The Vampirists

by R. G. Nelson

  The distraction of the others and my continued self-imposed distance from Vera does afford one advantage–it allows me to remove myself from the base quietly and make a much-planned phone call. That’s how I find myself perched on my old rooftop with one of those disposable phones recently purchased from a late-night convenience store. I expected to be comfortable here … in a safe environment. And while there is a high degree of familiarity, traces of evidence point out just how much I’ve neglected this place–neglected my old self.

  At the top, my last mural sits untended, its swirls of bright paint starting to peel visibly in my vampiric eyesight. Even before I came up, things were troubling me. Back at the foot of the building, I chose to take the ladder up rather than use any of my conspicuous abilities. But I paused when just on the first few rungs: Looking up, it seemed to be a much longer climb than I remembered. The ladder seemed to stretch dauntingly all the way to the heavens, which is strange–the climb never bothered me as a human. And grime had gathered on the rungs of the ladder, soiling my hands and pants as they brushed against it. I think I’ll take the vampire way down–just have to make sure that this area is still as empty at night as it used to be.

  Because, of course, the night streets are different now. You don’t feel it everywhere yet, but in many areas of the city the military presence is unavoidable. No time was wasted–orders and plans must have been taken care of in advance for rapid deployment once the amendment was passed. They have roadblocks set up with check points to screen for potential revolutionaries–I’m not sure how they plan on being able to tell a Movement member from an ordinary citizen, but I’m sure there is some heavy youth profiling involved. In other areas, soldiers in full camouflage tensely patrol in small bands on foot–even going into alleys. Luckily, I haven’t seen any on rooftops yet except for right next to the Movement campsites. I should know, because I followed some patrols out of curiosity. And out of necessity: Know thy enemy and all that.

  I almost wish that I hadn’t followed them–hadn’t gone so deeply into the action zones. Even as used to blood as I am, what I saw shocked me. Partly just because it is something that you never think would actually happen here–the military shooting citizens is something that’s supposed to transpire in far-off third world countries or brutal dictatorships, not in the world’s oldest continuous democracy. But that is exactly what I saw–fighting and wounded kids in the street. And a handful of dead bodies.

  Simply unbelievable.

  Sections of the city look worse than those old videos from the LA riots in ’92 and the Watts riots before. What would Vera think if she were here to see this with me? Probably not the same as I do. I feel the Vampirist medallion that I earlier took off and stuck into my pocket weighing on me (no way would I wear that openly on the streets now); it’s like it’s literally becoming heavier the more I realize the price being paid for us all to have it.

  Tomorrow’s headlines will talk of those youths mowed down–of young lives tragically lost. And they won’t be wrong. Really, what can you expect when Molotov cocktails become the weapon of choice for the wannabe revolutionaries? You have a military full of scared kids, similar to those facing them. The National Guardsmen on one side and protestors on the other could have been plucked from the same college classes. Now the one side is exposed to fire and glass raining down death and blistering mutilation while they attempt to fulfill a policing role for which they are poorly equipped and trained. Someone was bound to shoot back. And shoot back they did. I guess the authorities on high must have gotten okay with the idea of having dead teens in the streets–and I have a feeling I know who.

  The Movement still occupies and controls large swaths of strategic city blocks near the bridges and tunnels with their urban camps–not to mention half the park. They have piled up cars and other debris to shut down access so that anything short of a tank is not getting through. Given the way things are going, they might have to start preparing defenses to stop even those. Outside the camps, the protestors engage in hit-and-run attacks on the police and patrolling soldiers. I don’t think they are trying to accomplish much other than just resisting and showing their force, but certainly the aspiring revolutionaries are not the only ones taking casualties. I don’t really see how things could get anything but worse, which maybe is the point.

  I see now just how cleanly it all fits together: the human Movement lackeys creating tumult in the streets while bloodshirts stoke the fire behind the scenes and ensure the prompt removal of all potential obstacles, vampire and human alike. And now all our hard work has paid off, putting Lukos just a heartbeat away from having the quasi-dictatorial powers that he joked about before killing off his ancient competitors. All that stands in his way is the very frail–very human–President. What the hell is the world coming to? Why won’t someone figure it out and stop all this craziness?

  I guess it’s because any time someone gets close, they’re dealt with.

  Just as Joseph once hinted might happen to Taylor at some point.

  I glance again at the paper I picked up earlier to get all the details the news sound bites leave out. The front page headline is a doozy, as expected. It reads: “The Face of Martial Law.” Below it is a picture from one of the recent Movement protests–armed soldiers behind sandbag positions warily watching some Movement members hunkered down behind burned-out cars. A trampled American flag lies on the soiled asphalt in the foreground. It’s a truly great shot–the kind that wins photographers awards–but terrifying all the same. Farther down the page, a sub-headline asserts: “President to Tour Major Cities to Reassure Citizens.” That certainly does drive home the national scale of this crisis–it would be all too easy to wish that the rest of the country were any better.

