by R. G. Nelson
I can hear him sag down on the other side of the line. “Yeah, I guess so. But I just get so worried. I don’t know what’s going on with you–you’re so mysterious. Don’t you think it’s time to come home? I’m starting to think that something is terribly wrong.”
“No worries, Dad, I’m fine.” Ah, that old lie. The one kids tell their parents and parents tell their kids, each trying to shield the other from reality.
“Well, what am I supposed to think? First, I haven’t seen you in forever, and then you call up out of the blue asking about your mom and hang up before I–”
“Dad,” I interject, cutting him off before he gets on a roll, “I need you to get a message to Taylor for me."
“Taylor?”
“Yeah, he used to work for you. He’s at the FBI now.”
“I know, Adam. Right before you cut me off, I was just about to tell you that he came by a bit ago asking about you.”
“What did–” I start to ask.
He cuts me off this time, continuing quickly, “He wouldn’t say what it was about, but he definitely gave me the feeling that something was wrong. I was going to tell you about it last time, but you hung up on me.”
I start feeling guilty. I can only imagine what he must have been going through wondering about me, though I know it wasn’t as bad as what I’ve been going through living it.
“Well?” he says. Part question and part demand for an explanation. A hint of the old fatherly edge has crept back in his tone.
I kind of want to come clean. To just spill everything, me, Vera, vampires, and Vampirists, hoping he can help me fix it. Like he used to be able to fix my problems. But I don’t know how. It’s so far-fetched that I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself.
Seen it for myself.
That’s it, isn’t it? The way to convince not only him, but also Taylor that this whole thing is real. I have to show them: me. Once they hear my evidence, understand that this is real, horribly real, and not some insane fantasy plucked from the depths of a child’s imagination, how could they refuse to help me? How could my dad not finally want a shot at taking down his wife’s killers? Not to mention saving the nation from being taken over by literal monsters.
With renewed vision, I answer my Dad. “How about I explain in person? Give us a chance to re-connect in a more human way than over a phone? But I need Taylor there, too.”
“Is this about your Mom?”
“It is Dad. But it’s also about me, the country, and so much more. That’s why I need Taylor there … and you. But I need you sober. You’re no good to me drunk, harsh as it may sound.”
“I know I haven’t exactly been there for you. Is that what this has all been about? Your moving out and disappearing? Getting revenge on me?” I don’t have to be a vampire to hear him start to choke up. Guess my words cut close to the core. “Are you trying to hurt me–pay me back for your having to drop out of school and move home? Because it worked. It was bad enough to lose a wife without losing my only son, too.”
As mad as I have been over these past few years, I feel it melt away now. What is it about family that makes you forgive where you’d never forgive someone else? Love, I guess. “You haven’t lost me, dad. Not yet anyway. And no, this isn’t about hurting you, although I guess I know that I might have. I’m sorry.” I pause for a moment, then urge, “Just do this for me. I’ll come over and explain in person … there’s something I have to show you guys to get you to understand. I’ll text you the details for when.”
“Adam …” his voice trails off.
“Goodbye, Dad. I’ll see you later.”
* * *
I spend the rest of the night out here alone on the roof. I’m not really sure what else to do. I’d love to find Vera and talk alone with her, but nothing’s yet changed in the “figuring out what to say to her” department. And the more that I think about it, I don’t know what I’d do if she refused to help me … what I could even do. Thus, I decide it’s best to postpone our discussion until the last possible moment–should anything go wrong, that will give her less time to interfere with what I know needs to be done.
So I sit here alone, not quite able to bring myself to sally forth once more into the city. I know what scenes I’ll end up seeing if I make my way across the rooftops into the turbulent press of unquiet humanity. Tomorrow night will be different for sure, but for now, I want to relax and enjoy a few moments without bloodshed and violence. While I can.
Instead, I try to make out the stars through the eternal rose-colored glow of the city lights and the silvery sheen emitted by the fulgent moon. It helps having preternatural eyesight, but it’s nowhere near as epic as when far beyond the urban limits. Still, I stare up into the vast enormity that the Milky Way represents, not to mention the universe beyond, and am both daunted by it and also strangely comforted and reassured. While the sheer immensity of the cosmos tends to make you realize just how insignificant and powerless you truly are when viewed on such a grand scale, it also strips away a lot of self-imposed constructs and puts all your problems and worries into a similarly dwarfed perspective.
Vampires around me like to pretend that they are immortal–that they can last forever. Part of what makes fighting for what you believe in so hard is knowing that you are putting this at risk. But really, nothing lasts forever, not even the countless galaxies above, whose stars shrink almost to an unassuming, dark nothingness before exploding forth in all the fury and climatic cosmic drama of a supernovae showdown, never to shine again thereafter. The heavens seem to watch me now, a million sagacious and sparkling eyes judging me, challenging me to be as bold and constant as the intrepid explorers who set their path by them centuries before. They seem to want me to prove my worthiness to witness such beauty and not to be a craven stain marring an otherwise magnificent scene. And perhaps, just perhaps, they are twinkling in approval at my cosmically reinforced commitment to putting in motion my own climactic showdown.
