by R. C. Graham
I catch my prey’s eyes and seize her will in mine. “You were on your way to the washrooms,” I tell her. Enthralled as she is it’s more than an observation. Without further comment she leaves and goes where I told her.
I follow and go into the men’s. It’s empty. Perfect.
After I unzipped my fly at a urinal I pretend to be relieving myself. I don’t of course, I can’t. But I need to keep up appearances.
A large hand places itself on my right shoulder and pulls at it. I move with the pressure. It would be easy to resist, but I want him to believe me to be within his power. It’s the Jamaican.
“What you think you’re doin’ mon? Cuttin’ in on my woman?”
“I’m sorry,” I reply with a bland look on my face. “I hadn’t noticed a certificate of ownership on her. I had assumed she was single.” It’s difficult to appear calm. Undead blood drinkers like myself do not take challenges lightly.
The flare of anger in his eyes shows my answer doesn’t please him. “Maybe you should pay more attention then, you skinny white faggot.” He pushes at my left shoulder. This time I resist. He’s too angry to notice I don’t move.
I raise an eyebrow as if to say ‘Really?’
His fury climbs a little. “Yeah, mon. A faggot you are. I’ll prove it.” He grabs my shoulder and with his right hand, unzips his jeans. As his penis rolls out, I see that he’s built like his compatriots. It’s enormous.
He raises his fist and pushes down on my shoulder. “So, white boy. Give me a blow job. If it’s bad, I kill you slowly. If it’s good, I kill you quick. Real good, and I only hurt you. Get to work.”
I fall to my knees, shaking, as if his threats mean something to me. I’m not a great actor, but I try to put on an expression of fear, with a touch of lust. It wouldn’t do for him to be alert. I reach slowly towards his member, and slam my fist into his testicles with all the strength my condition grants me.
They squash like oversized grapes. He gives out a tiny peep as agony flashes through his body.
I stand quickly and wrap my left hand around his throat, squeezing enough to prevent any more sound from passing his lips. With the merest effort I him off his feet to carry him into a toilet stall and sit him down.
“Mon frere,” I say, “you make too many assumptions.” I show him my fangs…and then I use them.
* * * *
I stand away from the corpse. Blood loss and shock have killed him. I lick rich, red liquid from my lips and then swipe my tongue over the wound I have inflicted. It vanishes, as they always do with that treatment. My hands take his head and with a twist I break his neck to hide what really killed him. It’s wise to misdirect investigation. There are forces out there whose attention I would rather not garner and secrecy is a habit.
A sneering smile graces my lips. He wanted to play in the bigs, is the very modern, and very appropriate thought that goes through my mind. Be careful what you wish for, is the very ancient, and also apt aphorism that follows it.
It’s then I notice something. The taste of the blood I have imbibed. It has a…cloying taste. The best description is that some sort of artificial flavoring has been added to the liquid. I feel almost as if I had a meal consisting of cake. Very filling but perhaps too much. So this man’s excessive size may not be natural. I look at him for a second, pondering whether I should find out all I can about these people.
Heavy footsteps approaching interrupt my musing. My meal’s friends are coming to investigate. I doubt I would have any trouble with them, but it would be best not to make an obvious scene.
There is a window above the toilet, large enough for me to leave through. So I use it.
As I head away from the club I can hear vicious cursing behind me. My victim’s friends aren’t happy. I shrug my shoulders for I don’t care what people like that, mortals, think.
As I merge with the crowds in the street, I ponder how to spend the rest of the night. The library, I think. A good book would be nice company.
I move away from my hunt and disappear into the night.
* * * *
I am walking down a quiet, deserted back street. It is the night following my encounter with those rather unreal men.
As I amble along, I recall the last time I was in this small harbor city, during the Second World War. At that time this was a minor port for convoys traveling the Eastern seaboard. It was also a rest area for the mildly wounded. The hunting was good then.
This part of the town had been built for the sudden influx of population. Two and three story bars and storefronts with apartments on top. I can tell they’ve been rarely used since. Windows and doors are broken. Those places still operating are worn and dirty.
But back then it was vibrant with life. Sailors and soldiers drinking and buying things. The many professionals, mostly women, who lived off them. Even children sometimes, if I got up early enough. I never hunted the children. Their innocence was too refreshing. They would learn soon enough about the world. No need for me to expose them to its horrors.
A new scent comes drifting down the wind. There are two people behind me. At almost the same time I hear their footsteps. A pair of large men. Since I am only strolling, they approach quickly.
Perhaps they’re just in a hurry, I think. But to make sure I take the next corner. Once out of their sight I break into a trot towards an alley. I can hide there, letting them go past if their intentions are innocent. I won’t hunt. I’ve no need as my belly is nearly full.
At the moment I turn into the alley, a bullet slams into my left shoulder. It catapults me forward and I sprawl face first into the waste and filth hidden in the shadows.
Damn, it hurts! Pain washes over me as I lie in the darkness. I can feel the thing inside rising to answer it. Non, mon ami, I tell it, You can’t come out now.
I concentrate to push power to the wound. Some of the blood in my stomach is transformed into flesh and bone. Once I’m healed the agony fades.
