth, you have less than three hours until my next class,” I say, my words dripping with sarcasm.
Chapter 7
At the conclusion of Vampire Combat Training 101, Seth throws me a towel and leaves with these words: “I will see you tomorrow. We have a lot of work to do.” I roll my eyes without thinking and drop my face in the towel. I haven’t had a workout like that in quite some time. When I first began martial arts in my early twenties, I was in fairly good shape, but could only last two minutes in combat. I never realized the intensity of actual fighting; it requires every muscle to operate at full capacity, not to mention concentration for strategic thinking. The pretty boys with all the muscles looked impressive, but were surprised when they were bested by smaller opponents, who were weathered in combat. Once I learned to fight, I realized that it was more a mental game than physical, like kinetic chess. Yet, the body has to be tuned in to the mind and tolerate pain so that one never panics. Seth is surely a master and I wonder how much better could Cassius be? I pull the white towel from my face and realize that the training was a little more difficult than I imagined, as it is now dyed red. Fortunately, my wounds have already healed. I stop moving…
Before she physically arrives, before her scent hits my nose, before I hear her steps crunching in snow, I sense her. It is the moon pulling the weight of the ocean; it is immense and powerful. My blood rises to high tide in response, but I just stand there in silence, incapacitated. After a moment or two, I gather my faculties and turn to greet her. She is leaning against her car with doors ajar. “Hey, Percy.”
Hugging her stomach, she nauseously replies, “Good evening. Are you ready?” I’m guessing I’m not the only one who feels this, whatever it is between us that she refuses to talk about, and I’m getting weary of the cloak-and-dagger deal. I choose to let it go, or maybe I can’t help it because the thought of hurting her would be more painful. Damn it!
Forty minutes later, we are nearing the edge of Frederick city and I ask, “Is this our hunting ground? I live here and I don’t know if it’s such a good ide
a to kill in a city this small where I could be recognized.” It isn’t out of my mouth before I know what I say to be untrue. There were always the unknowns, the homeless or marginalized, who walk the streets in anonymity. Their presence is a mere annoyance to those who value tourism and local business growth. If, one day, they aren’t at the local corner begging for change to spend on cheap wine or crack, a sigh of relief is breathed. I’m not a making judgment calls, just stating the practical facts.
She’s aware of my thoughts, but still adds, “We are going to the ‘graveyard.’”
“Are we going to feed on the dead? If so, count me out,” I try to say with wit.
“It is not a typical graveyard, but it is a place where we will be fed.” As she says it, I feel my body, emaciated and starving. A twinge of excitement spears through my heart and it reacts with a quickened beat. My breathing is becoming deeper; my blood is starting to centralize; my palms moisten—all the signals of adrenaline coming to fruition.
She caresses my shoulder. “Adriel, you can control the hunger. Listen to your heart; feel its rhythm and envision it calming down and resting.” That seems like a basic Tai Chi class, but I try it anyway and find success. I rub my hands over my blue jeans, wiping off the sweat and settle in for the trip down memory lane.
Travelling through the ‘Golden Mile’ on the way to Frederick proper was never a golden moment for me. It used to be the main street for businesses and shopping; now, it’s an echo of its former self with an aged mall abandoned by the community years ago, but clinging to some delusional hope of relevancy. The department stores, specialty shops, and theaters left for a newer and more modern living space closer to downtown. The departure of commerce left behind fractured real estate prices and an unfunded school system. No one’s fault, really. It systematically happens everywhere. Once the process begins, the slow churning of change is inevitable. Gangs fill the gaps where police once roamed, drugs become prevalent, parents become hopeless, and those that have the resources to revitalize avoid the communities due to fear. Eventually, the space that separates those who have with those who don’t widens and that’s when the blame game starts. Vamps live long lives and I can’t help but wonder if we will be the aged strip clinging to the past while the world moves on.
I was expecting a tour of some of Frederick’s most haunted graveyards when Percy makes an unexpected turn down a side street of old historical homes weathered by time, but proudly displaying an insight into earlier architecture. The streets weren’t stuck in the 1800s, but refused to embrace the technology that modern subdivisions offer. Lights are sparse, and with windows rolled down, I hear history in the silence. Mature trees with mingling branches lean over empty roads, threatening to grab children from the streets in the winter night. Several turns later we arrive at a dead end. I inwardly laugh at the lame pun.
“Um, I’m pretty sure there isn’t a graveyard here,” I say sardonically.
“Adriel, trust me.” She depowers the hybrid and smoothly steps out, embracing the chill of night to start her trek. I follow her lead, pushing aside iced branches and stepping over ruts as we cross the threshold of one reality to the next.
I whisper, “It feels alien to have a small forest in the midst of a city.”
She steps over rusted beer cans, empty bottles, and syringes stained with dried blood, and then she equals my hushed voice. “A couple more feet and there will be a clear path for us to take. There is no hurry. You have all night to understand this experience.”
My curiosity is peaking, but I choose to let her unravel this at her own pace. Seconds later, we arrive at the clearing as promised. The path isn’t formal, but has been formed through foot traffic, crushing small plants and snapping inconvenient tree limbs. The woods are deeper than expected and very still as the snow absorbs the sounds of life. She begins, “Have you ever had to put a dog to sleep?”
