by K M Smith
“Anytime, man. Good luck with ’im.” Jeff walked back into the bar, shaking his head.
Andrew looked blankly at Adam, his eyes not focusing. “Fffuckin’ Redwings, man. Hockeytown. Ha! Sfuckin’ Rangertown!” His knees buckled as he swatted at the air, shouting to an imaginary crowd. “These kids. They don’t. They wouldn’t know a real sports team if it hit ‘em in the head.” Laughing, he stumbled as Adam winced. “And anotherthing. It was s’posed to be me. Me! Not her. My job. My house. My shuccess. Shhuckcess. My good thing.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of Adam’s chest, but missed. Holding him tightly, Adam tried to keep the drunk upright and close so they wouldn’t cause a scene. His vampiric strength put to the test by a raving drunk on a mission.
“But I love ‘er.” Andrew’s voice rose an octave and only one eye remained open. “I love ‘er and she’s the winner. She’s the winner and I’m the loser. Looo-ser!” Pulling away from Adam’s grip, he made an L with his forefinger and thumb and smacked himself in the forehead with it. Shocked, he spun around and spit in the road. Staggering a few steps away, he placed his hands on his knees and swayed. After spitting in the road again, he cleared his throat and stood up. He turned to face Adam and looked at him as though he just realized he wasn’t alone. “Thankths fer takinmehome, man. Sorry ‘bout the spit.” With his hands on his hips, his shoulders bounced and his face melted with sadness. Then, Andrew slumped over, his head falling on Adam’s shoulder, his knees buckling and his arms dangling loosely.
Fuck.
With a puff of air and a groan, Adam hoisted Andrew up over his left shoulder and began walking. He didn’t have a destination in mind other than to get Andrew away from the bar. What would he say, what would he do, to Sarah’s husband? Stomping down the sidewalk, he jostled Andrew on his shoulders causing the drunk man’s head to bounce and loll. “How’s that feel, Andrew? Not nearly as bad as Sarah feels right now, I can tell ya.” He bumped Andrew again and Andrew groaned but remained passed out. How was it this useless shell of a man was Sarah’s husband? She deserved so much better.
Walking–at a human pace, so he could think–away from town, toward Victory Park, Adam stewed in his anger and miserable thoughts. The park was dead at this hour, the college kids and their drug dealers long gone, having found their fixes and made their sales. As much as Adam relished a good brooding, he was growing bored of hauling this drunk piece-of-shit excuse-of-a-man over his shoulder.
Decision made, Adam flopped Andrew off his shoulder on to the snow-covered ground in the woods near the park. Legs and arms strewn about, Andrew lay on the ground still as a corpse, and cold as one, too. Not happy with the deadbeat simply sprawled on the ground, Adam dragged him over to a nearby tree and propped him up against it.
All the throwing and dragging and pounding caused Andrew to stir. “Wha’sgoin’ on?”
“Wake up!” Anger pumped through Adam’s veins. His fangs descended. As Andrew came around, Adam slapped him hard across the cheek.
“Ow!” Andrew reached for his cheek. Rubbing his face, he turned his head in Adam’s direction.
Adam hissed and bared his fangs, magnifying his actions to make this experience as painful and terrifying as possible.
“Holy shit!” The whites of Andrew’s eyes competed for space with his pupils as he scrambled to push himself away from Adam. Legs flailing and failing to gain purchase on the frozen ground, he only managed to shove his back against the tree trunk. “Fuck! Oh my God! What? Are you fucking with me? Shit, man. What the fuck is happening right now?”
Adam crouched down, his fangs exposed and glinting in the starlit night. The wind picked up, blowing snowy dust, sharp and shining like diamonds, all around Andrew. “Are you sobering up yet, Andrew?” Adam asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Andrew was frozen in place as Adam’s eyes locked on the rapidly sobering man. Adam whipped the wind around and kept Andrew stuck to the ground. Coughing and wheezing, Andrew grabbed at his throat. The frenetic wind had sucked the air from his lungs and he struggled to breathe.
“Your wife almost died tonight,” Adam snarled. He stood, letting the information sink in, and the wind abruptly died down, the snowy dust settling back on the ground all around, as if nothing had ever disturbed it.
