by R. G. Nelson
The Kevlar feels a bit awkward underneath, and I’m confused as to why immortal vampires are worried about getting shot. “I thought we didn't need these,” I ask hesitantly with a slightly raised pitch, embarrassed by my lack of knowledge of vampire tactics.
They grin. “Protects your heart,” Mike volunteers. “Never know when you might get surprised by someone trying to put a silver stake there and send you to the neverend.”
Hamad adds, “And while bullets may not kill you now, they still hurt … still slow you down. Plus, if you're in a vest, it's easier for people to rationalize you walking away from something humans otherwise shouldn't.”
Jesús throws us all little sanguine pouches. “Hey, power up, guys.”
I know what these are. Apparently my body does, too, because my fangs come out in anticipation.
“You’re gonna have to watch that, newb. You can’t have your fangs coming out every time you see blood,” Hamad warns.
I nod in acceptance, but really I’m focused on the blood. I’m really craving it after losing so much of my own earlier. I stare at the bag for a moment and feel the part of me that still has human sensibilities cringe in revulsion, as if to say, “Are you really about to do this?” As I bite into the packet eagerly, the vampire in me thinks back, “Hell yes I am.”
* * *
Jesús drives us down a dark city road in a very bad neighborhood–the kind of neighborhood that I never go to, only pass through, and even that only when I have to. Our relatively beat-up car doesn’t raise any eyebrows from the few people we pass on the street. I try to imagine what they see inside: a bunch of hopefully tough-looking youths out for a night on the town or looking to be up to no good. Still, despite our street attire of baggy clothing and the confident air of the others, I can’t help but think we probably look out of place and hope that doesn’t make us targets. We all wear the crimson jackets that seem to be some sort of unofficial uniform–I can only hope that these colors won’t cause us problems with anyone. My dad used to warn me about wearing the wrong colors in the wrong areas of town.
I hear a click and realize it’s the slide of a pistol. In the front, Hamad checks the chamber of his weapon before handing it back to me. I hesitate; I may be a vampire, but I’m not going to shoot someone.
“Take it. You probably won’t need it, but you’ll look strange going in there without it,” Hamad says reassuringly. And then as an afterthought, he hands me a pair of brass knuckles and smiles his sly smile. “And wear these, too. If anything goes down, it’ll help explain why our punches hurt so much.”
“What exactly are we doing tonight? I thought we were fundraising,” I say.
They all are smiling now. Jesús slows as we enter an alley. He looks back in the mirror and catches my eyes. “We are, coño. In a manner of speaking.” Okay, then, I guess they want it to be a surprise.
Hamad looks around at the group, all leader. “We get in, collect our fee, and get out. If there are any problems, we deal with them.” Now he looks directly at me. “I don’t think it needs to be said, but no fangs. If anything goes down, control yourself. We need to be badasses, but human badasses.”
We pull to a stop near a plain door marking the rear entrance to some type of garage. A big, bulky guard watches us suspiciously, his hand lingering near his waistline instinctively. He steps back out of our headlights and probably thinks he’s mostly hidden in the shadow, but I can see him clear as day. He’s squinting to see past the beams–we must have put the brights on for distraction. Jesús cuts the engine and Hamad pops out confidently.
As Mike moves to exit, he leans to me and says, “Just follow our lead. And be cool.”
Outside, the guard recognizes Hamad. “Aw, crap,” he mutters under his breath, his words puffing forth in tiny pockets of frosted air. Even without the visual display, he didn’t manage to speak softly enough for our enhanced hearing.
“It's that time of the month,” Hamad says smiling, walking past him as if without a care in the world.
Jesús pats the guard as he walks by, “Pay day, baby.”
Inside, I see it is a car repair shop. Several hulks are suspended in the air in the process of being worked on. Through a side door, I see another storage area with a few cars way too nice to belong to normal customers. The policeman’s son in me recognizes that they must be stolen.
A big beast of a man in his late 30’s comes out of a back office as we enter. He’s in a dark leather coat while the two others playing cards in the corner are in the repair shop uniform. That, plus the way the two look to him as we enter, marks him as the boss around here. Behind us, the bulky guard from the alley comes in and mans the inside of the door.
“Tyrone,” Hamad says with mustered warmth.
“Big-T. You know what my name is here,” the beastly man says cautiously.
“But I like Tyrone. It’s such a nice name,” Hamad continues cordially. He pauses, waiting.
The man called Tyrone hesitates for a moment, unsure. Eventually, he nods at the card players. One grabs a duffel bag from under a nearby table and tosses it as Hamad’s feet. Hamad kicks it back to Mike, never taking his eyes off Tyrone. Mike bends down and unzips the bag. He gives it a quick scan and ruffles through a few of the stacks to check the denominations. Unsatisfied, Mike shakes his head at Hamad. I watch all this take place, unsure what to do. But since it seems that Hamad, et al., have it covered, I just focus on Mike’s advice and try to be cool.
“Seems like we're a little light,” Hamad says casually.
