Sixteen Small Deaths

by Christopher J. Dwyer

  “What the hell are you doing here so late?” The tips of his jet-black eyebrows touch in intrigue.

  I shake my head and push open the door. The familiar scent of new plastic and glycerin washes me immediately. “What a night, what a night.”

  Cale closes the door and locks it, then scans me up and down. “What the fuck happened? You get jumped or something?”

  My head resting gingerly on the back of the studio’s comfortable leather sofa, I crack my neck so loud that I imagine the ghosts in the room can hear it. “Abel’s dead, Cale.”

  Cale nods once, and we both remain silent for what feels like hours. “Jesus,” he eventually says. “How?”

  “I dropped by his apartment and within fifteen minutes, a little chick that looks like she’d come here to get inked exploded through the front door.”

  “Exploded?”

  I grunt. “Yes, Cale, exploded. Like, boom.” The great thing about Cale is that he’s not very good at conversation, but I’ve learned to deal with it. We’ve been friends since I moved to the city, only a few months after I caught the virus that made me what I am today.

  He turns on the faucet in the corner of the studio and scrubs his hands. “You need any meds?”

  I roll up my jacket sleeve and examine the slits where the windshield had broken into my skin. Most of the tiny lines of open flesh have healed. “No, I should be fine.”

  “You’re taking this pretty well.”

  I frown. “Abel’s dead, man. He’s gone. They tell you when you catch our disease that you’d live forever. What a crock.”

  Cale’s been like this much longer than I. “We’re not human, but we’re not invincible. You know that, Charlie.” He turns off the faucet and starts to clean up his corner of the studio. “What did this woman look like?”

  “About five-foot two, if that. Pale skin, brownish hair. Tattoos on her shoulders.”

  Cale stops what he’s doing and closes his eyes. “Tattoos?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were they black stars?”

  I stand up. “Yes! How did you know that?”

  Cale’s face looks like that of a tired ghost. He drops a bundle of packaged needles and immediately locks the deadbolt on the studio’s front door. He presses one eye against the keyhole and leaves it there for a full minute. He leaves the door and drops the thick velvet curtains down in the two front windows of the shop. Pacing a few steps back and forth, he turns to me and gives me a look I’ve never seen on his tanned face.

  “What? Tell me, Cale…”

  “Sit down.” He points to the couch.

  I take a seat in the corner of the couch and ignore my instinct to frenetically rub my hands together out of anxiety. A cigarette is what I need. I pull one out and offer it to Cale but he waves it away.

  “Charlie, we both need to be careful.” He leans back into the couch and pushes his sandy locks out of his face with both hands. “That woman, fuck, I can’t even believe this is finally happening.”

  “What is happening?” My words are quick and clear.

  Cale takes a deep breath. “We’re being hunted, that’s what’s happening.”

  “Hunted? Why?”

  “I know a lot more about our kind than you think, Charlie. I’ve been hearing rumors about this for the last two years, little rumblings that something like this would start to happen again.”

  I’m already on my second cigarette and it’s only been two minutes.

  Cale crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. “They’re called suicide angels. And they’re a lot older than you and I, my friend.”

  I tilt my head in confusion. “Angels…”

  “They’re almost legendary, Charlie. We’ve only heard rumors of their kind, like they were some type of mythical creature that only existed in the imaginations of a million diseased creatures.” He pauses, then motions for a cigarette. I lit one off the tip of my own and hand it to him. “You ever wonder why our population is dwindling overseas, more so than in the States? Why you never see as many cross the Atlantic to come to the States?”

  “I thought it was just an issue of sustenance, you know, the way we need a specific type of blood, maybe the risk of being on a flight without a meal…”

  “That’s only the beginning of it. Have you been anywhere else since Abel’s apartment?”

  I twist in my seat. “No, just walked straight here.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “Of course she did.”

  “For how long?”

  I slide forward on the couch cushion. “Jesus, Cale, she burst into the goddamn room and in a matter of seconds I was hiding behind the door to Abel’s bedroom.”

