by R. G. Nelson
“No, I know that,” she says emphatically. “I meant are you going to be okay with all this? This life?” She indicates the room, which before I changed had been our little sanctuary, our hideaway from the world, and is now my home.
I see it again, really see it, and realize once more just how run down the apartment is. I noticed it initially as a human, then kinda forgot about it because the only decoration that I really needed was Vera. The vampire in me doesn’t need many creature comforts, but I’m touched that Vera is concerned about how I’m adapting to my new circumstances. Still, I know that she is worried about more than how I’m handling living with her … living here.
I squeeze her hand reassuringly. “Yeah, I'll be fine,” I say. “Hamad and his guys are not so bad. It's kinda nice, actually, being part of a team.” And then I push her onto her back and lean over her, loving the way she looks up into my eyes. “Plus, I have you.”
She pulls me toward her for a kiss, but seeing her beautiful eyes has made me remember something I wanted to ask.
“Vera, wait,” I say, fighting the urge to give in to her kiss. “I need to know–you didn't ever use your powers to like … mentally coerce me or anything, did you?”
She looks taken aback. Maybe even slightly hurt that I’m asking. She picks up a pillow and whacks me with it. “What? You mean did I enthrall you to like me or something?”
I grab the pillow and shrug, lying down beside her. I remember those first few weeks, the intensity of the feelings I had, how fast they came on …. I can’t help but wonder if that was really totally natural. What if she enthralled me to get me over my fear of her? I’m actually not sure if I’d be mad if she even had forced me to stop being afraid; maybe I should be thankful. Either way, I still want to know.
“Never. I could have tried, but it wouldn't have lasted,” she answers.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s just not the way it works. You can make people do and say things or play with their memories, but you can’t change real human emotions like that, not for the long term.” She rolls over and puts her hand on my chest. “So, sorry, everything you felt for me–feel for me–is all natural and all you.”
I feel better for a moment, but then get another thought. “You say you can play with memories: Does that mean you could have made me forget what I saw? About finding out that you’re a vampire?” She looks contemplative and maybe even sad for a moment; I wonder if she thinks that I wish that she had. So I decide to clarify: “I’m just trying to understand how this all works.”
That seems to do the trick; she perks up a bit. “Well, you can’t go in and alter someone’s existing, older memories, but if you are there in the moment, you can sort of erase their short-term memory and block something from becoming permanent. So yeah, if I had known that you saw me, I could have erased it that night. But by the time I confirmed that you had on the bus, it was too late to change anything.” She squeezes me tight again. “And honestly, I’m happy I couldn’t. I liked that I could be myself around you. And that you still loved me.”
I smile, I guess easing the tension and her concern. But I’m also thinking that it’s too bad that I won’t be able to use this ability to keep Franklin away from the Movement. It would have made things so much simpler to just make him forget all about it.
She senses my wandering thoughts and pushes me playfully. “Now, go shower,” she orders. “You reek of the streets.”
10)
It’s strange to be back at a meeting like this. It almost gives me a déjà vu sensation, but then I think about everything that has happened since first attending a Movement meeting in another coffee shop similar to this. Dating Vera, parting ways with Franklin, dying, becoming undead … the last few months of my life really packed it in there. And somehow it all culminated with me standing here on duty, wearing a crimson uniform shirt. At least Vera likes a man in uniform.
Looking around, the place is packed; the Shatterday Bash really got the word out and swelled the ranks of Movement wannabes. It seems like every young altern-a-teen and delinquent in the city is here. As I gaze around, I realize that even though I’m now an official member (and some of the eager beavers even look at me with awe), I’m still quite bored by the same-old rhetoric. Good thing I can hang out in the back with the other guy working security and don’t have to pay much attention to what Joseph is saying.
The other vamp, Piotr or something, is in one of the other squads, I think. He has the same blood-colored shirt and dropped the name of who I guess is his team leader, Tomas; he wasn’t impressed when I didn’t know it. Anyway, he’s not much of a conversationalist and has kind of an early 1980’s punk rock vibe about him, making me wonder when he was turned. He even has the bleached blonde and pink-streaked spikey hair going. Needless to say, there are other people I’d rather spend my evening staring at.
Vera is at the front, just slightly off to the side as usual. She doesn’t have it so easy; being up front, she has to keep up an appearance of being interested. Maybe she really is. I know how she feels about the Movement as her family, but still haven’t completely figured out just how deep her belief in all this goes.
I glance outside the window. The cop car is still there, parked quite obviously across the street. I bet they’d love to break up our meeting, but even after the Shatterday Bash they still can’t tie anything to specific people to make arrests, nor can they break up our “peaceful” meeting. I have to admit, the Movement has been quite smart about that.
So Joseph gets to drone on, “But we are expressing our displeasure with the way things are being run. We are putting on notice these capitalists, these so-called men, men who do anything for a profit, who would sell their own souls for a dollar … for a percentage point increase in their stocks–” He is interrupted by an enthusiastic round of applause; I try to pinpoint who started it to see if it was a Movement plant. I wouldn’t put it past Joseph. He seems very calculated in everything he does.
