The Vampirists

by R. G. Nelson

  “Do it,” Hamad half orders, half encourages. Jesús digs a knee into the vampire’s back, forcing his chest up for maximum exposure.

  I do not hear his entrance, but suddenly I know there is someone else in the room with us. There was a subtle shift in the air and the arrival of a terrified, soiled human stench and racing heartbeats.

  I slowly turn around, prepared for anything, and still am shocked by what I see. A large, Native-American vampire is standing there, examining the scene before him. He stands half a head taller than any of us and looks like some figure out of a hellish cowboys and Indians dime novel–I swear he is wearing an outfit that must have been made in the 1800’s. He casually tosses aside the human girl he had been holding; I hear her impact against the wall with a thud that I know can’t be good. Her blood begins to run out over the floor–his feeding had obviously been interrupted.

  To my side, the formerly sinister-looking vampire gets injected with renewed confidence. Still on his knees, he pulls himself to his full height and throws back his shoulders. He even cracks a smile.

  The Native-American vampire speaks to him. “My child, I felt your pain.” He then looks incredulously at us, as if he can’t believe we dared to intrude on his territory. “What have you done?”

  The kneeling vampire begins to call out to him, “I'm sorry, ma–” But Hamad cuts him off with a stake through the chest. Like his comrade, he withers slowly to nothing. It gives me a weird feeling to see something that could have been immortal snuffed out in the blink of an eye. The Native-American vampire watches emotionlessly–or at least with concealed emotions. A small twitch of his eye and a tightening of the jawline are the only indication of potential turbulence raging inside.

  “Your progeny weren't very smart. But you get the same choice: Join or die again,” Hamad says, smirking.

  Some primal part deep in me that I haven’t really felt since I stopped being a human around vampires and turned into one myself begins to get triggered again. Every part of my being gets set on edge. I feel some type of vampire adrenaline start to course through my body as it prepares for fight or flight–it’s a little more defensive than a battle buzz. I want to scream out to Hamad that taunting their master is not a good idea, but I don’t want to show any weakness that could mark me as an easy target for the Native-American.

  “Join? Or die? Are those really my only options?” the large vampire asks with a contemptuous sneer. “I am over 300 years old. I don't think you have those years between you.”

  He’s right. I know that Hamad is somewhere over a hundred years old, but I’ve heard he’s younger than Vera, and she’s rumored to be still under 200. Jesús and I combined don’t make a decade, and even with Mike’s forty years we still come up way short. I look over and see Jesús and Mike exchange nervous glances. I know it’s not a great sign if the normally overconfident Jesús is worried. I have no idea how powerful a 300-year-old vampire is, but I know that he wouldn’t have survived that long if he weren’t a very capable being.

  Hamad remains nonplussed. He tilts his head to the side in a relaxed manner and grins in response to the vampire’s boast. “All the same,” he says simply, his crocodile smile still plastered across his face.

  I’m almost in shock. I feel like we should try to run–distract the vamp and then make a break for it so we can bring someone like Joseph back to help. But I know Hamad has started his usual routine to throw off an opponent before he attacks. I can’t believe he’d be so bold as to initiate an attack on someone so old.

  It would be so weird for him to have lived for over a hundred years, for tens of thousands of nights, and then have it all end this evening on the crappy basement floor of an abandoned building in an area that no one cares about. I feel like the longer I’d survive as a vampire, the more risk-averse I’d become. Then again, maybe surviving all those nights has given him a confidence that I don’t yet possess. Either way, when he makes his move I know that I have to follow as well. There’s no question of that if I want to continue in my life in this cell. Or more importantly, in my life with Vera.

  Surprisingly, Mike moves first. He turns into a tornado-like blur as he heads for the Native-American. But just as suddenly as he streaked forward, he is thrown back hard, so hard that he explodes through the far wall into the other room. I pray that wasn’t a load-bearing wall because I hear the ceiling give a groan and shift slightly. I want to look up and make sure it isn’t collapsing on us, but the fight is now raging full force.

  Jesús and Hamad try to grab and pin each of the enemy vampire’s arms, but they are tossed off. I take advantage of the distraction to jump up on his back and try to put him in a lock the same way I did with the younger vampire earlier–the way Hamad once did to me. I still have my silver stake in hand, but it’s awkward and prevents me from getting a firm grip. I hold on as he shakes from side to side, trying to knock me off. I feel his size and strength and know that I cannot hope to hold him for any length of time. Just as I come to this realization, he rockets me off somehow and I impact on the back wall. Pain courses through my body, but the vampire in me knows that if I wait a few seconds I’ll be able to power through it.

  Jesús and Hamad are dodging and striking and striking and dodging. They are both very fast. But not fast enough. Jesús gets the worst of it–his shirt is quickly covered in his own blood. He receives wounds faster than he can heal and looks like an underdog boxer in the ninth round. He’s soon thrown to the floor and doesn’t get up right away. I look around for my stake (which came loose when I was pitched into the wall) to ready myself to re-join the fray.