Gazing up, I lose all sense of time passing, which suits me just fine since this could be my last full night alive. Or not in the neverend anyway. Several shooting stars flare by, visible to my keen eyesight. While a part of me rooted deep in my human childhood wishes to take them as a magical sign that everything will be fine, the moment soon passes, and my romantic sentiment wanes, just as the night has started to. Unfortunately, my life and undeath have taught me that the only magic in this world is dark, and shooting stars are just hunks of rocks burning up in the atmosphere.
29)
As much as I would have wanted to spend my last day with Vera nestled in my arms, I wake alone right at sundown. I listen for signs of others stirring already in the room–there are none. Still, I lie awake for a few moments in my bed to brace myself: It’s going to be a very busy night. A few minutes tick by, during which a million and a half thoughts have flooded through my mind. Unfortunately, none of them give me much relief. Nothing I have to do will be easy.
I have an appointment with Metz at midnight. Before then, I somehow need to win Vera over to my side and convince my dad and Taylor that a cabal of vampires is trying to take over the government. But first thing’s first–Metz mentioned that we need allies. Over the day, I thought about it and decided that a juiced up Franklin could be just what team resistance needs. I know that things were rough between us, but I hope that now that he sees what was really going on, he might understand my prior reluctance to bring him into this shadowy and dangerous world while he was still human.
I quietly climb out of my bunk and slip from the room. I head over to the area that was cleared out for the VG; apparently, they are cool enough to get their own quarters, separate from the rest of us. Halfway there, I pass by the break lounge. Franklin’s laugh emer
ges from it, unmistakable to me even after having gone so long without hearing it.
I guess the VG are up and about early as well. It is their first night as newly minted bad-asses; the whole base has been abuzz with whispers of the transformation Dr. Metz put them through with the Elder blood. They are like kids on Christmas, first to wake up and eager for the promise of the day (or night, in their case). I linger outside for a moment, listening. It seems that only half of them are there. The rest of the VG must be on patrol around the factory; there had been some grumbling among the bloodshirts that this might happen. It’s kind of ambiguous whether they are patrolling to make sure that the base is safe or that the rest of us are staying in line. In any event, I spend a second quickly gathering my thoughts and arguments and step into the room, prepared for metaphorical battle.
* * *
They are slipping away from me now. They move so fast and naturally on the rooftops that it’s hard to imagine that a week ago they were all just frail mortals struggling to cope with the constricting constraints imposed by relentless gravity. I’m still not really sure what I’m doing, or if there is even any point in it. Half an hour ago, I was hopeful that I could get through to Franklin. I had this grand idea that I could come clean and discuss and explain everything that had happened to date–to win him back over and start to rebuild a crumbling friendship.
Yeah … mission fail.
He barely looked at me when I went into the break room where they had gathered. And then he acted as if he were embarrassed to be associated with someone who wasn’t one of Them: a Vampirist Guard. I guess he’s one of the cool kids now–at least in his head anyway. I try to tell myself that maybe he thinks that he is just paying me back for what he perceives I did to him with the Movement. But still, you would think that he would at least have left the room to speak to me. Even when I “shut him out,” I still found time to talk to him and try to make him understand. Not that it did any good.
And so now, I’m what? Stalking him and his friends across the city, hoping to catch a moment when he splits off alone? And what then? What makes me think that he will act any differently if I do manage to catch him one on one? All signs point toward him still being super- pissed at me, and who knows how long that will take to pass? Or worse: He really could just be completely indifferent now toward our former friendship. In either case, it seems extremely unlikely that I’ll be able to win over the ally that I so desperately need.
Far ahead, he’s in the lead. They leap gracefully about, hooting and hollering as they go. We cross a bridge, and I worry about so many of us being seen–framed shapes contrasting against the sky as we cross the supports far above the roadway below. I’m being discreet, hiding from them as much as from potential human spectators, but they certainly aren’t. They move quickly, but still definitely aren’t invisible. Good thing traffic on the bridge has been shut down by the Movement.
Soon, we are in a different area. Now I worry about them waking the slumbering city below, but they are gone from one block to the next so fast that people will probably just think a noisy car drove by anyway. Not to mention the fact that people are so used to loud crowds of protestors marching past at all hours that no one would even bother to look out a window at this point. Actually, I’m kind of jealous of these VG: I wish I could go back to those days when I was carefree and able to enjoy the night.
To relish it.
To relish the power.
Now, the power has become a responsibility, a drag on my being. I feel weighed down by the burden of having to do something with it. Something good. Something that I know is right. I guess I owe it to the world: God knows that I’ve done enough bad things over the past few months. Mostly to criminals, people I try to argue that society is better off without. But always there in the back of my mind is little Annie. And now, Cathy and Connor have been etched there eternally, too. So I have that to look forward to across the millennia ahead. The list of the innocent dead keeps growing, and I’m not even one year old yet.