Without that to distract me I can hear a voice from across the street. Another denizen from the streets, Watts again, but a different person than the one from last night.
“Yeah.” He’s speaking lowly, in a manner that tells me he’s communicating with someone elsewhere. A radio of some type I assume. “Bastard’s down, but he ain’t dead. Just wishes he was. Orders were to take him alive,so I just winged the cunt.”
You’re wrong, I think, I am dead. But I’m still walking around. You however will not suffer from that curse. You shall simply die.
I slither deeper into the alley. No more shots come. My assailant isn’t watching. Tsk. Overconfidence. When I reach the end I stand up. The footsteps of the ones who followed are very close. I had better leave.
A quick scan of my surroundings shows there is no exit save the mouth of the alley. A dead end. Unless you’re something like me. It’s only two stories to the roof, so I bend my legs and jump.
As I hit the roof I lie flat. Nothing happens. Why should it? They picked the ambush spot. They knew there was no way out. So no one’s watching the roof.
I can hear my pursuers below.
“Can’t find him, J.T.”
“Mebbe he crawled in deeper. Go look.” The order comes from the sniper.
I raise my head a bit to find a person with a rifle on the roof across the street. Yet another member of that group of huge men I’ve encountered. Most interesting. He’s close enough that I can jump that far.
My hands shove me into a crouch. I take three quick steps and launch myself into the air. My target has heard me but didn’t look up quickly enough. I’m halfway across and above his sight line by the time he raises his eyes.
Merde, goes through my mind and a small grimace of frustration flits across my face. I’ve put too much into it. I’ll land a few steps away. I’d have to move fast if I don’t want to get shot again.
Just before I land on the roof I pour power into my body. It magnifies my speed by a magnitude, and I’m already very fast. The ins
tant my feet hit the roof I turn and close the distance before the big man turns halfway around. I slap him hard in the head with the back of my hand. Being what I am, that is very hard indeed. Teeth scatter across the roof like marbles and he falls in a heap.
A, what is it called, yes, a headset is shaken loose and lands on the roof. I pick it up and put it on.
“J.T.? You all right, man?” sounds in my right ear. I smile. You’ll never know, is the answer I do not voice.
The rifle lies at my feet and I stoop for it. An excellent weapon, precisely balanced with a fine targeting scope and a silencer. The safety’s off and there is a round in the chamber. I kneel at the edge of the roof to take the position I need to use it.
“J.T., answer me, man. There ain’t nothin’ in here but a little blood. The white motherfucker sneaked out somehow.” A pause. “J.T.? What gives, man?”
I can see a pair of flashlights exiting from the alley so I line up the rifle. I wait for both of the men to emerge and I stroke the trigger.
The brains of the person in the cross hairs exit through the back of his skull. At once I shift my aim to the other. He is goggling at the corpse still collapsing next to him. Then he looks at me. I can see the light in his eyes go out as I put a hole between them.
When I lower the gun, I turn to the shooter. He is trying to crawl away, still spitting out shards of his teeth. The smell of blood invades my brain. That part of me that lives on it rises to the surface of my mind like a great, dark beast. I’ve used too much of my power and I’m ravenous.
Without thinking I land on the man’s back and wrench his head back with a resounding ‘crack’. The pleasure I feel as I sink my fangs into his neck is indescribable.
* * * *
I pull my head from my victim’s throat as the darkness in me fades away, sated for the moment. The too rich taste of the man’s blood is still in my mouth. If it were possible for me to vomit, I probably would.
An odd tone comes from the clothing of the man I have just killed. Rolling him over and reaching into the man’s jacket, I pull out a small device. Ah. A cell phone. No, a smartphone. Even though these gadgets have been around for decades I’m still amazed at what humans have accomplished. If I had seen such a device when I was alive it would have ended up in a fire. The handheld instrument rings half a dozen times before I pick the right sequence of virtual buttons to start talking.
“Bonsoir,” I finally say into it, “comment-allez vous?”
“Who the fuck are you?” comes the reply. “Talk American. You ain’t J.T. Where is he?”
While the man at the other end is speaking, I pick up the person I have killed. A quick scan of the street shows no one is watching. I set the body at the edge of the roof and push it over. The former J.T. lands head first and his skull shatters like a melon. That should cover my tracks nicely.
I reply in English, affecting a British accent. It’s always wise to misdirect your opponents. “You’re quite right, chap. I’m not J.T.. He is currently cooling at the base of the building he tried to shoot me from. His compatriots are also cooling, across the street.”
“Wha?”
“Allow me to continue, there’s a good man. I have encountered people like J.T. and his fellows twice now. In my world, I regard one encounter as coincidence. Two encounters, even planned as this one obviously was, is happenstance. A third encounter I will regard as making whoever you people are as my enemy. I have no living enemies. Goodbye.”
I have unliving ones though.
I toss the cell phone off the roof. A loud crack sounds before it hits the ground and nearby windows rattle. When I look over the edge I see pieces of the phone scattered around. An explosive charge? That would have been unpleasant, even for me, had that gone off next to my head. I’m going to have to be much more careful from now on.
With the realization that last loud noise is sure to attract attention, I fade away into the night.