  With a sigh, I turn away from the paper. I’m not even sure why I bought it. Maybe just to torture myself, as if I need a reason to feel worse right now with the call I’m about to have to make. I suppose that I could have gone in person, but I didn’t want to take the chance of being spotted near my old house. Or if I’m honest with myself, I just didn’t yet want to have to face my dad in person, especially not for a conversation as painful as this will be.

  I realize that I can’t put this call off any longer, as the passing time only increases the chances that someone will miss me back at HQ or that my dad will pass out into that deep, deep sleep from which it would be impossible to wake him. So I turn on the phone, noting with satisfaction that it did come pre-charged as advertised. It saves me from having to find someone to enthrall to borrow their phone. I dial the number I memorized by heart ages ago when just a child and wait for my dad’s familiar voice to grace the line. It’s over three long rings before he answers, enough time to second guess my decision to open this discussion. But then his presence is there. From the initial long pause, I can anticipate the sleep thick in his voice, though he has actually yet to speak.

  “Hello?” he asks groggily. His voice still manages to go up a bit at the end, letting me know that he is surprised to get a call at this time of night. Actually, I guess he probably doesn’t get many calls at all these days.

  “Dad,” I answer. I’m not quite sure how to begin. Do I make small talk? Just gloss over the fact that I disappeared on him?

  “Adam?” Some life comes back into his voice. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah, Dad, it is.” I guess I just take the plunge. “Look, Dad, I need some help.”

  “What time is it?” he asks. I’m not sure how that is relevant to my statement, but fine, I’ll answer.

  “It’s late Dad. Sorry to wake you.”

  “Is everything okay? Where have you been? Are you in trouble with the police–or military? Is that why you are calling? The news lately is unbelievable.”

  Yep, instant parent mode. I don’t have time to go into all this. How coul
d I even explain where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing? How could I ever convey just how very not okay I am? I decide to cut to the chase. See if I’ll get any answers here.

  “Dad, just listen. It's about Mom. I need to know more details about her death.”

  “What? Adam, why do you want to re-open those wounds? I thought we agreed it was best to let it lie.”

  That’s what he said after his intense, yet ultimately unsuccessful, hunt to find her killers. That’s the only thing left for people to say in situations like that.

  “Dad, I need to know how she died. I need to know the particulars, the gory details, and not just some story about devil worshippers or whatever.” I pause for a moment before going for it. “I need to see the crime scene photos.”

  Now there’s a long pause. And then a sad voice, “Adam, your mom has been dead for years now. Where's this coming from?”

  “I can't go into it right now. Can you just help me?”

  “Look, I can't do that. It's against the law.”

  “What if I said I might have some new information?” I hope this will pique his curiosity.

  And it does, sort of. “What kind of information?”

  “Dad … I really can’t go into it. Just trust me.” I know that’s not the response he wanted to hear, but again, what else can I say? That I run with a pack of vampires who terrorize the streets and may have been responsible for the gruesome murder of my mother?

  “Adam, I’m sorry. I'm just not in a place right now where I can dredge up the past.” He sounds … tired. But not from lack of sleep … more like that he is defeated.

  “Dad, please, I need to know. I need this to get closure.”

  I hear him sigh deeply. “I understand, Adam. Really, I do. I looked for a long time for that same thing. But I didn’t find it, and it cost me a lot. You are better off just forgetting it as much as possible and moving on.” Another pause. “So the answer is no. For now. I'm sorry. Maybe someday we–”

  But I’ve already hung up in frustration.

  If he won’t help, I’ll just have to find someone else who will.

  26)

  It’s dark in here. It’s only because I’m a vampire that I can discern the shapes strewn around the damp cement floor. We’re in an underground storage area of some kind deep beneath the factory. It’s the type that used to hold a lot of–I don’t know–large industrial stuff. Only now, it’s empty. Mostly empty.

  From my vantage point on an elevated walkway that spans the length of the room, I see that rusting stacks of shelving units and rotting wooden pallets still stand haphazardly on the ground, as if someone started to clean and remove everything, but then just gave up. Now, this clutter forms little patches of semi-mazes that break up the otherwise cavernous void. I call it cavernous partly because with this lighting, this palpable moisture in the air–the lack of outside sound or indeed of anything signaling an existence beyond this room–it feels exactly like a deep cave. Or a tomb, even, given the corpses littering the floor.

  They’re very much dead.

  Abruptly, there’s a very loud dripping sound that begins to echo around the vault. In the crypt-like silence, it’s almost deafening. I look to my side at the other bloodshirts lining the raised catwalk with me. Like silent ghosts, they watch the scene below, like me, not really sure of what they are witnessing. Only Joseph, who stands near the center with Dr. Metz at his side, seems to be eagerly anticipating what is to come.

  The dripping sounds increases steadily until it sparks into a full-on light shower. The sprinklers have been turned on. The system was obviously designed to prevent whatever was kept down below from catching fire–up here, we are untouched by the gentle cascades. We continue to stare at the space below, waiting for whatever is going to happen to happen.

  And then it does.