Andrew inhaled sharply, coughing and spluttering. “My wife? How do you know my wife?” he demanded, still pressing himself against the tree.
“She’s quite a catch, your Sarah.” Adam backed away from Andrew, feigning disinterest.
“My Sarah? What the fuck did you do to her!” Andrew struggled to get to his feet.
“Sit down!” Adam commanded and immediately Andrew was on the ground, his back against the tree.
“What do you want with me? Where is Sarah?”
“She’s safe.” He paused, then spat the words, “No thanks to you.”
“Why won’t you tell me what’s happened? Do you want money?” Andrew fished around for his wallet, found it in his back pocket and tossed it on the ground toward Adam. “Here, have it. Take all of it. Just tell me what the fuck is going on!”
Adam eyed the wallet. “I don’t want your money.” Anger coursed through Adam magnifying the light overhead so that Andrew looked like a criminal in the hot seat under the interrogation lamp.
Andrew squinted and held his hand up to cover his eyes, “What’s going on with the light?” A mischievous smile formed on Adams lips as he crossed his arms over his chest all the while looking down at the pathetic human. Andrew’s eyes darted from the light, to the woods, to Adam, and back again. Fear twisted Andrew’s face and Adam’s smile grew wider, exaggerating the size of his fangs.
“Are you catching on now, Drew? I can see those cogs spinning.” Staying fixed to the spot and arching his eyebrow, Adam drew his lips into an amused sneer as Andrew struggled.
“It can’t be! You’re not real!”
“Oh, I assure you I am one-hundred-percent real.” With fangs flashing, he snarled for dramatic effect.
Andrew recoiled, “Did you kill my wife?” His face fell, “Oh God! Sarah! Did you… drink her blood?”
In an instant Adam appeared face to face with Andrew, resting on his heels, his nose almost touching the frightened man’s. Eyes locked with Andrew’s, he let an intimidating growl grow in his throat. Then, in a low, menacing voice Adam said, “No. I already told you, she’s safe.”
“Then why have you brought me here? Clearly, Sarah isn’t here.” Andrew scanned the area around him, still only able to move his eyes.
“No. She isn’t. I brought you here because I have a choice to make. You’ve been a less than stellar husband. But I had to know if you still loved her.”
“Why do you care what kind of husband I am? Or if I love my wife?”
“I care,” Adam stood again and carried on nonchalantly, “because your response will help me decide which way this is going to go for you.”
Andrew’s eyes widened on hearing this. “Shit. Shit.” He scuffed his feet on the ground in front of him, trying to find his footing. “What the fuck are you going to do to me?” He attempted to stand, and with a sharp look from Adam, he was back on the ground.
“Fuck! How are you doing that!”
Adam tended to his fingernails and chuckled at Andrew’s confused frustration. Glancing up, he shrugged, “Vampire.
“But enough about me,” Adam dropped his arms and continued. “What shall we do with you? Let’s run through the choices, shall we? I could—”
“I want to know what’s happened to my wife!” Andrew cut in, his voice stiff and demanding.
“Tsk, Tsk. There will be time for all that later. Now, I could drink you dry and leave you for dead. It’s been a few weeks since my last meal, and I am hungry!” Adam bared his fangs and gestured wildly with his hands. He was enjoying this man’s agony and confusion far too much.
Andrew paled, cemented to his spot by fear, and by Adam’s power over the weather.
“Or…I could give y
ou a good talkin’ to and let you go find your wife.” Adam glanced at Andrew, whose face betrayed the slightest glimmer of hope. “We both know that’s not going to happen.”
Andrew dropped his head to his hands and grumbled, “Will you just do whatever it is you’re going to do already? If you’re going to eat me, then just get it over with. I’m cold. I’m exhausted. I’m already feeling hungover.”
“Poor Andrew. Never gets what he wants.”
“Oh, God. What are you talking about now?”
“You, Andrew. This is all about you and how you’ve pushed that strong, intelligent beautiful wife of yours away because she gets all the attention. You’re a baby, it’s revolting.”
