The Vampirists

by R. G. Nelson

  Franklin quickly interjects, “It's okay, Stu. I know him,” whether to keep things from getting ugly or to try to save some face, I don’t know. And I don’t care. I care about one thing–him not getting involved in all this.

  “I didn't see you come in earlier,” I tell him, trying to keep my tone somewhat level, but failing epically. Still, I don’t think he picks up on the accusing note in my tone, or else he just ignores it.

  “Yeah, I saw you at the door and avoided you. That’s why there are side doors,” he says stand-offishly.

  Fine, if it’s gonna go that way–“What are you doing here?” I fire back. “How many times have I warned you to stay away from this?”

  “What are you on, man? It’s still a free country, isn't it? You think you can control what I do?” he yells.

  I realize that a lot of heads in the crowd are now turned toward us. This is not very productive and definitely not the audience for the conversation I want to have.

  “Walk with me,” I order, hoping he won’t decide to make a stand in front of everyone. I want to get us away from here … let the walk take away some of the fire inside us.

  Luckily, he comes along without protest. Maybe he was embarrassed, too. We walk quietly for a bit. I see how his hands are stuck deeply in his pockets in an attempt to shield them from the bitter night. Strange how little I barely register the weather anymore. I feel guilty somehow and look away. I stare at the few cars that pass us by, I stare at the overflowing garbage cans and at the brown patches of old gum staining the sidewalk. I stare at everything to avoid looking at Franklin, to put off the moment where one of us will have to start speaking again. Because I really don’t know what to say. Well, what else to say: I’ve said it all before to him, many times, and yet somehow, he’s still ends up back here.

  Maybe I underestimated how alone he feels. Or maybe just as with the other people, I’m somehow failing to understand some deeply rooted devotion to the Movement that he has in his core. In any event, I don’t think I know what the magic words are that will make him grasp that the Movement is not what he thinks. Having the vampire conversation would just put a mark on both our heads–and he’d probably not even believe it short of me popping fangs here on the street.

  I realize that we are walking down the same street as all those long months ago during early summer when I came out of my first Movement meeting, when I first met Vera. Funny that as I was walking home that night, thinking that I was walking away from that crazy gathering, I was actually unknowingly walking toward all this. I wish I could tell him that, share my thoughts the way I used to back in the day, but I know I can’t. I’m not even sure if he would care anymore–I don’t know what our friendship still means to him. He obviously doesn’t really see that I still care about him, that that’s behind all my actions.

  It’s Franklin who breaks the silence first. “You think I don't know what you did? One minute, I'm in with these guys–they like me; next thing I know, no one'll give me the time of day. You stole them from me.”

  “It's not like that. You know that,” I say quietly. I try to keep the guilt I feel creeping up out of my voice. I know I have my reasons. I believe in them, but I also know how it must look from his side: It looks exactly as he’s describing, and I kinda feel guilty about it.

  In the distance ahead, a figure emerges and heads toward us from up the street. I sense anger bubbling up in Franklin and hope we aren’t about to put on a show for passersby.

  Franklin does let his temper explode a bit. “Do I know that? Really? The whole time you're telling me to stay away, and you're there plotting to move in with them. Well, congrats, you won. I'm all alone again.”

  “Franklin …” I start, but don’t really know where to go.

  It doesn’t matter, as he jumps back in. “I mean, what happened to us, Adam? It used to be me and you. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t always pretty, but it worked. We survived. I don’t think I could have done high school without you.”

  “I know,” I say, “I feel the same way, buddy. But things change, life moves on and all that. I’m not trying to leave you behind, but I have to go in a different direction now.”

  “Adam, you left me behind the day you went to college. You know, it’s terrible, but I was almost glad your mom died–I mean, not really, of course, but it’s only because she passed that you even came back here.” Though we’ve been walking and talking without making eye contact, I see from my periphery that he gives me a sidelong glance to check how I received his comment. But it’s not a surprise. I’ve always felt that–that he was happy I came back … and maybe even a little pleased that I wasn’t moving forward without him. But I also wondered if my coming back kept him from moving forward; after all, it definitely kept me from it.

