The Vampirists

by R. G. Nelson

  She looks at me intently, searching every crevice of my expression, trying to read me maybe, before nodding her head in agreement. “Baby, I’m sorry. I really didn't know. But what you want to do won't bring her back.”

  She’s really missing the point. But she’s also not done talking yet, so I don’t interrupt. “Let's just go away, make a life together somewhere.” She turns and nods to the mural behind her, echoing my thoughts from minutes ago. “We can go to Thailand, live on a beach. We don’t have to be a part of any world that we don’t want to.” I see that she completely means this. And it’s tempting. I love her so much. What guy wouldn’t want to elope and live in a paradise, even a night-time one, with the girl of his dreams? I remember back to when I first started having doubts about the Vampirist Militia–then running away seemed like a legitimate option.

  But I have a feeling that the world, especially our world, doesn’t work like this. Things have a way of catching up with you. And our just disappearing definitely won’t stop vampires from taking over human society and running amok. For so many reasons, I can’t let that happen.

  “And look over our shoulders for the next century?” I query. “Tell me, does Joseph like deserters?”

  She sags visibly. I know that my point hits home. It affects me, too: It’s too nice of a dream not to deserve a chance of being realized. But that’s the dark reality of our existence.

  And so we have come full circle. “Please, Adam, please. It's suicide,” she begs.

  It probably is. But maybe it wouldn’t be with her on my side, too. “Ver-bear, I know this is a tough situation, to say the least. I won’t lie; I know that I need you to help me. If you can’t see the need to choose right over wrong, which I refuse to believe, then I need you to just choose me.” And then for emphasis, or maybe just to plead, I repeat, “Choose me.”

  For a moment, I’m petrified–I can’t put myself out there any further. But she says nothing. She just stands there, shaking her head as sinister rivers of red smudge and bedevil her otherwise cherubic cheeks. She is ever my angel–my fallen angel. We’re both fallen, actually, but it’s time for us to rise now.

  Yet, all too soon, I know that she won’t say it. Can’t say it. Can’t choose me … even though I once chose to join her in darkness. If only I knew then what I was really getting into.

  With this final acceptance, I know that this has gone on long enough. There is no solution here. No happy ending for us. “Fine. I'll do it alone,” I announce stoically. “I knew from the moment I met you that this was too good to last. That's not how life worked for me, and I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s the same in undeath.”

  “Adam, this isn’t fair,” she starts. But I disappear from her–from that chapter of my life. I can only hope that the next one isn’t super short.

  I hear her sobbing recede into the distance. Her tears seem to be real enough, but she doesn’t come after me.

  30)

  Before I know it, I’m on my front porch. It’s 10:45 pm; I actually made it right at the time I had texted to my dad. I can sense them there waiting for me, even before the front door opens. With several sections of the city in the midst of what looks increasingly like open warfare, I guess they might be nervous for me. And then there’s my dad, seeming somewhat alert actually, and wearing an expression reminiscent of the few times in high school that I actually found something cool to do and came home past curfew. To be 15 again and only have to worry about problems like not making curfew? Funny how you never realize how good you have it ‘til it’s gone. If only humans could find a way to appreciate the green grass around them–but that’s not really their nature, is it?

  I certainly appreciate it now. Somehow, seeing my dad more like his old self instantly makes me feel a bit more comfortable, a bit more … well … at home. As if I can go inside, be a kid again and shift my burdens to them to figure out. But as much as I want to relax and enjoy this momentary sense of relief, I still know deep down in the back of my mind that it won’t totally work, that I can’t get myself off the hook here. And even though this feels like home–is my home–upstairs there’s a vacant side of my parent’s bed where my mother used to sleep. Back before she was dead … before she was killed by vampires, by vampires that I’ve been hanging out with and doing things of which I know she wouldn’t approve.

  There’s an awkwardness building, and my dad is obviously waiting for me to come in. But I haven’t moved a muscle yet. “Hey, Dad. Can I come in?”