* * * *
When I reach my current haven, I run a circuit around it, keeping to the shadows. It’s a small cottage in an area of the city that once catered to summer tourists. Rather run down now, it’s inhabited mostly by people who mind their own business. A person coming or going at this time of morning is not something to be remarked on in this place.
I’m searching for watchers and surprises. There don’t seem to be any. I’ve found over the years that doesn’t mean much, but I’ll take it for what it’s worth. I walk to the front door, acting as someone who lives in this area would. Mildly alert, but relaxed on reaching some degree of safety I fumble for my keys while I examine telltales in the door and windows. They are all still in place. I unlock the door and enter my hiding place.
Once inside I check my internal warnings. Magazines placed so have not been moved. The twenty dollar bill on the coffee table is still there. Tiny threads on light switches rest where I put them. It would appear no one has been here since I left.
I go to the bedroom and slither under the bed. The door built in the floor is lifted loose then I move under the house. After replacing the small rectangle of wood, I rest against the earth on my back and expend some power. Slowly I sink into the ground. An arm’s length under the surface, I stop. The pseudo-life that keeps me moving fades and my awareness vanishes. There’s no need to worry for sunset will awaken me again.
* * * *
It turns out I was wrong. Consciousness comes back to me in a rush. I can feel that the sun is high in the sky. What has woken me is the smashing of doors and the pounding of feet in the house I lie under. Voices reach me even through the layer of earth I lie under.
“Freeze, motherfucker!” There’s a moment’s pause. “Damn! No one here!” Another voice from one of America’s ethnic ghettoes. Washington, I believe.
“Ain’t nobody in this room either. Are you sure this is the place, IceDawg?” The second voice is Southern. Georgia from the sound of it.
“Yeah, we got the right place.” This man is from Harlem. “The real estate agent saw the guy when he rented. Look around. See what you can find.”
Footsteps start moving above me. There’s a fourth person who hasn’t spoken yet. I can tell all of the people above are quite large. Boards and beams groan at the weight they have to support. Things are being opened and moved. The sounds come into the bedroom directly above me.
“Shit! Hey, Ice! There’s a door in the floor here.”
“Check it,” comes the order. Mr. ‘Dawg’ seems to be in charge. “See what’s under there.”
A second later I hear, “Nothing, just dirt.”
“Well, fuck.” remarks ‘IceDawg’. “Sneaky bastard. Okay. We ask around the neighborhood about him. Don’t be nice. We have to nail this little fuck. No one treats us the way he has and he might be trying to stop us.”
“Won’t that cause trouble with the cops, Ice?”
“Nah. One of the first women we treated was the police chief’s wife. That was a good idea. You don’t have to teach an older woman anything. She’s damn fine looking for past forty and the woman can pull a golf ball through a garden hose.
“But the chief thinks we can fix her, and he’s willing to do anything to get her back. He won’t, but he don’t know that.
“So ask around. If we don’t find the Brit, someone waits outside. That’ll be you, JayJ. Don’t try to take him. Call for help if he shows up. We don’t know who we’re up against but the little cunt’s tough.”
A flurry of agreement sounds and the house is emptied.
I return to my sleep.
* * * *
I wake again shortly after the sun goes down. There’s no need for me to stretch, yawn or anything like that. Instead, with a little expenditure of power I rise from the earth. Rolling to my stomach, I crawl to the lattice work at the front of the house and peer out. To my complete lack of surprise there is a car a short way down the street on the opposite side. A single person sits behind the wheel. A very large person.
It takes a only a
few seconds of slithering to get to the back of the house where I push out the hidden exit I made there. Once outside I stand and brush dirt from my clothes. Then, using centuries of skill, I move through the back yards of my neighbors. None of them have dogs or alarms that could alert my quarry.
Before long I am a few doors away from the car watching my haven. A quick dash places me behind a tree on the same side of the street. Furtive movement takes me from trunk to trunk until I am just steps behind the vehicle. A rapid glance around my cover reveals that the driver’s window is open. The driver himself has on a pair of those little plastic beads that fit in your ear. Foolish, I think. Listening to music when you should be watching.
Those few steps are covered in under a second. A tap of my knuckles to the temple of the driver sends him unconscious. I don’t want him dead, yet. Intelligence about this man and his cronies is my first requirement. “If you know your enemy and know yourself you shall win all your battles,” a wise man once wrote. I know myself, I must learn of my opponents.
I get behind the wheel and drive off. There is a spot where I can question him without attracting attention.
* * * *
Here we are.
A junkyard at the north end of town is the place I’ve driven myself and my undoubtedly unwilling informant. I’ve had to tap my him again on the way here to maintain his silence. As I stop the car, the big man groans as he regains consciousness. So I pinch the ear closest to me to bring him all the way up.
A pull on that ear turns his face towards me and I stare into his bleary eyes. But instead of his falling under my power my will ends up lost in a greasy fog. There are structures that resemble the hooks I normally use to enthrall my prey, but I can’t grab them. Some slip away like eels and others are like holding foam. Whatever has been done to this person has made him not quite human anymore. I try for several minutes but never succeed in doing more than blanking his awareness.