“Naw, man, it’s all there,” Tyrone responds. I hear his voice crack ever so slightly and know that it indicates intended deception. I also take in the tense body language and nervous fidgeting of the two card players. I even think I smell someone beginning to sweat.
“Tyrone, let’s not play this game,” Hamad counters.
“Well, you know man … recession and all that,” explains Tyrone with a shrug of his shoulders.
Hamad is not put off that easily. “Drugs don't have recessions. Neither do stolen cars,” he says, nodding to the room where I saw the stolen rides. “So, where's the rest of our money?”
“Shit, man. That's your cut. That's fair. We're the ones risking ourselves out there on the streets.”
“Our streets, coño,” Jesús cuts in menacingly.
Hamad continues in a friendly tone. Considering the circumstances, it sounds unnerving. “What's the matter, Tyrone? You don't appreciate our services? We help you with the police, keep the other dealers on their turf, spot cars for you ....”
“See, that's just it. We were doin' just fine before y'all came along. Your movement's been doin' things that put a cloud over the streets. Bad for business,” Tyrone throws back angrily. He looks meaningfully at the two card players. They’ve suddenly morphed into his muscle and move to attention, spreading out next to our side. I notice handguns tucked into their waistbands beneath their greasy jackets. I’m conscious of the guard behind me at the door shifting into a ready position, too.
One of them speaks up, “Big-T, you want we show these fools the way out?”
Tyrone smiles a little, encouraged by the support. “Nah, I got this, man,” he says with an exaggerated casualness, trying to match our own. He looks back at Hamad, “You see, me and some of the other heads were thinking maybe it's time y'all left this side of the city,” Tyrone continues, more confidently. For my first real night on the job, things suddenly seem like they are about to jump up a level. I watch the others closely for guidance on what to do.
But Hamad just laughs and looks back at Jesús and Mike. They grin at him in return. Hamad locks eyes with me and I try to conceal my nerves and smile, too. I give him my best “no worries”
grin. He holds my gaze for what would have been a heartbeat and then makes the tiniest of tiny nods. No human could pick it up. I see Jesús and Mike’s pupils dilate, and I know we just received a signal to be ready for action.
Hamad turns back to Tyrone, his smile now shifted from faux-friendly to his trademark sly smirk. He steps forward gently to close the gap between them. “Now, Tyrone, you know that's not gonna happen.” And now with a hint of malice creeping into his voice, “No one’s going anywhere.”
Picking up on the threat, Tyrone and his muscle draw their weapons. This is the part where if I were still human, I’d probably be on my knees about to cry. As it is, I’m still pretty darned concerned about how this is going to play out.
“I’ve told you, it’s Big-T now,” Tyrone says. Hamad steps forward again. Tyrone/Big-T waves his gun threateningly. “Not another step. Take the money as a parting gift and go. And don't come back.”
His words sound bold, but I can hear his heart begin to race, the blood rushing through his body. I see his hands trembling ever so slightly and can make out tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead and nose. I can hear his muscle breathing heavily to my side and rear and can smell their fear. I wonder what interactions they’ve had before to be so afraid of Hamad’s crew, yet still be willing to risk confrontation like this. I wonder at his motivation–simple greed? The need to prove his manhood in front of his crew? Either way, this can't end well for him.
Hamad’s calm, smooth voice cuts through my observations, “Everybody relax.” Despite his words, I sense Jesús and Mike ready themselves and do the same. Ahead, Hamad cocks his head to the side like a predatory bird zeroing in on prey. He smiles …,
feints left ...,
then pounces right.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Shots ring out from Tyrone’s gun, but Hamad moves too quickly. Jesús and Mike hurl themselves toward the pair of muscle. They too move quickly, but none use full vampire speed. Crack! Crack! They deliver blows that land with sickening sounds.
Two loud shots ring out behind me just as I feel a truck run into my back. I’m thrown forward, but somehow manage to stay on my feet. I turn around to face a very surprised guard holding a literal smoking gun. He recovers from his own shock a split second before I do and raises the pistol again for a third shot. But this time, I manage to be on the move. I don’t know if I used vampire speed, but I swear I almost see the bullet zipping by me harmlessly as I dodge right.
I easily get inside the man’s reach and grab his gun hand, bending it back painfully so that I can take the gun. Remembering to keep my fangs in (which very much want to come out), I follow that up with a half-kick to the side of his knee: a deep crunch lets me know that he won’t be walking again soon. The guard drops to his knees in agony and lets out a scream when the broken one connects with the ground. I reach around and feel my vest–the bullets didn’t break through.
I turn around and see the other two muscle dudes similarly crumpled up on the ground near Jesús and Mike, who both watch Hamad with amusement. Hamad holds Tyrone from behind by the neck, much as he had me earlier. For a second, I think he is going to savage the man’s throat, but instead he forces out angry words through clenched teeth. “Where’s. My. Money?” he grunts, obviously fighting to restrain his urges.
“Go to hell,” Tyrone returns defiantly. I fear the worst and brace for blood, hoping that I can control myself, too. I have to admit to feeling strangely excited by the physical violence, yet another sign that I’m not exactly who I used to be before dying.
