by R. G. Nelson
Still, Hailey optimistically tries to hand out fliers to passersby. Though most ignore us, some respond by telling us to “get lost.” I guess those ones probably know about the Movement’s anti-big business stance or else they are just having a bad day (which most of these anxious and distorted faces seem to be having). I content myself by watching Hailey’s unrelenting efforts; for my part, I give half-hearted yells every minute or so to be a team player.
But really, I just like being out in the sun. I look up at that big, beautiful ball of burning gas and welcome the tingle of its energy and radiance soaking into my skin (okay, maybe that’s the UV). I must admit, I feel a bit vitamin D-deprived, given how little time I’ve been spending out in the daylight. I’ve been waking up super late and basically just heading straight to work. Even with the supplements, it’s nice to be outdoors in the real thing.
The warmth is nice, too, especially with the cold bite to the wind at night that marks the definite end of summer and onset of fall. I feel a pang of sadness that I didn’t fully enjoy the warm summer weather the way I would have in the past, but then I realize with excitement that fall means longer nights. And longer nights means more time with Vera. Good deal.
Suddenly, I’m snapped out of my reverie.
“Oh crap,” Hailey says. I look over and see she has a worried expression.
“What?” I ask, while simultaneously following her gaze. I see a policeman approaching and calling something in on his walkie-talkie. Behind him an angry-looking businessman follows and points at something in our direction. At us. I make out one of our pamphlets in the policeman’s hands. I look over at Hailey.
“I’m pretty sure the city doesn’t want us out here doing this after the Shatterday Bash,” Hailey points out. Jesus, that was weeks and weeks ago.
“Great, now you tell me,” I respond testily. The last thing I need is trouble with the law over a cause I don’t even believe in. I watch the heavy policeman strut nearer. I swear in the distance I hear sirens. “Uh, we should think about going very soon,” I point out anxiously.
“Grab a box,” she says.
“And then?” I ask.
“Run.” Suddenly, I’m left alone as she beelines for a nearby alley between two massive office complexes.
I bend down, scoop up one of the boxes, and take off running after Hailey. I catch up to her pretty easily; she seems to struggle with her load. It’s definitely kinda awkward running with a box in my hands, and I don’t know if I can outrun the policeman carrying it, let alone a police car. I’m tempted to ditch the whole thing into one of the garbage cans nearby; I don’t think risking getting arrested is worth a few printouts.
Hailey glances back and laughs–she is really enjoying this. I turn around, too, and see the police guy giving a half-hearted chase. Thank God he seems like the stereotypical sort who’d rather be eating donuts. We have a pretty big lead, and I start to relax a bit as I approach the other end of the alley. Hailey makes it out first and just as I’m about to yell at her to turn right, I hear the squawk and beep of a police cruiser hitting its sirens.
“Split up!” Hailey yells as she drops her box and sprints full out to the left. The cruiser emerges into my view from the right side and gives pursuit. Instinctively, I drop down behind a parked car just outside the alley and try to hide. It only takes a moment, but during that brief flash I take in several things.
One: It is not a typical police patrol cruiser after all, but an unmarked sedan, and two, behind the wheel sits Detective Taylor. No, Agent Taylor now, so I guess that means that it’s a federal vehicle. I also am pretty sure that he didn’t see me–I have a feeling that if he did, he’d feel obliged to come after me for my father instead of heading away in the other direction. I find it somewhat ominous that the feds are so responsive to calls about the Movement; I wonder if they’ve stepped up from simply “keeping tabs,” as Taylor told me earlier this summer.
I leave my box where it is among all the other litter left on the street and turn my black Movement tee-shirt inside out. I start to head away and then think of all the finger prints I’m leaving behind. Maybe I’m being too paranoid, but I spend a few seconds trying to wipe down the box in case anyone ever checks it for prints. I was raised by a cop, after all.
There is no sign of the policeman on foot–I think he probably gave up when he saw the unmarked cruiser take over pursuit. I head away toward the next busy street and duck into the nearest metro station. I don’t really relax until my train pulls away and I’m lost deep in the anonymity of the public transport masses. I realize then how nervous I had been; my heart is pounding, and it’s not just from the sprinting. Even my turned-out tee-shirt shows damp patches on my shoulders. I think I need to talk to Vera to redefine exactly how I’ll participate in her recruiting efforts. Hanging out in hipster areas or on college campuses is one thing, but the Movement clearly is not welcome here in the land of sky scrapers and automatons in navy blue.
* * *
As most guys who date girls find out, it’s hard to escape hanging out with their friends. Though I had some real reservations at first, I quickly realized it isn’t all that bad. By the fall, most Saturday nights find us in Vera’s little apartment in the city. It’s only one or two steps above derelict, but serves their purposes.
The windows are all boarded up or covered with black garbage bags taped to the walls. The water works, but the heating leaves something to be desired, and I wouldn’t trust anything cooked in the kitchen without giving everything a good scrubbing first. Not that they cook, of course–the fridge is filled with blood bags that they pop in the only other working kitchen appliance, the microwave, to warm up.
