by R. G. Nelson
The girl watches as Vera easily takes the boy into her arms.
“Don't hurt us. My dad will do what you want,” the girl whimpers.
But Vera doesn’t respond. Instead, she focuses on the boy–he’s shut his eyes in a futile attempt to hide from the danger. “It's okay. Open your eyes. Everything is going to be okay,” she purrs in a soothing voice.
The boy opens his eyes tentatively, unsure of the situation. Vera locks intensely onto his gaze, her pupils pulsing rhythmically. The frightened girl watches the exchange and sees her brother relax, stunned.
“Everything’s okay. You're going to see your mom now,” Vera continues. “Would you like that?” The boy starts to show signs of a grin slowly spreading across his face. He nods lazily and wipes a few tears from his ruddy cheeks.
“Shhh … come here,” she whispers.
She gently rocks him in her arms and presses him to her, like a mother comforting an upset child. He responds to the gentle treatment and instinctively wraps his arms around her. So innocent. So trusting. Vera nuzzles his neck as if to give him a little kiss, but I understand that her intent is much more sinister. A few short seconds later, I see his eyes widen in sudden shock and know that she’s begun to drain his tiny life away.
His sister keeps watching, confused, not knowing what to make of it all. But when a thin rivulet of blood escapes the vice-grip of Vera’s jaws (she always spills!) and begins to trickle down, visibly wrapping around his neck and onto his shirt, she understands, too. I see her eyes widen in shock; I hear her miniature heartbeats speed up to match her rapid intake of breath as panic sets in. She senses that my gaze is fixated on her, and she looks away from her fading brother to me.
I realize that I’ve been unknowingly drawing closer to her; to what end, I don’t myself yet understand. Perceiving me as a threat, she curls up protectively into an even tighter ball. But she doesn’t look away from me. I don’t know if I’m exerting some vampiric power without realizing it or if she just knows that her pitiful countenance is paralyzing me. Either way, I don’t make a move.
“Dude,” I hear from off to the side. I look over and see Hamad watching me. Even Vera has angled herself to view my progress (or lack thereof) with the girl. I look back at the ball of emotions in front of me. Just as I’m about to maybe make a move toward her, she begins to speak.
“Please don’t hurt me: my name is Cathy,” gushes out of her. “That’s my brother Connor; he’s five. I’m eight and a half,” she continues. Jeez, this isn’t what I need. I don’t want to think of her as a person … as someone with a future. The only way this gets done is if I can turn her into a meal in my head. And I’m failing horribly right now. Meals shouldn’t have given names.
I look around helpless, as if I expect one of them to come to my aid. But I don’t want them to. I don’t want anything to happen to Cathy. Off to the side, I see Jesús bent over the body of the guard. I do a double-take and look more closely. He seems to be carving something into the man’s exposed chest: his pentagram tattoo.
“Jesús, what the hell are you doing?” slips out of my mouth before I even realize what I’m saying.
Jesús looks over at me, genuinely perplexed. “Leaving my mark …” he says with exasperation. As if I should know. As if he does this all the time. And maybe I should and he does, but I’ve never really registered it before. Though usually on missions, I’m busy with my own stuff. For some reason, this really bothers me. I mean, we eat people. In fact, I was the one who killed that guy. I get that. But watching Jesús mutilate his body irks me big time. What kind of animal does that?
The sound of a siren startles me back to reality. It’s still so far away that humans wouldn’t hear it, but I know it means police are less than five minutes out. We all hear it. Hamad reacts first, blurring into a frenzy of motion. “We must have triggered an alarm. Lose the girl, now,” he orders me before disappearing out of the room with Jesús.
Vera sets the boy–Conner–down on the couch. I know he’s gone. Though his sister doesn’t have my preternatural senses, she can tell, too. She leans over and grabs him close and loses it. She starts wailing; I swear it’s in tune to the police sirens. Vera watches me, waiting for me to do something about it with a very disapproving expression on her face. But I don’t.
Seconds later, Hamad and Jesús are back carrying what look like various cleaning liquids. As they start spraying them around, I realize they grabbed flammable chemicals. This house, or at least this room, is going to go up. I guess it has to in order to cover the assorted bite wounds inflicted on the corpses here.
Despite the bustle of activity around me, I remain frozen in place. I know that Vera is watching me, judging me. She and I are locked in a sort of silent standoff, with her wanting me to step up and stomp out Cathy’s nascent existence. But I now understand that I can’t. That I won’t. I’m not frozen here while I try to talk myself into draining her. I’m frozen while I try to figure out a way to get her out of here without really pissing off my cell. We could enthrall Cathy and erase her memory, so there really isn’t a reason why we can’t spare her. Her dead brother and mother should be enough to motivate the father into supporting the proposed amendment.
And yet I know that I’m fantasizing. They will never allow that.
Vera and I are so engrossed in our glaring standoff that I almost don’t notice Hamad by Cathy’s side. Before I can react, I hear a quick little–snap–like someone accidentally stepping on a twig while hiking.
But this was no accident.
And Cathy is dead.
