The Vampirists

by R. G. Nelson

  “Where are we?” he challenges again. In the space that follows this, others begin to murmur and whisper to each other.

  Joseph waves his hand for silence. The crowd acquiesces obediently, including the bold vampire, though his fists rest casually on his hips, giving off an almost aggressive air.

  “Even as I speak, your bodies are finishing transforming: You have become vampires,” Joseph declares.

  Predictably, there are gasps from below and more than a few exclamations of disbelief. Maybe even a few uneasy chuckles. A new voice, nervous and strained, comes up from among those below, “What did you do to us?”

  The bold youth cuts in again, “Is this a joke?”

  “Look around. I assure you that this is most definitely not a joke. This is but the first step; those of you selected to join will become powerful beyond anything you've ever dreamed.”

  I see Franklin exchange glances with those nearby. He sees someone he recognizes; I think it is that nerdy activist he befriended. Stu, or something. They look almost … excited. But for some reason, I have a bad feeling.

  Joseph continues, “Unfortunately, at the end of this competition, only twelve of you will be selected.”

  “How will you choose?” the bold vampire asks. I note that he is nervous now from the subtle changes in his tone and the way he subconsciously alters his posture, causing his tattoos to shift just ever so slightly.

  “You misunderstand. I don’t choose. You do. The competition ends when there are only twelve of you left.” And the shoe drops. With a smile on his face, Joseph pauses to let that sink in. After a few hushed seconds, he lets slip, “There are but two rules: fight and survive.”

  If the tattooed guy wasn’t worried before, he sure should be now. A nervous clamor erupts from below. Some people are forcing strained laughter, as if they are sure that this is all a joke. Or a misunderstanding that they can talk their way out of. But I know Joseph. And I know just how wrong they are.

  Poor Franklin. My heart goes out to him. This is exactly the type of stuff I wanted to protect him from. And now, I’ll have to watch him fight and quite possibly die. From fifty vampires down to twelve. Those aren’t good odds, especially not for someone like him who isn’t used to fighting.

  How did this happen? How did I fail to keep him away so badly, even with Vera’s help? How did we not see this coming? I can only imagine how he ended up here. Was he sitting in some coffee shop, mad at the world, when his buddy, probably even that guy Stu, handed him the latest and best flier put out by the Movement? What did it say? Come be special? Be better than yourself? Be somebody?

  Did these ostracized souls, sidelined by society, eat it up by the spoonful? Did they read it over and over, laughing as they imaged themselves called to action to be heroes in a glorious revolution? Did they even begin to understand what this would be? What they’d have to go through? What they’d have to sacrifice? No, I’m sure that they didn’t. Few ever do. And even so, I’ve been finding out myself just how powerful of a draw the desire to belong, to matter, and to be special can be.

  But now they are all here. I hope that they are smart enough to regret it. Many still seem to not get it. Or to not want to get it. The new vampires look at each other anxiously, no one wanting to make the first move. Maybe that is the right thing to do. After all, you can’t have a fight if no one fights.

  With some amusement in his tone, Joseph pipes up again, “A hint to everyone: There are stakes of silver located around the room. I recommend finding them and figuring out how to use them. We are vampires, after all.”

  Franklin still stands rooted to his spot. Stu has materialized by his side. They both look completely helpless, unsure of what to do next. Far off to the side, a vampire tosses aside a pair of now unnecessary eye glasses and makes a break for it. They clatter loudly to the floor and draw all attention his way. He heads to the frail metal staircase that leads up to our raised walkway–and the only door out of the room. Everyone watches.

  “Stop him,” Joseph orders to the bloodshirts nearest the door. “No one escapes,” he confirms to the rest of us. So our role here tonight becomes clear. Meng and another oblige and close ranks at the top of the stairs. The vampire pulls up short, hesitating to take on the formidable pair.

  I hear Joseph chuckle. He whispers conspiratorially to Dr. Metz, “With that kind of attitude, he won’t make it very far.” Dr. Metz smiles obediently.