  “You could have gone to school too, man,” I counter. “You were the one who said it would be selling out, whatever that means.”

  Secretly, I thought Franklin skipped college just to avoid the prospect of facing high school redux. I myself was worried about the same, but when I actually got to college, I realized that at a larger institution a lot of those high school politics disappeared. You get lost in the crowd or find your own crowd. You choose your own classes … hang out at the bars you want with the people you want. And people grow up–grow out of a lot of the crap that made the mid-teens so miserable.

  He never got to learn this. In high school, we were made to feel like outsiders. So he started to view himself as one, and that just perpetuated the negative feedback cycle. I remember sensing a bit of jealousy on his part when I went through with the whole university thing. Like he wanted to go, too, but didn’t have the guts and resented me a bit for mine. “You could still go, you know? Start college somewhere … move forward …” I posit gently. I know even before saying it that he will reject it, but it would make my life so much easier if he would just bite.

  “I was moving forward, Adam. With the Movement,” he says, bringing our conversation full circle.

  The guy from up the road is almost level with us before I detect something amiss–Franklin had me distracted. I can’t tell what it is about him. I think it must be a combination of factors, like a well-worn, hooded sweatshirt sticking out from a tattered bulky jacket, both spattered with stains of the street, and his smell, which reeks of not just street, but also cheap liquor, stale sweat, and much worse.

  From this, my brain registers that the man is a bum, but the vampire in me, the predator deep inside, recognizes the look in the man’s eyes. They are a deep, blood-shot red, slightly crazed with desperation and probably a few substances more hard core than the liquor I smell. But all this does not concern me. What concerns me is the way the man is looking at us, like he’s a shark and we’re swimming in his ocean.

  “Yo, you got any money?” he asks.

  Franklin, somewhat oblivious, brushes him off. “Sorry, man,” he says, walking past without a second thought.

  The bum smiles a bit. “Maybe y'all didn't hear me.” He reaches inside his jacket for the gun I know he has. Just like with Tyrone’s crew, I see his body exhibit a variety of signs indicating that he is preparing for a confrontation. My own body responds much more subtly, but much more lethally. “I said, you got any–”

  I’m behind him in a flash just as the gun clears his coat. Franklin, a few steps ahead by this point, wheels and sees me pinning the man’s arm behind him. I exhibit slight pressure on the bum’s wrist, which I hold at a delicate angle, causing the gun to come easily away into my possession. Franklin is speechless. I take a moment to feel the man squirm in my grip. I loosen up a bit, giving him hope that maybe he can break free. But seconds later I tighten back up into what must feel like an iron vice to his frail human body.

  I’m buzzing … I almost s
mile at the pleasure of it. His warmth is so near me, burning through his soiled clothes. I recognize that I’m aroused, not sexually, but only in that weird way that vampires can understand. I realize that my eyes are closed and I’m smelling his neck. I force myself to pull away and break out of the trance. My fangs poke painfully at my gums in protest.

  They want to come out.

  They want to play.

  I need to do something to end this immediately. “You were going to rob me. I want an apology. And a promise that you won't do this again,” I say with what I hope to be an appropriate amount of menace.

  “Get off me, you weirdo,” he responds.

  My iron vice tightens to another level. I’m rewarded by feeling his body creak in protest. “That’s not the response I was looking for.”

  “Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Really sorry,” he says quickly.

  But I’m not satisfied. And I’m not quite ready to let him go. I ratchet the pressure up a bit more and put a little more twist on his joints.

  “And I promise to stop,” he says. His voice tells me that he is in real pain. That makes me happy.

  “Adam …” Franklin says. He looks lost. Perplexed.

  I let the bum go roughly. I listen for his heartbeats and breathing to tell me if he is going to try to put up more fight, but given that I’m still holding his gun, I think it more likely that he’ll make a break for it. Instead, he just kinda sags in place and seems to try to get his body working again.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he mumbles, looking up at me with a mix of confusion and fear. Again, I find this very satisfying. The night is my ocean.