“We are also putting on notice the politicians, these lazy and idle officials who sit by and let it happen. Who are too greedy and too busy fighting for a vote to actually govern as the law intended, to fight for our interests as we elected them to do!” More applause follows. There are even a few whistles and cheers.
“And let us not forget the scientists … the scientists who pursue technological advances, pushing ever onward into dangerous new realms without regard for the future of humanity. They only think ‘can we’ and never ‘should we.’ They only consider ‘how much will this make us’ and never ‘how much will this cost.’ For make no mistake, there will be costs, and I'm not just talking about finances and budgets and balance sheets, but about real costs. Human costs. These are real, like the blood that runs through each and every one of our veins. They are tangible. And they will be terrible. And sadly, my friends, they will be borne not just by an individual, but by all society, current and future.
“So to all of these people, these irresponsible rapscallions, we say ‘Enough!’ We are in the streets showing to the world that we will not stand for such a farce ….”
Joseph is really working himself up into a fit. The crowd loves it–his passion. To me, as someone not fully invested in his words, it just seems creepy. Vera catches my eye and gives me a reassuring smile; she must know how I’m feeling. I love that she knows me so well. But still, a part of me is quite annoyed to be stuck here tonight listening to this stale spiel clearly aimed at impressing all-too-impressionable minds. I wonder what Hamad and Jesús and Mike are up to.
“And brothers and sisters, people are listening. Our numbers are–”
Joseph’s rant is interrupted by several large booms that strike the window. I hear running footsteps outside and turn to see a small group out in front. Something
dark and red is running down the window–for a moment a monstrous part of me is aroused, but then I identify it as rotten tomatoes by the smell.
Angry voices echo in from outside. “Criminals! Terrorists!” A girl’s voice hurls out, “There's blood on your hands!” I smile to myself at the irony; if only she knew.
Inside, half the crowd is on its feet, trying to see what the commotion is. “Everyone, please sit down. Stay calm. It is just a few troublemakers trying to provoke a rash response,” Joseph says.
Some listen to him, some murmur angrily. Joseph’s speech had been riling people up, and now they are proving hard to settle down. I note that the cop across the road has done nothing to intervene on our behalf. Piotr and I look to Joseph for instructions. A narrowing of the eyes and slight nod of the head spurs us into action. We hurry out the door, to what end I’m not quite sure.
Luckily, as we exit to the street, the small group disperses and runs away. The unlucky cop who pulled the late night duty is out of his car across the road, just leaning on the hood and grinning. I guess he isn’t such a big fan of the Movement.
“We need to teach them a lesson. But don’t vamp out and don’t let the cops see. I don’t think they’ll be so lenient on our side,” Piotr tells me. I start to give chase to the group, which now has a half-block lead on us. “No, I have a better idea,” Piotr says, calling me back.
He hustles us in the other direction, where we soon cut into an alley. I’m pretty confused as to how this will help us catch those guys until he starts to scale the wall to the roof. Understanding his plan, I look around to make sure that no one is watching us and head up after him. Even now, I’m amazed at how easy it is to do something that a week ago was so completely and totally physically impossible.
In no time at all, we are running, unseen, along the rooftops in pursuit of our prey. If I strain my senses, I can hear them still running and yelling ahead. They seem to be enjoying themselves, perhaps experiencing the same rush I felt last night after my encounter in the car chop-shop. I can’t help but think about how weird it is to be chasing these people, people who are probably quite similar to me. Or to who I was. In fact, maybe I would have been out there with them if it hadn’t been for Vera and Franklin.
We rush along, moving easily around the various obstacles in our way. At the end of the block, we jump across to the rooftops on the other side after waiting to be sure the coast is clear. Even with the slight delay, we easily gain on them and are soon side by side with three of them, though they are oblivious to our presence above.
“It seems like they’ve split into two smaller groups to make their getaway,” I point out quietly to Piotr. When we started the chase, there were six of them.
“That’s unfortunate for these three–just makes our job of taking them down without doing anything suspicious that much easier,” he responds.
We track them unobserved for a while. They turn a corner onto a small side street and soon slow down, erroneously believing themselves to have gotten away free and clear. This late at night, very few other people are out, and to them the area must look deserted.
Piotr and I exchange looks. He nods to the ground and I understand what he wants me to do. For his part, he races ahead of the group to the end of the roofs and disappears over the side. I drop down soundlessly behind them and try to blend into the dark patches in between street lights. I see that the three are really two boys and a girl, all late teens or early twenty-somethings. College age, or maybe graduate school. They chat happily, not aware of the literal monsters lurking in the shadows.
I stalk them silently for maybe 30 seconds before Piotr appears on the road ahead. Being human, they take a few more seconds before they see him, and a few more after that to process the Movement bandana he wears over his mouth to shield his identity. Stupid, I don’t have one of those.