  But before I can, I hear a loud screech. I guess this is what passes for Mike’s battle-cry because he comes running back through the hole he made straight at the vampire. His menacing silver stake streaks through the darkness like a bolt of lightning. At these speeds, it all takes less than a second for him to reach his target. But he abruptly stops short, stake still upraised. I don’t understand why he didn’t continue and make the final blow until he starts to wither away. It’s only then that I see our adversary’s hand passing through Mike’s Kevlar and chest where his heart should be.

  “Mike!” A universal chorus of despair emanates from the three of us simultaneously. But we can only watch as he goes alone to the neverend.

  Thoughts start to race through my head:

  I want to say goodbye before all that’s left is a pile of ash.

  I want to stop and grieve.

  But just as these things begin to form in my mind, the veteran Hamad recovers and re-launches the attack on the now-smiling Native-American.

  Jesús is back on his feet and not far behind.

  An animal-like frustration builds in me and my fangs come out. I rush forward hoping to take advantage of the vamp’s distraction in fighting Hamad and Jesús already. Unfortunately, he somehow still sees me coming and kicks out. His powerful leg sends me tumbling back into a pile of rubbish in the corner. Undeterred, I regain my ground and circle quickly, trying to look for an opening. Seeing no way to avoid his kick, I have a moment of inspiration.

  I turn and run straight at the wall behind me–but once there, I don’t stop. Instead, I step up and use my preternatural abilities to run up the wall. In two and a half bounds I'm at the ceiling and turn up onto that, running all the way out over the fight below. I look up, or down I guess (technically), and see my two mates struggling to control the fight. It is not going well.

  I launch myself off the ceiling with a snarl. The Native-American looks up, surprised, just in time to catch a blow on his chin from Hamad, which in turn gives me the moment I need to stick my landing. Before I know it, I’m back on our foe and biting deep into his neck. It’s not the same as with humans, and it’s a very different sensation from what I experience with Ve
ra in the bedroom. I drink, not to satiate hunger or passion, but to deny him the source of his power: blood.

  I swallow deep again and again and again and lose myself in the process. I’m vaguely aware of this massive creature bucking and roaring beneath me, but I keep going. Unexpectedly, I feel a colossal crunch and a shower of splinters raining down around my head. A microsecond later, I lose my grip and realize he’s jumped up and slammed us into the ceiling, where I was standing just moments before. I fall backward off him, but manage to use my agility to land on my feet.

  I take in the scene in front of me quickly. Hamad has one arm and is struggling to hold on. With the vampire’s weakened state, Hamad seems to be having better luck. Jesús rushes the other side and puts his whole body into securing the other arm.

  “Hurry!” Hamad shouts. “Finish it!”

  The moment crystallizes, and I know it’s on me to get revenge for Mike–to put an end to this vampire’s centuries of darkness. I don’t know where my stake is now, but with a calmness that surprises me, I note that Jesús is still holding one that he is not in a position to use with effect while he struggles to keep his grip on the vamp’s arm. I whir over, take it from him, and plunge it hard into the back of the vampire where I hope his heart is.

  And just like that, it’s all over.

  For a long moment, we just look at the rapidly growing pile of dust in silence. We know what this has cost us. Jesús finally breaks the quiet and fills the void with soft words, “Jesús Cristo. Powerful dude.”

  We all stare and nod dumbly.

  Hamad finally stirs to action. “Gather the stakes. We need to go in case there’re any more members of this coven. We’re in no shape to fight again.”

  “Shouldn’t we … do something for Mike?” I ask. “Collect his remains or something?” I glance over to where Mike had been standing minutes ago.

  Hamad hesitates, but then shakes his head. “He’s gone, Adam. That’s just ash,” he says sadly.

  The drive back to our Chinatown base is the longest of my undeath.

  * * *

  Clunk. Jesús tosses the bag of stakes on Joseph’s desk abruptly. Joseph looks up from his paperwork for the first time since we entered the room. His annoyance registers visibly in his severe expression, but then instantly softens as he takes in Mike’s absence. He clears his throat and nods slowly.

  “He was strong, then?” he asks.

  I’m not sure if this is rhetorical, but the rest of us stay silent. As if afraid to confirm it. As if by not admitting that Mike is gone, then he won’t really be.

  Joseph clears his throat again before beginning to speak. “I'm sorry for our loss. Young Michael was a valued member.” It’s strange–his tone is compassionate, but at the same time, he just gives off a vibe that simultaneously says, “Shit happens. You’re gonna have to deal with it.”

  I don’t know if Hamad perceives something similar, but he presses Joseph. “If you want us to do our job properly, you need to get us powerful blood.”

  “Yours, for example,” Jesús chimes in. Hamad gives Jesús a look of warning. Maybe Hamad was going to get to the same point, but he probably would have used more tact than what Jesús just demonstrated.

  Joseph looks between the two of them quickly and then glances over to take me in. I try to stand firm and show my solidarity with the guys, but really I just feel drained by tonight.

  “I’m sure you gentlemen are upset. That is only understandable. Michael’s death was a great sacrifice for the cause,” Joseph responds, attempting to dodge the issue.