  “Of course, Adam. Come on in,” he says and moves slightly to get out of the way, as if he thinks that is the reason why I wouldn’t enter before. Actually, I think I could have, given that I was previously invited in on that long-ago magical first night, but it somehow seems polite to wait–given what I am.

  “Thanks,” I say, crossing inside. I’m distinctly aware that the last time I went through this door I was still pretty much a child. Now, however, I am returning a man. Or something else entirely.

  On the interior side of the portal, I stop, unsure of what comes next. My dad just stands there, too, a little tense. He’s never been one for physical affection, but after a decade-long two seconds, he awkwardly bends for a stiff hug. “It’s … it’s good to see you,” he offers.

  “Yeah,” I respond simply, “you, too.” I try not to drink in the warmth of his body nor focus on the rush of his blood thundering its way through his very delicate, and very visible, veins. He pulls away suddenly, just as I was getting worried that I would get lost in the heady sensation of his humanity.

  I watch with curiosity to see what has alarmed him, aware that many humans are equipped with a primal sense of when danger is about–just as I picked up signals from Vera during our time together when I was a mere mortal. Sure enough, he grabs my hands, feeling them. “Adam, you feel all clammy. And your eyes … are you on drugs?”

  My God, parents are ridiculous! Always back to drugs. Tell me, what kind of drugs turn your eyes a deep frozen blue? I’ve certainly never heard of one. And to think that the reality is so much worse. This may be a longer night than I thought.

  By way of response, I shake my head and mutter, “No dad, I’m not on drugs.” I push my way past and head into the bowels of the front room where I see Taylor standing by, looking for all the world wary, yet curious. He is trying not to interrupt what I’m sure is a picturesque, hallmark family moment: wayward vampire son returning home to greet drunkard father–though as I glance around the front room, I realize that there isn’t a beer can in sight. I’ll have to check the garbage later. See if this sobriety act is for real. I need it to be: The stakes are too high.

  “Taylor,” I say, offering my hand.

  “Adam,” he responds, gripping my palm firmly. I see him, too, register the temperature of my hands, but he says nothing. Apparently he thinks that subject has been adequately covered. Or, he is just going to wait and watch and form his own opinion about what’s going on with me.

  He won’t have to wait long. I’m eager to get this show on the road. I still have to meet back up with Metz, and I’m worried that the longer that I’m away from base, the more chance that something will slip out of control there or that others will miss me and be sent to find me. Given that I’m at my human home, there’s a likelihood they may start here. But it was a risk worth taking–better to meet here in privacy than out in the city in some random restaurant where a wandering VG could happen by or a bloody riot break out. And, of course, there’s the other reason: I can’t really reveal what I’m about to reveal in a public place.

  I take a seat on the worn sofa. My dad tosses the blue and tan blanket at me–I guess he isn’t letting this cold thing go. I temporarily make a show of draping it across my lap. Nearby, they settle in, too, my dad on the far end of the couch from me a
nd Taylor in a chair just pulled over from the rarely used dining room area. I take them both in, the faint blend of confusion and concern in the face of my father and the anticipation in Taylor’s. I guess that he has been waiting a while to catch up with me. I flash back to our last encounter in the alleyway upstate, after the State House raid. I feel guilt beginning to creep into my expression.

  And so, like that, I begin. I had thought about how to get it all out in the most efficient and convincing matter possible. In the end, I opt to just start from the beginning. So I tell them about Franklin, and the meetings. And then Vera. How she blew into my life like a tornado, twisting everything that I thought I believed, uprooting me from my banal existence as a copy shop clerk, and plunging me on what she once called the dark road. When I tell them about seeing her on the wall, I easily read disbelief in Taylor’s eyes. But to his credit, he does not interrupt. Neither does my father, whose ever-deepening concern over my mental state also becomes increasingly obvious. Poor guy. I’m sure he’s really wishing for a drink right now.