Andrew shook his head, laughing absurdly, “Have you ever been married? Have you ever had to compromise your dreams to let someone you loved—love—follow theirs? It sounds noble enough, but when you’re living it you feel more like a doormat.”
“Oh, please. I’ve seen you. You’re a bit like a vampire already. You’re a loner, a drunk, and you don’t deserve Sarah. And frankly, if I leave you for dead, that lets you off too easy.” Without warning, Adam reached down and yanked Andrew’s head to the side to allow free access to his jugular, being careful not to break his neck. Plunging his fangs into Andrew’s skin, he tore at the man’s neck until blood began pouring out. Not wanting any of the life-giving elixir to go to waste, Adam worked quickly, sucking and lapping at the wound. After letting out a muted scream, Andrew lost consciousness, his body slackening. The next few heartbeats were critical. If he held on too long, he would kill this man. As pleasing as that thought was, that would accomplish nothing.
Thump…thump…thump. Now.
Adam shoved Andrew’s limp body away and stepped back to throw his jacket off, exposing his arms. Using his bloody fang, he tore a gash down his left forearm. Blood oozed then flowed, rushing down in a rapid river. Andrew’s body lay lifeless, face down on the ground. In one motion, Adam grabbed Andrew, flipped him over, and propped open his mouth. Blood flowed down Adam’s arm and into Andrew’s mouth. Disgusted by his decision, Adam turned his head away. The creation exchange was a sacred process. By doing this Adam knew he was committing to a lifelong role in Andrew’s existence. He gagged at the thought. What choice did I have?
Adam’s heart slowed down. It was time to seal his wound or become in need of his own transfusion. He cleaned himself off and kept watch as Andrew’s body began the change.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sarah
In the days and weeks following Sarah’s accident, there were investigations. The college’s health and safety board needed to scrutinize every step Sarah had taken that night to ensure there had been no wrong-doing on the part of the school or its staff. Sarah re-lived that night over and over: for the head of campus safety, the facilities manager, the human resources head, the lawyers, the police, the hospital’s lawyers, the list was endless. She had never seen so much paperwork in her life. She also had to re-live her husband’s disappearance over and over. There was a missing person’s report filed, a police investigation checking every angle: Was he kidnapped? Did he run off—Alone? —With someone? Had he stolen anything? Did he plant the glass that nearly killed his wife then skip town? Was he drunk in a ditch somewhere? That question morphed into: Was he dead in a ditch somewhere? Which turned into: Was he murdered?
Sarah spent many hours thinking the same questions about her husband. Sure, things had turned rocky between them after the move, but she knew they would work things out, eventually. At least, she assumed they would, because that’s what you do in a marriage: you stick around, you fix it. She knew Andrew did not manage change well—it took months for him to start putting his toothbrush in the holder she bought when she moved in because he always kept his toothbrush on the side of the sink.
She should’ve known that dragging him away from his beloved Manhattan and forcing him to adapt to life in a small town would’ve been too much for him. But none of that mattered. Sarah was pregnant and on her own in a new place with a new job and no family nearby to support her. Andrew never knew they were expecting. He was supposed to put the nursery together, he was supposed to figure out how to assemble the crib and the stroller. It was his job to keep them safe. Now, all that—and more—fell to Sarah. A working, single mother. Not exactly the role she imagined for herself.
Two weeks after her accident, she got a phone call from the detective working her case.
“Mrs. Peterson?” the detective began. “Can you come down to the station this afternoon?”
The hairs on the back of Sarah’s neck stood on end, tiny indicators of dread. The same sensations she had in the hospital the day after the accident. She ran her hand over the back of her neck and sighed, “Uh, um, yes, sure, of course.”
They hung up, and Sarah stood in the middle of her living room, numb and wondering why she needed to go to the station. Will I need to identify his body? She walked toward the kitchen to grab her things. No. That would happen at the morgue. She grabbed her keys and her purse from the counter-top and headed back toward the living room. Maybe they’ve found him, and they just need me to ride to his location with them. She breezed through the front door and fumbled with her keys as she tried to lock it. Her hands were shaking badly, preventing her from fitting the key into the lock. Breathe, Sarah. Hold it together.