  Movement on the floor catches my eye. I see the bold vampire emerging from the stack, taking advantage of everyone else’s momentary distraction. He heads for a stake lying in a puddle in the corner. To my eyes, it almost glistens in evil anticipation. Someone else stirs to action, moving to intercept him. They collide with an emphatic crash, the sound reverberating throughout the whole room.

  And then suddenly, chaos reigns supreme.

  I watch as Joseph cheers the horror that is beginning. I see Dr. Metz lean in to try to persuade Joseph to abandon this spectacle. From his demeanor, I know that he already knows that it is a hopeless argument. He suggests, “We could take them all. You know that we have enough Elder blood to create a hundred of your new Vampirist Guard. You said that you wanted it diluted enough anyway to give the strength of many centuries, but nowhere near your own power.”

  Joseph shakes his head, not even bothering to turn from watching the scene below. “They must prove their worth to receive such sacred blood. Besides, we must be mindful of our supply. Our city is but the first batch of many. Let them fight.”

  Knowing a lost cause, Dr. Metz drops the discussion and looks below, but not before his eyes catch mine. I’m not sure exactly what his gaze held, but I know that there is something that he needs to tell me.

  Some of the bloodshirts overheard the exchange as well. While many are busy cheering on the gladiatorial combat below, the more intelligent ones appear to comprehend fully what is occurring. I see worry written all over Hamad’s normally smirking face. He knows that we are being replaced.

  Not knowing what else to do, I look around desperately to try to locate Franklin. Part of me wants to close my eyes until it is all over–I’m not sure I can watch my childhood friend die, no matter how far our friendship has strayed. But for whatever reason, I also cannot turn away and feel myself drawn to watching the “show” below. I guess I’m still human in that way.

  A few terrifying moments pass in which I cannot find him. I fear that he already has found his way to the neverend, crumbling into one of the several ash heaps that now dot the floor. But then–then I see him, crouching, hiding semi-effectively behind a stack of pallets. While he seems to be enjoying a temporary reprieve from the carnage, I hope that he realizes he cannot hide his way to victory here. There are too many competitors down there and too few pallets.

  Fortunately, I see him spot a stake half underneath a nearby shelf. I’m proud to see that he spurs to action and swipes it up, moving on to crouch low in a row formed by two storage shelves. He is clearly terrified. Jittery. I can see his hand trembling, and he clutches the stake like a lifeline in a raging storm. He peaks through the shelves and recoils, justifiably, at what he sees.

  Even though I have unfortunately become quite accustomed to blood and death, both human and vampire, the scene below is especially brutal. Where moments before stood potential comrades, friends even, now stand foes locked in a vicious struggle. Many must have known each other, just as Franklin and Stu do, for I recognize more than a few faces from meetings that I once guarded and attended with Vera. With a shock, I realize that I might even be responsible for handing out fliers to some of these. I try to push that thought from my mind, yet I cannot help but feel guilty and partly responsible as the graphic violence wrought by the newborn vampires unfolds below.

  Franklin
turns to face a girl approaching up his long row. She moves slowly, eerily, her limbs still twitching in the final throes of transformation. She snarls as she stumbles forward in broken steps. I see Franklin register that she carries a rusty pipe with determination. She must have snapped it off of something. He holds his stake up awkwardly, waving it in an attempt of deterrence.

  “Hey. Hey! Stop, I don't want to hurt you,” he pleads desperately.

  She keeps coming forward. In response, he backs up automatically, not realizing that he doesn’t have much available room behind him.

  “Stop it. I said, stop!” he cries feebly.

  But she doesn’t stop. Out of space, he bumps into a stack behind him. He turns in surprise at encountering an obstacle, taking his eyes off the girl. She notices the opening and launches herself forward at him in a blur. She stabs him in the shoulder with the sharp end of the pipe, then leans in close to drive it through maliciously, pinning him to the stack behind. She smiles victoriously as he screams in agony.