  And so I talk faster. I tell them about the good times Vera and I had together. I tell them about getting shot, and how it felt to almost die, or to die, actually, and then become undead. I discuss my leaving, my slipping away from the house that last time (my father here can’t meet my eyes; he just stares down, perhaps guilty at his lack of fatherly presence during those days). And then I reveal what I know about the Movement–or what we call the Vampirist Militia.

  I can see that Taylor wants to ask questions at various parts, and so I try to pre-empt him and give details where I can. In other areas, I skimp on the details, such as the powers (though I give them pointers on ways to stay safe from us), my first kill, and some of the shadier missions we went on. But I explain the hierarchy and structure as I see it with the cells working separately mostly, the fundraising, the way we use the human Movement activists, the business of being forced to relocate together and how having new blood now being brought in is estranging the bloodshirts and unsettling the ranks. I talk about Joseph and the Vice-President, or as we know him, Lukos. I try to convey the scale of his power and the extent of his master plan, but it’s hard not to come across like a crazy conspiracy theorist. And, of course, in the end, I get to the part about my mom and reveal the investigation that I undertook and the proof that I’m sure I have.

  I talk about all of this, but I’m not sure that I do it justice. At the end, my father looks hurt and sad while Taylor mostly just looks annoyed, as if he thinks that I am messing with him. I can literally hear anger take hold of him: his blood pressure rising and heart beating faster. I know that my father is convinced that I’m on drugs or very unwell, but it is Taylor that I need to convince, Taylor who holds the key to protecting the President and preventing Lukos from succeeding. So when I stop speaking, it’s him I focus on. It’s his gaze I meet as levelly as possible: I want him to read the truth in my eyes.

  A few moments of silence pass. I try to let him judge me, weigh my words. But instead, the silence seems to weigh on us all. Again, to his credit, he fights to maintain his calm and not give me the verbal or physical thrashing that I suspect he very much wants to. Maybe it’s out of respect for my father, or maybe it’s his training in interrogation–perhaps he thinks that he can still turn this conversation to his advantage and get the info he needs. Whatever he is thinking, I’m positive that it is not at all related to believing much of what I’ve just told him.

  “Adam,” he finally begins, “I’m not quite sure what to make of all that.”

  I quickly consider that I could enthrall him into helping me–but I need his long-term support and assistance. Simple enthralling won’t secure that.

  And so here it is.

  Time for the big reveal.

  Should I go all dramatic and blur across the room fangs out? Fear could be useful here for getting the point across. But I’d rather not give Taylor occasion to pull out that piece I see he has hidden under his jacket. The last thing I need is the chaos that would happen if gunshots disturbed our neighborhood. Everyone is too on edge with all the riots going on. So I go for something that should have the same convincing effect, but with a lot less fanfare. And actually, it’s kind of a fitting way for me to prove it, given how I first learned.

  I stand up and walk toward Taylor. He shifts, uncomfortably, readying himself. Funny that he thinks he would even have a chance. But no matter, I shift my gaze past him and walk by. I hear Taylor turn in his chair to see where I’m going. When I hit the wall at the other side of the room, I keep walking.

  There are gasps behind me. I hear my father stand up and swear. Or maybe it was a prayer. Hard to tell. But I don’t stop. I walk up the wall on two feet, and then step onto the ceiling. Despite myself, I start to enjoy the show a bit, so I walk across the ceiling as well, back toward their side of the room until I’m directly overhead. Unfortunately, gravity still works on us (somewhat), and I find myself getting a little lightheaded as I’m upside down for longer than the few other times that I’ve used this trick. I know it’s a little showboat-y, but I don’t want to switch to all fours. Though that would allow blood to flow more normally, I don’t think it looks as cool. I push through the haze and manage to drop down gracefully, soundlessly. I am again standing in between Taylor’s incredulous seated form and my father, who just fell back in shock onto the couch.