I press on. If there is a chance that Franklin can be won over, I’ll have to take it. But I’ll need to be careful not to give the game away in case he isn’t amenable. I’ll need to be sure that he can’t figure out exactly what I’m planning and act to prevent me from stopping this whole thing.
We start to move into the part of the city that doesn’t sleep, especially these days, as the sounds below clearly indicate. This is Movement country. As we sweep through, I hear people singing in groups; farther on, people are chanting. Even farther, back near the edges where the National Guard has made inroads, the sounds begin to change. Here there is shouting. Panicked yelling. Scattered gunshots. Sometimes … screams.
But the VG don’t seem interested–they move on, hunting for something else. They don’t care about the violence below. They don’t stop to watch with hopeless fascination as I want to. I don’t know if it’s because only a few short days ago they were down there themselves, or if they no longer care about and empathize with the Movement humans on the line below. In fact, they only pause to check out a tank parked on a corner, pointing at it and laughing for some reason–like kids who think it’s cool to see a tank in a city.
Thankfully, the Movement protestors seem to steer clear of the blocks immediately surrounding the tank. But I have a sickening feeling that this won’t last long–either they’ll get bolder and start pressing in, or the tanks will creep forward and test the Movement lines. I look around warily to see if the military has any other surprises for us, like maybe snipers. I hope that these will never be deployed–not just because they could devastate the humans below, but also because it would deny us our vital rooftop access to the city. Maybe Lukos realizes this and plans to keep them away. And maybe not.
The VG begin to slip away again: Even tanks hold their attention for only so long. Soon, they pass away from that area, crossing another bridge into other sections of the city. Before long, I realize that I’m in familiar territory. Down below are the streets that I used to roam as a human–quite often with Franklin. It’s weird to think how back then I had no conception that one day I’d be racing across the rooftops, chasing him as a vampire.
I wonder if he is headed to one of the bars where he used to feel he didn’t belong while alive. For many vampires, the first night out on the town is about enjoying the sensation of doing things that you couldn’t as a human. Considering Franklin, that doesn’t necessarily mean blurring through the night and jumping off buildings as it did for me. To him, it could just come down to getting into fancy lounges and talking to pretty girls. God only knows what he would do with the power to enthrall.
Up ahead, they slow up. I’m somewhat wary of being detected, but still I risk drawing closer. I have the sense that they are too young and overconfident in their abilities and newfound power to be cautious or alert to danger from their own kind. They haven’t had occasion to learn those lessons yet–the lessons the rest of us learned the painful way. I flash wistfully on Mike again, and then force him roughly out of my thoughts. I need to keep my head in the game.
Abruptly, the VG pause ahead. Like urban gargoyles, they are crouched on the edge of the roof facing across an alley, silhouetted against the city night beyond. The residual void left behind by their now hushed voices is rapidly filled by the sinister intensity with which their still frames survey the scene below. I stick to the darkness back farther up the roof, using various objects to keep me from their keen eyesight. Not that they are even looking in my direction–they are frozen, raptly surveilling the other way. It would be easy to forget that they are not stone revenants, but actually alive–in a manner of speaking.
I soon understand the “why” behind their hesitation. Below, an all-too-familiar voice approaches, bathed among jocular companions. I know instantly that this is too good for Franklin to pass up. Y
ears of torment and low-grade torture is about to be paid off. I can only imagine the bloody details with dread. Leave it to Brad to be out boozing when so many other areas of the city are boiling over and under curfew. Still, to be fair, maybe people need to go out and seek normalcy where they can in such times.
In any event, Brad’s more than slightly inebriated voice rises clear as a whistle from the streets below. “She's hot for me, dude. I know it. I just got a radar for these things, man. I got like gadar, bro.”
One of the two “bros” that I hear walking next to him tries to clarify, “Isn’t gaydar what gays have?”
Brad scoffs, “What, no! You a homo, dude? Gadar, like radar–but with a g for girls. You queer.”
His other buddy chimes in now, “No, bro, I’m pretty sure he’s right. It’s like for gay guys to tell when other guys are gay.”
Brad jumps back in, confident in his erroneous knowledge, “You guys are such choads. How do you even–”
“Hiya, Brad.”
I know that voice. That’s Franklin’s voice. Startled, I look up from the spot on the roof that I’ve been staring at and realize that Franklin’s shape is no longer lining the edge of the roof with the others. He must have dropped down while I was concentrating on eavesdropping on the drunk jocks. Not wanting to miss out on what is about to unfold, I furtively blur to the edge of the roof over the alley, but much farther down the side, away from where the others still linger closer to the mouth. I gaze back up the alley and make out Franklin standing alone, partially hidden in the shadows about a third of the way in from the street.