A deep rage wells up and begins to wash over me. I start to blur over to Hamad’s side without really knowing what I’d do once there, but I find myself trapped in a vice-grip. Vera’s grip. Her countenance is a mixture of anger, frustration, and more deeply, concern. I want to struggle against her, to rage against the unjust nature of what just happened to Cathy–to Conner–but I don’t. I collapse–maybe not physically, but mentally. I know that nothing can be done now for these innocents, and maybe, just maybe, they are in a better place.
Hamad hasn’t noticed what just almost happened: He and Jesús are busy giggling like kids and setting fires. Vera whisks me outside, where we collect the bodies from out here and toss them back into the bourgeoning bonfire. With the sirens now just two minutes or so out, Hamad takes out some Movement pamphlets from his cargo pocket. He sprinkles them in the long, circular drive way–far enough away from the house that they will remain unscathed for the authorities to find.
They flutter about in the breeze whipped up by the blaze–the same breeze that makes the unhinged gate squeak back and forth discontentedly.
A few catch and stick in the small pools of blood left out front that stain the pavement.
24)
My knuckles are hurting. Actually hurting. Feeling pain like this is a rare thing for me these days, given the fact that there’s very little that can wound me and that I quickly heal from most of the few things that can. But I don’t mind the pain right now. In fact, I enjoy it. I seek it out and bury myself in the accompanying void–the void that forms around this single point of pain and blocks everything else out.
WHAM.
I punch again. Ah, there it is. Bliss.
I’m wound up tight. As much as I enjoyed things in the beginning, the luster of the team dynamic is starting to fade, especially with Mike long gone. When I think of the gang now, there is no one that I can relate to. Hamad seems to enjoy the power and glory of being a vampire too much, and Jesús just seems to enjoy violence in any form. Our balance is gone. Or maybe it was never there, but I was too new to notice–in a twisted honeymoon period of sorts. Unfortunately, Vera joining us hasn’t helped in the way one could naively hope.
And now, all this, combined with how serious things are getting for the Movement, has brought the issue of my life in the team into sharp focus. I don’t know what the end plan is for us, but the stakes are high. Outsiders may not know about the Vampirist Militia, but we’ve been making certain that the Movement attracts nonstop media coverage. I find myself feeling trapped between a team and missions that both grow ever more sinister.
I realize that my thoughts have been wandering; the comforting void is long gone.
WHAM. WHAM.
Two more blows, in quick succession. If I punch fast enough and hurt bad enough, I almost don’t remember Cathy’s face. I can almost block out the horror of what we did. Almost.
WHAM. WHAM.
But not quite.
WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. WHAM WHAM WHAMWHAM WHAMWHAM WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM.
I let myself go. Even though the packing was altered for our use, the punching bag trembles and rocks under my blows, reeling from the punishment that I deal it–the punishment that I deal myself. It shakes and creaks on the old chain holding it in place as if it were alive and groaning in protest. My knuckles open on the worn leather and start to bleed. But I don’t stop to let them heal. Why should I? What’s a little pain compared to what those two kids went through?
WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM.
To what Annie went through?
WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM.
Although I can’t tell by the artificial light here in the modified training room, I’m pretty sure that there is daylight outside. Daylight we can’t go into because we’re vampires. Daylight all those kids will never get to play in again because we’re vampires. Somewhere on the edges of my mind, an inchoate mass of an idea begins to form and then knock gently on my consciousness: maybe I should go outside and end it.
WHAMWHAMWHAM.
It wouldn’t be hard; all I’d have to do is open a few doors and walk through them. The sun would do the rest. How many people would this spare? How many lives might avoid ruination by me just making official what I know has already technically occurred: my death? In the decades and centuries that span out ahead of me, there will probably be many humans who meet their fate through me–no matter how well intentioned I am. Resisting the kids last night was difficult, to say the least, even though I knew deep in my bones how firmly wrong it was. How much longer do I think I can resist my vampire nature? How much longer can I avoid caving before the disappointment that I saw in Vera’s eyes?
WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.
But I know that I won’t do it. I won’t commit suicide. Aside from the fact that I probably don’t have the guts to go outside now, I tell myself that I need to stay. That I need to be the sole voice of reason here and to try to effect change from the inside. That no one else will. I know that I’m right about this last part.
WHAM WHAM WHAM.
And yes, I was extremely ineffective last night. I did nothing for Cathy and her brother. I did nothing for the mother, the guards … whose only guilt was being hired by the wrong family. The guards, whose blood I spilled. And drank, even. Whose corpses were maliciously mutilated by Jesús–marked with designs that looked like his pentagram tattoos–like he wanted to claim them as his own with pride.
WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM.
Something new begins to tug at my consciousness. Some new worry or concern that I can’t fully identify–don’t want to identify, or even think about. Whatever it is, I try to shut it out and focus on the punching. The sheer physical exertion of it. The repetitive motion, like a dance that you lose yourself in. And then the blessed, distracting pain.
WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM.
Only, it’s not working anymore. Not completely.
WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM.
It’s not shutting out all the thoughts.
WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM.