The living room is quite comfy in a college dorm kind of way. There are several well-worn sofas that guests sink into placed around the front room. There are also bean bag chairs with beaten and slightly cracking (leather?) surfaces that people can laze on and even a few folding chairs to accommodate additional bodies when they have a house party (which they seem to have a lot of). Crowning everything in the front is a giant Movement banner hung across the wall. Smaller Movement stickers and posters abound in the rest of the room and are what passes for decoration here; the collection would be quite sinister looking in a 1930’s fascist sort of way if the rest of the room weren’t so, well, fratty.
In fact, the back of the living room has two fold-out tables placed end-to-end for beer pong games. Well, their version of beer pong, anyway. They definitely don’t use beer, and the tables are extra-long because otherwise it would be far too easy for them. Obviously, this was quite challenging for me at first, but now I’ve found that my beer pong skills have evolved to another level. Unfortunately, this level is still several below many of the vampires here. But out of the few humans invited into this midnight microcosm, I’m definitely not bad, and even against the undead I don’t embarrass myself.
In line with their priorities, the sound system is top notch, and they often play it near full volume. One of Vera’s roommates, Hamad, assures me that they have taken “precautions” to ensure that they have no close neighbors that could complain. While I’m not sure I know what he means or if I’d even want to know, they must have done so because when I finally pass out around 5 a.m., the party is often still raging full on. The whole summer I never saw them have any issues with neighbors, the law, or anyone for that matter.
Thankfully, Vera took the time to make her room human friendly; she added blankets to her bed and recently got a little heater for the nights that are rapidly cooling. She even cleans the bathroom–they only use it to shower and don’t really care how dirty other areas in there get during house parties. I definitely feel more at home in my own house, but there is something nice about being here without the worry of having adults nearby. I can sleep in as late as I want and n
ever have to hear my dad stomping around or knocking on my door to ask me to go get groceries. It’s a place for us–and increasingly, I’m starting to feel like a part of that “us.”
All in all, I start to like hanging out with Vera’s friends in small groups. I mean, collectively, they become the Movement and do things that I don’t necessarily agree with, but individually they mostly seem okay. And even just being in proximity to them, I begin to see the appeal of it all–their shared experiences, shared goals … the bonds that these form. It’s like they are one big nocturnal family.
We have get-togethers to watch recorded sports games on their big projector screen. Given that they seem to enjoy watching golf over basketball, I think they mostly just enjoy the simulated feeling of being outside in the day. When they watch football or soccer, I’m much more interested and join in the shouting and heckling with the others. We form our own little bleachers section right in their front room. But I’ve found that baseball games combine with the late timing to put me to sleep with Vera in my arms.
On other nights, we hit the movie theaters. Again, they aren’t so choosy and love anything that mostly takes place outside. But they especially love 3D (cuz it feels like you’re there) and movies set back in time to the colonial period, like those ones about pirates. Perhaps ironically, another genre they love to watch is vampire movies. I get uncomfortable sometimes and distinctly feel my human vulnerability when there are evil vampires on a rampage against humans. I don’t want them to get any ideas or have their bloodlust raised or something, especially when Hamad is around–I don’t get the feeling he values human life much. But watching movies where vampires sparkle in the sun and seeing the amusement on Vera and Laney’s faces makes it all worthwhile.
* * *
By mid-fall, I’ve almost convinced myself that I’m one of the gang. I hang out there enough that they let their guard down around me; they let their inner-vamp out, so to speak. Laney, who is Vera’s other roommate besides Hamad, turns out to be somewhat of a sweetheart. In fact, it seems like some of the other male vampires have a thing for her. With her perfect skin, luxurious blonde hair and riveting eyes, it’s not hard to understand. But still she always goes out of her way to include me in conversations and makes sure to introduce me as Vera’s boyfriend. That produces some interesting expressions from other vampires, but I’m pretty sure that intro is significant and marks me as off limits. Needless to say, I appreciate it.
Recently, though, I’ve been focused on chatting with Hamad. He’s somewhat of a tough nut to crack. He’s rugged looking and has that hardened, weathered expression of a survivor, or fighter maybe. The wrought-metal Movement medallion he wears around his neck only adds to his mystique. Though pale like the rest of them, you can tell he has a darker complexion naturally: This fits well with his contrasting icy eyes. I guess he is good looking: Hailey (who is cute despite everything else) is often wrapped around his arm. If he’s not good looking, it must be the accent that works for him–he has a distinct middle-eastern clip to his speech that is laced with a proper British English. For example, he calls Vera his “flatmate.”
Tonight, I’ve been pumping Hamad for information on how he and Vera met, but he seems more into watching the beer pong game over my shoulder and teasing Hailey about something he whispers in her ear. Suddenly, there is a shriek behind me. Without meaning to, I flinch. Hamad notices and gives an evil smirk.
“Relax, they are just playing a game,” he says. “It’s not like they’re screaming bloody murder.”