Hamad turns Tyrone’s head toward him and looks directly into his eyes. Tyrone tries to struggle, but cannot help but hold his gaze. Hamad’s pupils begin to dilate and contract repeatedly, pulsating rhythmically … hypnotically. Tyrone’s respond in kind.
“Where's my money?” Hamad asks again.
As if in a trance, Tyrone responds tranquilly, “In the desk in my office. Top drawer, right side.”
Hamad looks over at me. I’m taken aback by what just happened, but quickly realize that Hamad wants me to go get the money. I head into the office and after a brief search in the drawer, I find a few thick stacks of hundreds hidden in some envelopes. I retrieve them and hand them off to Mike for the bag.
Hamad releases Tyrone, but keeps his gun. “Let’s not do that again,” he says calmly. “Oh, and spread the word to the other heads: Our fee just went up fifty percent.”
We walk out to the sounds of groans, but not before Jesús adds a Parthian shot over his shoulder, “See you next month.”
* * *
We drive, jubilant. I can tell that we all shared a similar experience, sense the same excitement. Mike looks over at me, “You feel that? The rush?” I definitely do. I answer him with the flush in my face and the exuberance reflected in my expression.
Hamad looks back from the front seat with approval in his eyes. “This is what we’re made for. It’s in our blood. We’re apex predators.”
I feel like that should creep me out: thinking about being a predator to humans. But really, I just feel elated. I look around the car and see guys who are looking at me like a friend, like I’m on the team. And honestly, no one got killed; there wasn’t even really any bloodshed. I didn’t do anything tonight except rough up some criminals, one of whom tried to kill me, in fact. I’m sure my dad roughed up a few in his day, especially if they took a shot at him. So I sit back, relax, joke with the guys and enjoy the moment.
Eventually, I remember to ask Hamad about the eye thing. I know some of the lore mentions this ability, but I had no idea what it looked like or how it was done. “How'd you do that? Get him to talk?” I ask eagerly.
Jesús snickers. “Vera never used that around you?”
I shake my head no, confused as to why she ever would have had occasion to use that power around me.
“You sure?” he presses with a mischievous wink.
I ignore the implication–Vera would never do that to me–and wait for Hamad’s response to my earnest enquiry.
He obliges. “We can coerce most humans with our minds … enthrall them for a short time. You probably can, too. You're pretty strong for a newbie,” Hamad says. Again, I hear approval in his tone and can’t help but realize how badly I want it.
Mike adds, “We’ll show you some time. You’ll soon see that in this group the training never stops.”
* * *
When I finally reach home with Hamad just before sunrise, Vera is already in bed. I have a very domestic moment opening the door and seeing her there, resting under the covers. It’s like I suddenly turned into a TV show husband rather than a vampire, returning from a long night at work to the sleeping wife. Only a few things hammer home just how different my life is from Hollywood, like the covered up windows and the blood I can still smell on my shirt.
I must have paused too long in the doorway because Vera rolls over with a look of concern. “How was your night, babe?” she asks anxiously. I guess she wasn’t really sleeping, after all.
I don’t begin to know how to explain the mix of emotions inside me stemming from tonight. I don’t even know if she really knows exactly what Hamad and his crew–my crew–get up to. So I opt to answer with a simple, “It was okay. A bit crazy.”
She probes me for a second with her eyes, but then appears satisfied and lets the issue drop. “I have good news,” she says, reaching out for me to join her on the bed. I take a seat on the edge as she continues. “Tomorrow you'll be with me. I asked Joseph if you could do security at the recruiting event. We've had a few incidents lately.”
I feel like this should make me happy, getting to spend a night with my girlfriend on the job. But intere
stingly, I feel almost disappointed. I guess I was kinda looking forward to hanging out with Hamad and the guys again, solidifying the bond that I felt started to form tonight. I can’t reveal this to Vera though, and she is watching me again, so I say, “Cool,” and begin to take off my jacket to avoid her gaze.
“Is everything alright?” she asks, sensing that something is up.
I know she must think that whatever is bothering me is because of tonight, so I decide to open up and share some of the thoughts that have been in the mix in the back of my head.
“It's weird; now that I'm dead I'm experiencing a side of life I missed while alive,” I say. “I guess my dad saw this part of society though … this violence.” And a few seconds later, I add a thought that popped up unbidden, “And my mom.”
Vera leans in and gives me a big hug. Amazing what the touch of someone you love can do; I forget about the night and focus on the warmth of her embrace. And she is relatively warm to me now, no longer the cold, strange creature I once feared.
She gives a sniff and looks up. “You didn’t already?” she asks pointedly, fingering the blood on my shirt. I realize with shock that she thinks I took a live human. But before I can answer she gets a better whiff and says, “No, it’s not human. It’s yours?”
“Yeah, it’s mine,” I admit, momentarily flashing back at what it felt like to be on the receiving end of the crew’s little welcome earlier.
Vera gently caresses my face. “You going to be okay?” she asks tenderly.
“I’m already healed,” I answer matter-of-factly.