  A beat passes, and I see Franklin realize that despite the pain–he is okay. I again remember discovering the same, learning that pain doesn’t have the same meaning for us anymore. Luckily, he comes to this realization before she does and takes advantage of it. Angry, he grabs her as best he can with his injured arm and with his free hand stakes her in the gut. He’s nowhere close to the heart, but it doesn’t matter, because he has already retracted it and plunged it in again. And then again. And then he hits home, probably accidentally, and she does the all-to-familiar (to me) withering to ash. For him, it is the first he sees of it, and I can feel his shock. But I know that he understands our weak point now, the legend combining with practical reality.

  He works his way free from the pipe and touches himself, feeling the slow healing begin. But he doesn’t have long to savor this victory, because another vampire pounces on him from the top of a stack above. It lands on his back, instinctively biting viciously into his neck. Protectively, Franklin clutches his stake close like a running back guarding his football. He reaches back with the other hand and grabs the vampire by its hair. He throws it forward into the sides of the shelves, knocking one over. It, in turn, starts a small cascade of shelves, pinning several other nearby dueling pairs underneath. Other vampires seize the opportunity to dispatch those unfortunate souls.

  Franklin is already on top of his attacker, plunging the stake deep and true. I see with horror that he smiles as the vampire turns to ash. I try to restrain myself from judgment, remembering my own internal battle to subdue the predator within. Maybe after this is all over, I can help Franklin and guide him as I want to guide Vera. That is–if he survives.

  I’m startled as Jesús bumps into me, blurring by in a rush. A newborn has figured out how to scale walls and is racing up to our side of the walkway. Jesús arrives in time to throw the unlucky vampire down to where an attacker is waiting, stake raised. Joseph’s voice rings out in approval, “Cowards do not deserve this gift!” Jesús laughs as the vampire meets the neverend below. He sees me watching him in disbelief of his callousness. He shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, “So what?” One day soon, he and I will have words. Or more than words, most likely.

  Down below, Franklin is on the move. He stalks with new confidence. Not too far away, I see the frail-looking Stu stake a beefy vampire with a military style, close-cropped haircut. Stu uses a piece of wood broken from a pallet. I’m almost impressed that he dared to take on such a challenge instead of running. No longer wearing glasses, he almost looks like a new man. But, of course, wood won’t do the job, as both Stu and his opponent seem to now realize. I watch as Stu visibly shrinks back to the scared, nerdy kid he was just a day ago.

  The big vampire grabs Stu and pulls him close, but Franklin blurs over, using his vampire speed, and ends the big vamp. Stu is momentarily relieved and then fearful as the vampire fades to dust in front of him, leaving only Franklin with an upraised stake.

  “Truce?” Stu squeaks.

  I see Franklin hesitate, battling the vampire within, but then he mutters, “Fine by me.”

  “Where'd you get that?” Stu asks, nodding to his stake.

  Franklin smiles, “Got lucky.”

  “Can I borrow it?” Stu asks hopefully.

  “Not a chance.”

  Their dialogue is cut short by the onrush of another vampire. This one is armed appropriately, but together they overcome him. Now Stu has his own stake. They stand back to back, surveying the scene. The crowd has thinned dramatically over the last ten minutes.

  I watch as Franklin takes in the scene with his new senses. He turns to the sound of heavy exertions emerging from a fighting pair, looking for weakness. For an opening. He hears light footsteps off to his side splash through a puddle and turns to face the potential threat, but the girl passing by has eyes for another target.

  In the turning, Franklin suddenly becomes aware of Stu’s vulnerability behind him. I see Franklin glance back, then force himself to turn away. But he looks back again. The vampire nature is winning. Or else maybe it is Franklin’s true colors coming out. Stu either feels his gaze or else has similar thoughts, because he suddenly turns to meet Franklin, stake raised.

  But it is too late. The pointy end of Franklin’s weapon is waiting for him. There’s hardly time for a look of shock to cross Stu’s face before he is gone to dust. Franklin stands for half a second, registering what he has done, and then is gone, off to find another target.