  They don’t move. They don’t speak. They don’t do anything except stare. Taylor’s knuckles are corpse white where he holds his chair’s armrests in a death grip. I smile, turning first from one to the other. I think I have their attention now.

  And then, partly because I judge it safe enough to now, but mostly because I just can’t resist: I pop my fangs out. “Boo,” I say dryly, and then chuckle a bit when my formerly intimidating father figure recoils in shock. Taylor also seems … disturbed. Point made, I let my fangs retract and sit back down. “So, that happened,” I say with a smile. “I’m really a vampire. Now, can we talk next steps?”

  To their credit, minutes later we are deep in discussion over how to handle this delicate situation. Where other men may have freaked out the way I did when I first found out, these two (mostly) keep their composure. Maybe it’s the fact that they are both veterans of law enforcement who have seen their fair share of blood and craziness. Maybe it’s because, fangs aside, I mostly look like myself–the person they’ve known since I was born as a human. Sure, they sense that something is a bit off, but if you want to ignore it, you can definitely pretend that it’s a human you are sitting across from and not a creature of the night. Human beings are good at deluding themselves like that–not always to their advantage, especially with us.

  “How can we expose the Vice-President as a vampire?” my dad asks.

  “I don’t know. It’s tricky. He’s powerful enough that he can withstand sunlight, which most of us cannot. He’s had millennia of practice not being caught,” I point out in response.

  Taylor interjects, “I’m not so sure we want to do that anyway–expose him, I mean. I don’t think the public is ready for that. Probably best we deal with this offline somehow.”

  “I agree,” I say, nodding. I’m thinking here about my future as a vampire–I don’t know what would happen if the public found out about us, but I agree with the centuries of vampire tradition that it’s better if we stick to the shadows. Just seems easier all around.

  “So how do we stop him?” my dad now queries.

  “We don’t. I do. I don’t think it’s wise to go too deep into details, but I have a contact on the inside that may be able to help. I’m meeting him later, but we need time–and that’s what I need your help with.” They look at me questioningly. “I need you to get the President somewhere safe–far away from the Vice President and this new Vampirist Guard they created. Put him on a plane a
nd keep it circling or take him deep into a secure bunker–I don’t care. But get him away. Now. As long as he is alive, Lukos can’t seize power and fulfill his plan.”

  “How much time do you need?” Taylor asks.

  “Tonight. And maybe into tomorrow night–the daytime limits my mobility,” I admit.

  Taylor considers this for a second. “Okay, I can do that. My task force can say we’ve developed intel of an imminent attack on the President. The Secret Service would initiate protocols to keep him safe,” Taylor asserts. “But what about the VP? If he’s everything you say, then he is at the root of the problem and needs to be dealt with. But we can’t exactly call him in for questioning–”

  “That would be a bad move,” I interject.

  “-And without some solid proof, no one would believe he’d be making a move against the President anyway,” Taylor concludes.

  “Well, I understand that we in the U.S. think those types of things don’t happen here, but the reality is that these are extraordinary times. People only have to look out their windows to the chaos on the streets across the country to confirm that. I mean, we are on to suicide bombings now! These types of inner-circle coups happen all the time in other countries–the Secret Service has to know that. Don’t they have to take every threat seriously? We don’t need them to arrest Lukos, just to keep tabs on him until we are ready to make our move,” I stress.

  “They take every credible threat seriously, and while I can cite intel from a source to spur them into protecting the President–anything I try to lay on the VP will obviously be heavily scrutinized. That said, I know a few guys in the service who owe me favors. I’ll see what we can do to monitor him discreetly.”

  “Okay, but just watch him–don’t try anything. You have no idea how powerful he is.” I certainly don’t, but I know he’s probably exponentially more powerful than me. I pray that Taylor heeds my warning. Moving on, I check my watch: As fast as I am, I have to go now if I want to make it back to HQ in time to meet Metz. “We have each other’s contacts, but let’s try to keep communication to a minimum. I’ll text from my disposable phone when we’re ready for the next step.”