  “Let's go, Franklin,” I say. And to the bum, “Thanks for the present.”

  I hold up the crap gun I won from him. It’s so beat up that I think it might backfire in my hands if I ever pull the trigger, so I drop it down an opening into a street drain right in front of the guy. I almost hope this will give him the courage to try a second round. But he apparently has decided that his muscles and bones are all working properly because he starts to run in the opposite direction. I can’t help myself–I let out a small chuckle.

  But Franklin doesn’t understand my humor. “What the hell was that? He had a gun!”

  I just avoid his gaze and continue walking again. It’s another conversation we can’t have.

  “Know what? I don't want to know,” Franklin says, almost with disgust. He tries to speed up and pull away from me.

  Without thinking, I grab his wrist to stop him. He looks down at my grip and I know what he is thinking. He’s noticing how my touch has changed. How I feel cold. Strong. Different. And given what he just saw me do, he’s maybe even a little afraid. He will try to rationalize what he just experienced: It’s a cold winter night, I may have been working out …. But instinctively he will feel that something is off, just as I used to with Vera in the beginning.

  I instantly let go. There is a barrier of silence between us so formidable that it might as well be the Great Wall of China. I try to soften the mood.

  “Franklin, I know it's hard to believe, but the Movement's not what you think it is. I'm trying to protect you,” I tell him. Not my best line, but from the heart.

  “Awesome, thanks. So is that why you're a uniformed member now?” A fair point from his view.

  “I didn't want this,” I say, knowing how weak it must sound.

  “Really? This was my thing. Mine. And you’ve taken it from me. Yet, you’re still saying you don’t want it. Poor, poor Adam! Well, give it back to me, cuz I do want it. I do!” he shouts. He stops for a moment to calm down.

  I can feel his heart pumping blood aggressively through his body. His scent wafts across the distance, almost flavored by the anger. I wonder what he tastes like. Aghast, I focus hard on blocking out these thoughts from my head.

  He continues in an acid tone. “You know, from out here it looks like you're getting everything you wanted.”

  I know I have a guilty flush. Because I did get what I wanted, but he just doesn’t realize that all I wanted was Vera, and not the Movement or any of this other crap. I know what I took from him. I can imagine how intoxicating it must have been for him after a lifetime of being an outsider to finally find a place that he felt he belonged. Honestly, I feel it myself now more and more, despite trying to resist somewhat (and I am, I think).

  “I'm gonna go. It’s freezing. Good catching up,” he says sarcastically.

  I don’t want to leave it like this. Again. Just like all our conversations. But I can’t think of what else to say, what he’d want to hear.

  Well, except this, maybe: “Franklin … maybe … maybe in a few months, when I figure things out more, when I really see what it’s all about, maybe then we can see about you coming around again. There’s a lot going on you can’t see, can’t know about. But it–” I cut myself off. I’m starting to go down a road that I know I shouldn’t. “Look, I just, I need more time to get my bearings and understand the lay of the land here.”

  “Adam, that’s all great, but it’s been a few months. It’s been more than a few months, actually. If it’s such a horrible, mysterious place, what the hell are you still doing there?” he says in parting. I let him go without a reply. I have none.

  But he turns one last time and throws out: “Oh, love the contacts. Blue eyes? You're totally not trying to fit in at all, are you?”

  And with that, he leaves for real now. He stomps away angrily, his human footsteps echoing in the crisp air between the walls and parked cars on the street. I watch him disappear into the distance, shoulders hunched down against a biting wind I barely feel. With my new vision, it takes a while.

  Well, that could have gone better.

  * * *

  I arrive back home in a dark mood. On my way up the stairs, I can already hear the small crowd inside. Someone must have invited people back after the meeting. I’m annoyed because I don’t feel very social right now and don’t want to have to go through the hassle of pretending to be. I brace myself outside the door and then plunge inside.