I shift uncomfortably. I can never tell if he is testing me and wants me to come back with something witty or if that would just invite more of his subtle taunts. I opt with saying nothing. Hamad finishes off the drink in his 16-ounce red plastic cup and quickly wipes off a blood moustache with his hand.
“Yo, Laney, throw me a drink,” Hamad hollers across the room. Laney reaches into a hospital duffle bag near her feet and pulls a blood bag out. With vampiric speed and dexterity, she flicks it across the room to Hamad, who catches it easily in one hand. It makes a disgusting squishy sound in his palm; I try to remind myself that it’s just from the plastic. Dramatically, he pops his fangs out and rips open the top of the pouch with his teeth. He then drinks straight from the bag. It kinda grosses me out, but I try to hide this–I’m sure he just wants a reaction anyway.
“Use a cup, Hamad. We have humans present,” Laney scolds. To me she adds, “I swear we’re not all barbarians.”
Hamad gets that smirk on his face again. “I’m sorry,” he says deviously. “I guess I was raised in a less civilized time.”
Hailey laughs and leans across his lap. “Baby, why don’t you drink from me?” she asks. “There are no outsiders here.” She offers her bruised wrist to him.
Hamad looks around the group with a wicked smile. “Well, maybe just a sip,” he says. He bites into Hailey’s flesh. Though to me it looks absolutely horrific, her eyes roll back in a heady mix of pleasure and pain. I look away out of instinct. I suppose I should have expected this from hanging out with vampires–just when you feel comfortable, something happens that reminds you of the sheer horror underlying it all. Before I know it, Vera is at my side holding my hand. I look into her sympathetic eyes, and she gives me a reassuring squeeze.
* * *
I’d like to say that after seeing something like this I’d get out while I could. That I’d walk away completely and never look back, maybe even somehow get the authorities involved and save the other humans caught up in this dark world. But honestly, I’m a red-blooded man … and flesh is weak.
Sometimes when I’m around Vera, I try to stop the chemicals from firing off in my brain, to control my addiction to her. But I really can’t. I’m helpless–this is what evolution wanted. To pair man and woman up and have them procreate. I know I must be in love because even though I tell myself that this relationship isn’t natural (I mean, she is technically super-natural, isn’t she?) and that we can’t procreate, my brain doesn’t listen. I know she is a predator, my predator in fact, but that becomes meaningless when I get lost in her eyes.
I haven’t told her that I love her yet. But that’s definitely what I feel. What else to call the emotion that wells up inside me when we are watching a movie with my dad and she giggles with delight at people doing ordinary things in daylight outside? Or when she curls up instinctively into my protective arms when there is a shot of the sun on the screen?
As amazing weeks continue to pass and the fall in turn gives way to winter, I notice that the horror-factor diminishes. It’s replaced by a calm acceptance. I play doubles beer pong and dip the ball into water murky with crimson to rinse the blood off before throwing. And if my beer has a slightly metallic taste to it, so what? It’s a small price to pay for the fun nights I spend with the crew at Vera’s place. For the nights I spend with Vera.
Eventually, the unthinkable even becomes desirable.
I find this out quite by accident, but if I’m honest with myself, I’ve been curious what it would be like for Vera to drink from me for a while. More and more I’ve been seeing basic human necessities like eating as inconvenient distractions from doing more important things with Vera, and I’m rushing to cook for myself at home when I accidently slice deep into my finger with a peeler. Vera’s with me watching me cook, of course; she seems quite fascinated by the culinary process.
So when the blood begins to drip, she’s here by my side in a heartbeat. She pauses near me, in control of herself but extremely focused on the tiny flow trickling from my folly. She gently puts one hand on my hip and looks up into my eyes for permission. Without saying a word, I smile. She reaches out with her free hand and guides my finger into her mouth.
It’s a bit cold at first, but I expect that as I’m no stranger to her mouth. What I don’t expect is th
e sensation I feel as she pulls small quantities of my blood into her. There is some sort of connection formed–a mild euphoria starts in my finger and then circulates all over my body. It only heightens when I feel the sharp prick of her teeth digging in to increase the blood flow. There is pain, to be sure, but it’s like I don’t even care about it.
When she pulls away, I actually gasp in dismay. For half a second, I want her to keep going: I don’t want to lose that feeling, but then I come to my senses and realize what just happened. I must look confused because she smiles at me and rustles my hair a bit.
“See, not so bad, is it?” Vera teases.
“No, I guess not,” I confess. And then I add, “As long as I’m alive when it’s done.”
“You know I’d never ….” Vera counters, looking slightly wounded.
“I do know. I’m just teasing.”
But I’m not really.
Still, I lean in and kiss her. She returns the kiss for several long moments and then gently disconnects. She nips her finger quickly and smears the tiny bit of her blood on my wounded finger. Like magic, the cut seals up.
“Woah,” I stammer.
“Yeah, I know. See, being with me can have its advantages,” Vera says.
Back upstairs in my room later, she shows me a few others.