Stunned at the abrupt shift, I ask, “What do you mean?”
“Just answer the question.” She speaks with tenderness, so I react accordingly.
“When I was fifteen years old, we had a dog named Texas. He was very large, and I loved that dog like he was family. He had been mine for my entire life when the cancer hit. The vet said there was nothing he could do, and after several months of watching Texas lie down all day, whimpering, refusing to eat… the sight was too horrible to bear. He would look at me with painful eyes and I swear he was begging for death. It was soon after that my father offered to take him to the vet to ‘alleviate’ his pain. Of course I knew what that meant. I wanted to do it, not because I was some sort of sadist, but because I loved him enough to let him go.”
“Do you have similar feelings toward people who suffer as well?”
I think on that for a while and catch myself standing in the path, gazing into the sky. “I’ve visited those miserable, urine-soaked nursing homes where the old go to die slow and lonely deaths. I would never have judged them if they took their own lives. I may have even helped. I’ve also seen men with cancer deny an excruciating radiation treatment a second time, knowing death was imminent. There are many things I’ve seen and my perspective on death is not based on fear or ignorance, but relief. I’ve always valued the quality of life, not quantity. Where are you going with this, Percy?”
“We are going to offer relief to those who suffer.”
“Is this some twisted Angel of Death fantasy?” I say with serious humor.
“No, open your mind and empty it of preconception.” She moves aside some frozen brush and progresses like a cat on a hunt. I’m locked in place, in thought, and make a choice to discover what this graveyard is, so I follow her into the dense, unmolested section that hides our destination.
After several yards of tangled thorns scratching my thick skin, we arrive. It’s a clearing the size of an average living room, circular and surrounded by evergreens and hibernating oak trees. In the center there is a small fire crackling, coughing out sparks as it struggles for life in the midst of winter snow. The silence is eerie as five humans of various ages and different genders are sitting next to it with hands out, trying to absorb the ambient heat. They don’t acknowledge our presence while their fragile bodies tremble and convulse in retaliation of the cold. The sorrow and emptiness is palpable. I hate this place.
Percy breaks the silence. “It is time.” One by one they attempt to stand. I hear the cracking and popping of unused joints as aching groans escape their lips. They keep their heads down in submission, staring blankly at the campfire when the younger woman lifts her head to meet my gaze. My heart shares in her sadness. Her eyes are sunken and surrounded by blacks and deep blues, contrasting with her bloodshot eyes that possess tiny exploded capillaries that cluster the reds. She takes one wobbled step in my direction and I’m too spellbound to move. Her oily brown hair clings to a sweat-drenched neck and shoulders as she unhurriedly raises both arms to me, palms up in submission. I tear my eyes from her to oblige the unspoken request and find dozens of needle marks tracked along both arms. A heroin addict.
Zaragoza, Spain, was a beautiful city, hidden from the cameras and questions of ignorant tourists. It was a city with a tapestry of rich history and modernized technology, assimilated to enhance the function without destroying the aesthetics. In a tear-down, build-new world, Zaragoza was a welcomed reprieve. They were a proud people who embraced their culture, yet subtly enjoyed the influence of our westernized entertainment in bars dedicated to ‘50s American music or techno mixes in laser-lighted dance clubs. The streets were older and buildings were colored desert browns with oil lamps delicately balanced on windowsills. Wake up late, enjoy a siesta, and party into the morning… my kind of town. Yet there was a price to be paid, as the back alleys were littered with alcoholics and the much worse, heroin addicts.
These addicts would prostitute themselves, rob their families, or murder, if necessary, for a single fix. It was both pathetic and heart wrenching. There was no predictor as to who would be an addict—it didn’
t matter the class or gender; all that was needed was a predator dealer and someone who was willing to experiment. I recall passing by dark corners in the night, stifled from the smell of fresh vomit as addicted vultures would converge on those who died from overdose or malnutrition to claim what little amounts of heroin or belongings that were left.
I wonder if she’s ever been to Spain. She stares with anesthetized interest and forces out, “I don’t want to go on. Take me from this place, from this pain.” I wince with empathy and know the ‘pain’ isn’t just physical. She’s damaged in many ways. I look for Percy and see her avert her eyes as if she is a voyeur to my private world.
I say, “Is this what we are here to do? To release these people from their torments?”
“Can you think of a better way to feed? It has been ten years that they have willingly come to this place and I have mercifully granted them peace. For whatever reason, they find no solace in suicide, yet they desperately long for death. If you cannot stomach this, then please leave and I will meet up with you later.” She spoke the secrets of our kind with no fear of those who heard. There is a trust here, a long developed agreement between two parties for mutual benefit.
A soft touch presses on my hand as the woman pleads, “I-I-I don’t want this any longer. You don’t know how it feels to be controlled, to give up your body, to sever ties with friends and family, to lose what it means to be a person, to wish for death! Kill me! Please.” She closes the distance and rises to my chin’s height on her toes. I feel the warm moisture sourly exhaled from her dry, cracked lips and hear her heart faintly throb with yearning. She is so close that I can taste the inside of her scathed heart. Her blood is swishing in methodical rhythm and pressing against her neck. She tilts her head in anticipation and grabs my waist with unhinged conviction. “Feed!” she cries.