  It’s definitely a gathering, but at least on the smaller side. And mostly vampires, though Hailey is there draped on Hamad as usual and looking as emo as ever. I’m surprised to get a welcome hi-five from Mike–and even Hamad makes an effort to look over and acknowledge me. Vera, however, perceptive as she is, picks up on the fact that I’m in a bit of a funk.

  “Where'd you go?” she asks.

  “Franklin crashed the event. We had a chat,” I say simply. I don’t really want to replay the whole conversation right now, especially not in front of this crowd.

  But Hamad looks up, obviously trying to recall Franklin. “Franklin … yeah, where’d that dude disappear to?”

  “He's not joining,” I say, perhaps a little too testily. Mike and Jesús stare at me questioningly. I want to cut this conversation off before it goes deeper. “Vera?”

  My angel, she understands. She comes over and puts her arm through mine. “I know, I'll try harder to keep him out of the loop,” she says sweetly.

  Hamad, however, is not done yet. “Why?” he asks, cocking his head to the side as if to challenge me.

  I don’t know how far I can push our newfound friendship, or comradeship if that’s a better term for it, so I don’t say anything and just glare at him.

  He shrugs his shoulders as if to indicate, ‘No big deal,’ and breaks off our staring competition. “Whatever. Chill out, man. Have a drink,” Hamad says with his evil smile.

  I realize that after the long night I just had I could really use one. But I look down and see that he is holding out Hailey’s wrist to me. There is still a tell-tale pattern of semi-circular bite ma
rks there–obviously I won’t be the first tonight to feed off this poor girl and whoever went before didn’t even bother to heal her properly. Hamad, I guess. Hailey just looks at me nonchalantly, as if she doesn’t really mind at all that I might sink my teeth into her and drink her blood. I mean, I guess I’ve sort of been in her position before, but when Vera and I did it, it was always something special. Something treasured and shared between two people in love. This … this just feels dirty … wrong.

  Yet I can smell the blood clotting in the existing bite marks. It calls out to me, tempting me. If this were a cartoon, there would literally be clouds of her scent wafting up into my nose, pulling the predator out of me toward her. I can tell the group is watching me, waiting to see what I’ll do. I look around the room, but what am I hoping to find? Looks of approval? Disapproval?

  “Gotta bust your cherry sometime.” That is Hamad. His words of wisdom for me. He is my team leader or whatever.

  I look at Hailey again. She smiles at me coquettishly. “Don't worry. I taste good.”

  Hamad laughs and pokes her nose gently, “You certainly do, you little minx.”

  Without realizing it, I’m sitting on the edge of the sofa now, holding her wrist. I’m not sure how that happened, but I know that this is about to happen, and I’m powerless to stop it. I feel like a drunk person at a frat party walking out the door with someone that I know I’ll regret in the morning, but still can’t walk away from. Unless: Vera. I seek out her gaze, but her ice-blue eyes hold only curiosity. She must sense that I need her approval because she arcs an eyebrow, as if to say, “Why not?” Or maybe that’s just the interpretation I secretly want to read there.

  Live. There aren’t words for it. I thought the blood I’d been drinking from the bags had prepared me for what it would be like to drink from the source. I thought it would be the same pizza, just with better toppings. But I was wrong. So very wrong.

  The warmth: We can heat our bagged blood up, but this warmth … this warmth is real, nourishing. It comes in and gives life to my cold, pale flesh. And the taste, it’s different … but it’s hard to pinpoint why. It goes way beyond just being fresher. There’s a special flavor coming out of her veins into my mouth that makes me want this to go on forever. I feel I can almost taste her life; I swear I see quick flashes of images flicker by: Hailey as a girl sitting on her father’s lap, Hailey riding a bike, Hailey eating lunch at school alone …. I can hear her life, too. Her heartbeats echo in my ears, and each pulse shoots more and more of her being into me. I feel connected to her, I understand her, and I don’t want to be separated from her. I drink on.