The short drive from Sarah’s house to the police station proved to be long enough for her imagination to become debilitating. Andrew might be cold and gray on a slab with a tag on his toe. Maybe, he had been in hiding and the police had found him. Or maybe, there would be nothing left to identify except his teeth and a patch of scalp. Shaking, she turned the radio on to drown out her thoughts. Lisa Loeb was wailing about missing her lover and moving on. Cranking the volume, Sarah belted along with the pop star, “I thought that I was strong. Oh!” The song only brought her feelings closer to the surface. Anger and fear collided in her heart. Whatever the detective wanted, she would have to deal with it, no matter how she felt about her husband. Moving on autopilot, she parked and began the interminable walk from her car to the front door of the police station.
Holding the metal railing, she pulled herself up pausing on each concrete step. Sheer will pushed her to make it to the top. Inhaling deeply, she grabbed the cold door handle and wiped at her eye to regain her composure. Exhaling, she moved toward the front desk. The tissue she’d been using since receiving the phone call was damp and shredded. Her eyes leak as she walked, and she shoved the used tissue deep into her coat pocket. Sniffling as she approached the officer on duty, she put her hand on the desk to steady herself. “I—” she tried to speak, but her voice stuck in her throat. Pull yourself together! Eyes closed, she put her fist to her mouth, and cleared her throat. “I’m Sarah Peterson, I was asked to come down to the station this afternoon.”
The officer behind the desk grabbed a square box of tissues and pushed them toward Sarah before replying. “Hang on, Mrs. Peterson.” He pushed his wheeled chair back from the desk then stood to find the detective working Sarah’s case.
While she waited she turned her back to the desk and leaned against it. She dabbed at her eyes, wiped her nose, and looked around. The police station was a bleak and sterile place. Bare white walls, scuffed once-white floors, orange and blue hard plastic waiting room chairs. None of it inviting; none of it meant to be.
Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She looked out the windows at the spooky mid-afternoon winter twilight and noticed chunks of previously fallen snow flying through the air. Bare tree branches bent and rattled against each other violently, unnaturally. She shivered. I hope that wind dies down by the time I’m done here.
“Mrs. Peterson?” The detective’s voice brought her back to the moment.
“Yes, hi, Detective…”
“Miller, we spoke on the phone.”
“Of course, yes, hello.”
“Why don’t you come back here with me, s
o we can talk a bit. You want some coffee?”
Sarah nodded and uneasily followed Detective Miller to an interrogation room. This room was also bare and sterile, like the rest of the police station. It was a miserable place. Sarah hated to think about the questions that had been asked in this room or the confessions made. She chuckled a little at that thought. This isn’t New York, Sarah! She shook her head. The toughest question was probably “Regular or decaf?” Her distracted musings had put her at ease a bit. She sat down and waited for the detective to return with her coffee.
A minute later Detective Miller, a tall man with short graying hair and a bit of a paunch, backed in through the door carrying two Styrofoam cups filled with scalding black coffee. He set the cups on the table, then reached into his pocket and fished out several creamers, a few packs of sugar and two stirrers.
“Careful, it’s atomic,” he said, gesturing at the coffee.
“Thank you, Detective,” she said, then grabbed two of the creamers.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” Detective Miller began, “I wish I had better news for you, ma’am, but we haven’t found any information on the whereabouts of your husband.”
“I see,” Sarah said. “So, why am I here? Couldn’t you have told me this over the phone?” She picked at the rim of her Styrofoam cup.
“Well, you see, Mrs. Peterson, we brought you in because with no evidence to suggest the contrary, we can only assume that Mr. Peterson left of his own accord.” The detective turned and grabbed a box of tissues off a small table behind him. “I’m sorry,” he said and offered her a tissue.
Tears streamed out of both eyes, and the detective’s words—“left of his own accord”—played on a loop through her mind. Dabbing at her eyes and nose, she coughed into her balled up hand. “Um,” her voice shaky, “so what does this mean for the investigation? You can’t possibly be giving up already? He’s only been missing for a few weeks. Surely these cases stay open for months, years if necessary, until the person is found!” Sarah was shouting by the end.