  Jesús isn’t having it, “You're almost a thousand. This puta woulda been no problem for us if you’d just–”

  Hamad quickly interjects, cutting off the agitated Jesús, “–I think what Jesús is trying to say is that if you would be so kind as to share your blood with us, even just small quantities, it could potentially avoid us having to make such sacrifices at all in the future. And it would cost you nothing.” Hamad manages to sound very reasonable for someone asking for another’s blood.

  Joseph nods once when Hamad finishes, replying, “I'm quite sure.” He pauses for a moment, perhaps to convey the message that he is considering our request. Then he smiles and assures, “Tell you what, I'll take it under advisement.” This sounds a lot like a brush off. “But in the meantime, take some time off.”

  He reaches into his desk, pulls out a thick stack of money, and tosses it casually on the desk.

  “What’s this?” Hamad asks.

  “Bonus,” Joseph confirms. It looks a lot like blood money to me. Joseph looks up for a second as if to recall a certain phrasing and then awkwardly suggests, “Go hit the town. Blow off some steam for a week.”

  We don’t move.

  “Go, I’ll get Meng and Tomas’ team to cover.” This time, it doesn’t sound like a suggestion anymore.

  I start to file out and see Hamad grab Jesús to come behind him.

  Just as we are about to escape, Joseph follows up with, “Just be warned: There will always be more work to be done.”

  Though he says it softly, it fills me with a sense of foreboding.

  Amazing how one tiny sentence, uttered ever so gently, can still hold so much promise of future horror.

  * * *

  I don’t know what drew me here or even how long I’ve been standing in place. I can make out my dad through the window, watching the news on TV. I can hear the reporter speaking and see the images flickering by, but they don’t really register. I keep half-expecting to see a story on Mike’s death, as if this will somehow make it more real. Or will give it meaning. But that’s silly–the news is for the human world, not ours, and while the death of a human might have a chance of being reported, ours never will be. We make sure of that.

  So I just stand outside in the protective, shadowy darkness of a tree and observe. I take comfort in the familiarity of it all. The earthy smell of my yard, now well into the throes of spring, though heightened, is the same as when I was a boy covered in grass stains, playing hide and seek with neighbors long gone. The tree is the same that I once used to swing on, until the rope became so worn and frayed that it broke while Franklin was goofing off on it. The shape of my father inside is also the same as years past; it’s somehow reassuring, despite the transformation we’ve both undergone since my youth. The window obscures that, acting as a sort of portal to days gone by–days that will never come again.

  I’m so deep inside my head that I don’t pay adequate attention to my surroundings. Though I probably should have expected it, I’m still surprised when I feel a pressure on my hand and realize that Vera is by my side. I had come here to be alone without feeling truly alone; now that she’s here with me, though, I know that she is probably what I needed all along. I squeeze her hand tightly and pull her close. She lays her head on my shoulder and we look through the windows together. For a while, there is silence as we remain alone in our separate thoughts.

  Eventually, her voice tentatively probes the tranquil darkness enveloping us. “I can go, if you’d rather–”

  I cut her off. “You’re fine. You don’t need to ask.”

  “It’s just … I know you have the night off. But I was so worried when you didn’t come home this morning. And then there was no word from you tonight, either. I guessed you might be here.” There is no accusation in her words, only concern.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I hope she knows it’s sincere.

  “Hamad told me what happened. I’m so sorry, human,” she tells me. Though she uses her old affectionate nickname for me, I hear sorrow in her voice. I suddenly realize that she’s been friends with Mike a lot longer than I have. She feels his loss, too.

>   “Yeah, it was horrible” is all I can think of to say.

  She continues, guessing at what is eating me, “We all lose people–it sucks. And it doesn’t really get any easier. In fact, it gets worse. Ironically, death and loss are just part of being immortal.”

  “Almost immortal,” I correct her.

  “True. But I’m sure Mike knew you were his friend. And Hamad said there was nothing else any of you could have done. So you can grieve and be sad for Mike, but don’t let his death consume you.”

  She’s sweet, and in fact, I have replayed the whole thing over and over, wondering if I could have done anything different that would have saved Mike. But that’s not what is really weighing on me. How do I explain what I’m feeling? That I just watched my friend die … that I just irrevocably destroyed other beings like us … for a cause that a year ago I would have laughed at. Now that the battle buzz has subsided, I’m still trying to process exactly how I feel about all this. Still trying to process who I am and what I’ve become. Even being here tonight brings this point home. I was drawn back to the place where I grew up, to the place that I called home for so long. But I didn’t go inside–couldn’t go inside.

  I can tell that she’s waiting for a response, waiting to see if her words had their desired impact. “These few months … they feel like decades. I've changed so much since I lived here,” I begin to explain.

  “True. You are undead now,” she teases delicately.

  “There’s that,” I say. I can’t help but smile. “But how do you know that you're doing what you're meant to be? That your actions have meaning … the right meaning?”

  “Honestly, I didn't used to. Before the Vampirists took me, I didn’t have the luxury of thinking about these things,” Vera admits. “And even afterward, I just took it night by night, enjoyed my friends and tried not to let time overwhelm me. But when I met you, everything made sense.”