  Suddenly–the dead bodies start not to be. Dead, that is. I see the first stirring with momentary disbelief, followed by complete understanding. Where moments ago had been hollow shells with no heartbeats, the expired remnants of fragile human beings, now rise newborn, baby vampires. But there must be fifty down there; I had no idea others were created en masse like this.

  Confused, I again glance to my side, searching instinctively for Vera–but, of course, I remember that she is not here, just as with the Elders. And also I recall that we still aren’t really talking anyway, though that remains mostly initiated by me. So instead my eyes lock with Hamad’s … and then Jesús’. From their worried countenances, I can see that they think this is highly atypical as well. What are we doing here? And more importantly, what are all these newborns doing here? Is this our grand plan, to turn masses of people into the undead until we form the majority of society?

  Is such a thing even possible? And if it were possible to create such numbers before humans catch on and start a war against us, would it even be practical? What would we eat? Wouldn’t we be creating the same resource shortages that lead to such chaos and conflict in human society?

  I hope that Dr. Metz will look my way and give me some reassuring signal that this is nothing to worry about. I stare hard in his direction, willing him to hear my thoughts and turn to me. But he doesn’t. Guess telepathy isn’t one of my powers. So I turn back to watch events unfold below.

  My vision is drawn to one of the forms that remains mostly motionless out in an open patch. It looks familiar somehow, but it’s lying in the opposite direction, facedown. Moments pass, and it too stirs. I see a head come up, shaking groggily. I remember the confusion upon first awakening … the cobwebs in your brain thicker than any post-surgery drowsiness. That eerie sensation of differentness: of simultaneously knowing both that you were not alive anymore and yet that somehow you were–and not being able to understand why. Luckily, I had Vera with me. Vera: an angel–a dark angel–to guide me through the fog as I crossed the murky Styx and then plunged in to stumble and wade my way back again.

  These people–these vampires–don’t appear to have that luxury. The figure, still with its back to me, examines an IV tube left in its arm. I think I understand now; these weren’t turned in the usual one-on-one manner with all the blood draining and drinking from necks and wrists, but instead were turned in a large group, probably all at once, methodically–systematically. The vampire looks at the IV hesitantly for a moment before gingerly pulling it out. I think I pick up the faintest of familiar human scents, but then it is gone and I’m left with nothing but the odor of the undead.

  Unexpectedly, a snarl erupts from the figure’s left. It jumps to the side in fear and then instantly looks down in surprise at its own body–no doubt shocked by its newfound speed and agility. I start to smile, remembering the feeling of discovering my own vampiric abilities. But just as suddenly, I stop smiling. I want to scream. I want to jump down there and throttle him. But somehow, I know that I’m not allowed down there. That whatever Joseph wants us bloodshirts here for, it’s to stay up here for now and watch whatever this is play out.

  So Franklin gets a momentary pass from me.

  But he and I will definitely have words later.

  In the darkness, I see Franklin make out other shapes through the shower of sprinkler water. Nearby, a man is on all fours, shaking. He keeps his head down, dry heaving repeatedly. Franklin and I both watch, entranced. I’ve heard the transformation is different for everyone … slow, fast, painful, peaceful … but I’ve never actually witnessed it happening to someone else. Suddenly, the man looks up, eyes flickering between brown and ice-blue. He bares his teeth in rage, or terror, and fangs start to emerge. A guttural snarl erupts again.

  Franklin frantically shuffles backward in shock. Other groans and snarls emerge from all sides. He looks around wildly, for the first time really taking in
all the waking vampires next to him. I see now that his eyes, too, are the ice-blue of the undead. He probably doesn’t realize that he doesn’t have to be afraid of the terrors next to him. He hasn’t yet fully internalized that he is one of them, too. My anger subsides as I see my friend down there, terrified and alone, surrounded by what he does not understand.

  Abruptly, the sprinkler system shuts down, its creaking pipes echoing its own groans in protest. There’s just a few drips falling now, drips which seem to fill all the room with sound. With the overhead shower ceased, the vampires look up and begin to see us for the first time. What must we look like to them now? Friends? Foes? Angels? Demons? Brothers? Would they even be able to tell the difference?

  Right on cue, Joseph’s clear voice cuts theatrically through the gloom. “Good evening and welcome. And first of all, congratulations!” He holds them spellbound; even the twisted sounds of transformation seemed to have paused for him. “You lucky few have been selected to compete for a position in a new elite corps within the Movement.”

  I look at my cell: This news of a new elite corps has obviously taken them by surprise as well. And compete? What exactly does that mean? Are we to go down there and fight these newbies? Could I even do that to Franklin? I think back to my own first night on the job and that pummeling they gave me. But that didn’t really seem so much a competition as a twisted form of initiation.

  A voice calls up from the floor below, “What is happening to us?”

  I locate the source. A bold-looking youth stands near the front, almost hidden to the others below by some of the shelving stacks. He is heavily tattooed all across his shirtless upper body and cuts quite a figure with his ice-blue eyes.