They hesitate for a moment before one of the boys says to his group with false bravado, “Who cares? There’s three of us.”
The girl cautions, “There could be more.”
They look around, but don’t see me as I have plenty of time to take cover in a doorway. The bolder of the guys heads straight for Piotr. The girl follows a little less eagerly while the third guy brings up the rear, continuously glancing around cautiously. Smart guy, but that won’t help him.
I step out just as Piotr and the first guy collide. The rear guy gives a quick look of surprise, but moves to meet me. Up ahead, the bold dude is already on the ground with a bloody nose. I can smell it from here. Piotr moves to the girl and grabs her by the hair, throwing her into a parked car without hesitation. I swear I can see him smiling underneath that bandana. I’m so surprised by his aggression toward a girl that I almost miss the fist flying at me.
Almost.
But I manage to block it and punch the kid in his nose carefully. He steps back a bit, but keeps coming. I guess I overdid it on the caution, so I let another punch fly with a little more power. Now my guy is also on the ground with a bloody nose. He tries to kick out at me, so I get inside his legs and sit across his lower waist, trying to pin them down.
“Cut it out, you’re beaten,” I say through clenched teeth. I don’t really know how else to end this, but I need to get away soon. It’s taking more effort than I would have thought to control myself around all this blood. I feel my fangs poking at my gums in anticipation, just waiting to come out and be put to use.
Yet the boy keeps on struggling with his outstretched arms. So I punch him again, and then again once more for good measure, but less enthusiastically. This seems to do the trick. His arms go limp and he looks up at me.
But now he starts to smile, a smile tinged by blood trickling through his teeth where one of my blows must have landed. It has a super creepy, sinister look. “Go ahead, spill more blood. Terrorist.”
This makes me angry, really angry. I want to shout at him that he has no idea how I ended up here, that I don’t really buy much of what the Movement stands for either. I want to make sure that he knows that he and his friends started the trouble tonight–they brought this on themselves. But before any of this can come out through the jumble in my mind, he spits the bloody contents of his mouth at me.
I think my fangs came out, whether due to anger or the blood on my face I don’t know. But it didn’t matter because I’m punching his face so fast he wouldn’t have been able to see anything anyway. It takes all my self-control to stop after a few seconds, but somehow I regain my senses and pull up before I do any serious, long-term damage to this dude.
I wipe my face and try to dry my hands on his shirt. “Tell your friends to stay away from us,” I say as I stand up, still fuming.
I look over at Piotr; his spiky hair is apparently undamaged by the dust-up. He is back near the bold guy, ruffling through his pockets. He pulls out a wallet and extracts the ID. “So now I know where you live. Remember that,” he says in parting as he starts to head back to me. The bold guy can only groan now. I see the girl start to crawl toward him; I guess that must be her boyfriend. At least she’s mobile … somewhat.
“Let’s get out of here,” Piotr suggests.
I glance back at the boy at my feet before heading away. He’s definitely gonna need a lot of ice for that face. And maybe even a trip to the hospital. Or dentist. Or both.
“Aw, man, that was great. I was so bored in there,” Piotr confesses as we jog back to the meeting. I just look at him, not quite sure what there is to enjoy in what just happened. It definitely didn’t hold the same thrill for me as last night.
When we reach the front of the shop, Piotr nods to the blood on me. “You should stay outside,” Piotr says before going in. Guess he doesn’t want people on the inside to see. I look over at the cop car and see the officer is now inside with hi
s head back and eyes closed. He must have figured the excitement for the night was over.
My shirt is rife with sanguine speckles that are starting to freeze in the winter night. But they are hardly noticeable–a benefit of my shirt’s sinister coloration. My skin is not so lucky; I look down at the drying blood on my knuckles and try to rub it off. It doesn’t really help. I’m tempted to lick them, but instead settle for sticking them in my pockets.
Out of sight.
But not out of mind.
Because I know that one thing’s for sure now, I definitely do have blood on my hands.
* * *
An hour passes quietly. I’m left alone with my thoughts. Before I know it, I hear the buzz from inside get louder and begin to spill over into the streets. The meeting is over, and excited young wannabe revolutionaries chatter about changing the world. Joseph sure did get them fired up.
Where does their emotional investment come from? How does someone end up so passionate about a cause like this? I scan the faces, trying to see this from their point of view, trying to understand their enthusiasm, their sense of commitment. I can’t really understand where such strong sentiments come from, even as I couldn’t when still only a human like them. I try to guess their ages, their backgrounds, to figure out which will get bored of this soon, which will end up in jail, which, if any, will one day join me suspended in this halfway state between life and death.
I see one face in the crowd that draws out some emotions in me. I make a beeline for it, not caring that I push several people aside angrily on my warpath. I grab Franklin roughly by the arm. His buddy, some nerdy-looking activist complete with obnoxiously thick glasses and acne, objects to my brusque manner.
“The hell, man?” the nerd says. He obviously doesn’t know who I am.