  After that, it all just blurs by for me, and soon Joseph’s voice rings out once more. “Enough!”

  Everyone stops. Vampires that seconds before were locked in a life-or-death struggle now stand side by side, looking up at Joseph. At us.

  “Welcome to the Vampirist Guard!” Joseph’s voice carries melodically around the room and is greeted by cheers from below. Some of the bloodshirts join in, but again, I take note that others seem to be locked in a state of gloom. I wonder if this could be used to my advantage–if maybe some of those unhappy, like Hamad, could be recruited to my side to stand up to Joseph?

  Crisply, Joseph breaks into the Vampirist salute. We bloodshirts follow along and are soon matched by the surviving vampires from below. They copy it awkwardly, but proudly. I see them beginning to realize that although they just technically died for the cause, this is just the beginning.

  For the first time, Franklin sees me. Our eyes lock. I can’t for the life of me detect what I see there: understanding, betrayal, anger? I force myself to give what I hope to be a reassuring smile.

  But he doesn’t return it.

  27)

  She hands the file over. I’m nervous and shaky–but not because of what I’m doing. Instead, I’m anxious about what I might find out. What information I might confirm. And then what I will have to do. In fact, getting here and obtaining the file in hand was so much easier than I expected. True, it was a pain to get off base without the direct authorization now required for bloodshirts–they are more and more watchful there. But now that I’m safely away, and at least until I have to get back in to base, the only real risk that I’m running is being caught on camera by human authorities, but that’s probably not going to happen given that a) most police are more than busy with the situation in the streets and b) no one will have any reason to go looking over the police station’s surveillance footage. And I was careful to wear a hoodie with a baseball cap and glasses. Just look down when approaching a camera, work my magic to get a security pass, and avoid anyone who might know me from when my father was here.

  Except for Gladys. She’s been the records keeper since I was a kid. I almost feel badly for enthralling her, but it’s just easier this way. Besides, I don’t plan on taking the file with me and getting her in trouble. Rather, I’m going to scan each page quick
ly and use my mobile’s camera to record the images that I want to save. Just in case I start to doubt myself later.

  And now for the moment of truth.

  I take a deep breath and open the file.

  What can I say? How do you describe the unreal sensation of seeing your own mom’s crime scene and autopsy photos? Of seeing the shape that raised you, that face that used to greet you in the morning and tuck you in at night, pallid and devoid of life? Never to rise again. Never more to smile at you, to tell you that she loves you, to make you your favorite marble birthday cake with the double layer of icing.

  Bastards. Though I thought the wound mostly healed, seeing these photos just re-opens the floodgates of emotions. My dad was certainly right about that part. I can’t help but feel that she didn’t deserve this. My dad didn’t deserve this. I didn’t deserve this.

  I guess I’m fortunate that many of the pictures don’t show her face. It makes it easier to pretend that I’m staring at someone else or something other than what I am. But in the back of my head, just behind the very thin veil that I’m trying to erect, I know. And the anger grows. And grows.

  While the crime scene shots are harder to decipher, the autopsy photos are clear as day. The photographer must have thought her wounds peculiar and important enough to go to great lengths to preserve the etchings on her body. The pentagram shape carved into the mutilated flesh. My mother’s mutilated flesh. By Jesús. There’s no doubt of that in my mind now. But was he acting alone or were they all involved? Of course they were. It was just another mission for them. Just another human life in a long series of nights of destroying and feeding on human lives. I don’t know how I can work with them again. I’m almost happy that Mike isn’t around–I don’t know how I would handle facing him again. As for the rest ….

  I hand the file back to Gladys. She is still just standing by on the other side of the counter with a slightly dazed look on her face. I’m glad for that: I’m not quite sure that I’m winning the battle to keep my composure. I feel and smell the tears at the same time; the ice cold sensation and faint whiff of blood betray them simultaneously. I take off my glasses to wipe them away, and then keep them off for a moment lest they interfere with what needs to be done.