Frustrated, I grab the bag and rip it from the chain. It disengages easily, I must have worn it down or else I’m just that pissed. I hold it for the briefest of moments, once again surprised by how light it feels–by my own strength. And then I release it across the room. It whips through the air, a torpedo of dense metal pellets and leather, and impacts with a heavy thud against the wall. Not surprisingly, the well-worn covering begins to disgorge its insides through a thick crack that opened with my rough treatment. It’s relatively anti-climatic: The bag just lies there in a crumpled heap on the floor, an ignominious end for something that was used to taking so much punishment proudly.
“I think you killed it,” an angelic voice bells out.
I don’t turn around. I know it’s Vera. I’m not sure that I want to see her yet; I’ve been avoiding her. And I’m a little embarrassed that she just witnessed this. I realize that it must have looked a lot like a temper tantrum.
And maybe it was.
Still, I say nothing, holding onto my silence in pointed defiance.
“Baby, I know last night was hard for you. It was for me, too,” Vera continues, ignoring my willful sullenness. “But trust me; it will get easier, over time.”
She’s normally so perceptive, normally so on top of my emotions, even more so than me sometimes. But she doesn’t get it now. And maybe how can she? She’s a vampire–better than most for sure–but also a vampire for sure. As she bloody well demonstrated last night.
“That's what I'm afraid of,” I finally respond. And again, something is tugging at the periphery of my mind, inviting me to pay attention. “And also … last night… reminded me of something.” But then it’s gone. I let it go and don’t chase it.
Vera continues, “Look, having to take a young life is horrible, I know. You think I don’t feel that? I do. But it had to be done. We just need to forget it and move on.”
Right. Like it’s so easy. “I've been trying that this whole time: moving on. But with everything that's been happening, it seems like the world is spinning out of control. I'm not sure I even recognize myself anymore.”
“Adam, you’re just experiencing heightened emotions. It comes with being a vampire. Your natural empathy for others is magnified now, and you haven’t learned how to counter it … or to ignore it for your own survival.”
I’m not so sure that’s it. When I think about how far I’ve come from last year, I honestly do have trouble recognizing myself. I mean, I think I’m still there inside, but how can I be sure? At what point do you realize what you’ve turned into? Everything is a series of small choices and gradual little changes. Sure, you start out one thing, but by the end, you could be something totally different and not really have noticed the transition. How must I have looked to Cathy? To Annie?
I know the answer–I just haven’t been able to admit it yet.
I feel the frustration growing. It’s welling from deep inside. There’s so much that I want to convey to Vera, but I feel like words don’t do it justice. Instead, I shrug my shoulders helplessly and finally admit, “I'm a monster … We're monsters.”
“Adam, we're not monsters, but we are vampires. Are sharks monsters? Are lions? They don’t go around killing humans all the time, but it happens. It’s just part of their nature.”
“We’re not animals, Vera. We can think. And we used to be humans. I, at least, remember what that was like. Yeah, we need blood to survive. But that shouldn’t define us. We could live off blood stolen from hospitals, or little sips here and there. Being a vampire alone is not a good enough excuse, and it certainly doesn’t excuse the pleasure people like Jesús seem to take in it all.”
“Fine, then. Look at it this way: We're soldiers in a war with humanity; we always have been. Jesús and Hamad, they get that. Sometimes we'll have to kill people, and someti
mes innocents will get hurt. And honestly, it's no different for humans. Many of the older vampires remember the times when you raided the next village over because you could. And that was okay. Or maybe not okay, but it’s what was done. Even today, humans kill each other because someone wears the wrong colors, fights under a different flag … murmurs a different prayer. And ever hear of “collateral damage”? Innocents die in their wars all the time. Probably far more than in ours.”
“But you don’t even know that you can win this war. It’s a huge mission and humans are probably too far along for us to have a real chance now. So all the lives that are lost in the struggle will be meaningless,” I stress.
“You don’t know that we can’t win. I trust in our leadership. You cannot begin to imagine how long they have survived–how many eras of experience they have behind them. And even if the task is hard, what–do you want us just to roll over and give up? To lie down and die?” she asks contemptuously. And then she continues more gently, “That is not us; that is not our nature. We are vampires. We have to fight and make our own place in this world–no one will just give it to us.”
She sees me wrestling with my thoughts and glides closer to me in that smooth manner only vampires can do, like she’s just floating across the floor. She looks at me tentatively … questioningly.
I try to answer her: “It’s just … this isn’t how I imagined it would be. I feel like if someone were telling the story of my life, right now it would be a horror story. And I would be the bad guy.” I’m trying hard to get her to see. To understand. “You know, when I was alive, I thought my life would be boring for the longest time. Then when my mom died, I thought maybe my story would be tragic, but tragic for me. Not for others. And I was fine with this. Or not fine, really, but I adapted. I was living with it.
“But then with you, and when this whole thing happened and I became a vampire, I felt like maybe my story would be exciting and mysterious after all. Full of love. Superpowers. Adventure. You know, something people would want to read. Something I would want to live. Or I guess I should say ‘experience,’ because yeah, living’s technically out of the question now that I’m undead. But far from being amazing, my story now is horrible. Horrifying, actually. I wouldn’t even recognize myself if I were reading it. And I don’t want to.”