  He shakes his head. “Then she’s most certainly looking for you now. Neither of us are leaving the shop tonight. You can take the couch. I’ll find a blanket somewhere in the back.”

  “What makes you think we’ll be safer in the morning?”

  “Suicide angels are averse to daylight,” he says. “Or, at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  #

  I dream of a million black clouds above a purple sky. I’m sitting in a pool of dirty puddle rain, mud and sand stuck to the bottom of my jeans. A comet trails across the sky and penetrates the moon with a single glittery blow. Ice and snow sparkle into a fiery sideshow of dust and bright green explosions. Abel stands next to me, binoculars glued to his eyes like they were a part of his skin. He removes them for a second and drops them to the ground. The black plastic shatters into a million tiny piece, little shards scampering away like an army of imaginary ants. Abel points to the sky and a thick gray ooze slithers out of his eyes.

  “They’re coming,” he says.

  #

  I wake to the sounds of humming needles and soft whispers, the fuzzy reminders of sleeping somewhere other than home. I jerk upright and quickly realize I’m lying on the couch in Cale’s tattoo shop. A woman with hair as black as tar sits across from me reading a newspaper. She’s covered in about a gallon of ink, two full sleeves of dragons, koi fish, roses and skulls. She pushes down the paper and smiles at me, nods at the steaming mug in the center of the coffee table.

  “Cale poured that for you a couple minutes ago,” she says. “Drink up, it’ll make you feel better.”

  I rub the slumber out of my eyes and slowly sniff the contents of the mug. If it’s from Cale, it’s coffee with milk and whiskey. The first sip is bliss, pure awareness mixed with a quick jolt of sweet amber. I tilt forward, rest the mug back on the coffee table. I’ve met the girl in front of me at least a dozen times and I can’t remember her name. Soon enough, I hear Cale’s voice and I know I won’t have to involve myself in meaningless conversation.

  “How do you feel?” He wipes ink off his light purple latex gloves.

  I nod, the caffeine circling through my body. If there are two things that can bring me to life, it’s caffeine and blood. “Not bad at all. I think I’m going to head to my place for a while. Not sure if I should work tonight or not.”

  Cale smiles. “Take this.” He hands me a black business card with raised blue lettering. “His name’s Davey. An old friend of mine from back in Philly. He called this morning and told me that something similar happened near Citizens Bank Park late last night.”

  I scan the card, feel the punching touch of his name: Davey Rain.

  Cale puts a hand on my shoulder. “He’s driving into town right now. He’ll be at the club in the afternoon. Make sure you’re there.”

  I shove the card deep into my front jeans pocket. “What did you tell him about me?”

  “Only the things that mattered,” he says. “He’s been around for a long time…a long, long time, Charlie. There’s news coming out of New York and Philly about this. It’s best to stay informed…and safe.” His eyes reflect the pale rays of sunlight peeking in from the front shop window.

  “News?”

  “Suicide angels.” He nods, pulls me aside. “Davey told me that at least three others were ki
lled in Atlanta over the weekend. Two more in D.C. And, of course…one in Boston last night.”

  I sigh for Abel, one of the only true friends I had. “Call me later,” I say, pushing the front door open. I pause when the cool winter wind hits my face. I’m being hunted, we’re all being hunted. Hundreds of years of living like unknown legends and now the minutes are numbered.

  #

  I was twenty-six years old when it happened. I can even remember the tune playing in the club. What I don’t recall is who infected me. “Psycho Killer” was ringing in the corners of The Roxy, reverberations of twangy guitar and David Byrne’s voice fizzing with angsty glee. I stepped outside for a cigarette, mild summer air a pure signal of heaven. The shadow approached within a second and when I felt the bite, the sting of new life enter my veins, I dreamt for a full day. It was like a black-and-white celluloid version of my life, the life that would never be again. I woke up in my apartment, limbs numb and lifeless. It took a full hour for the virus to greet me with dead, open arms. The hunger doesn’t resemble anything like that for human sustenance. It speaks your name with the voice of a dying child, whispers in the most remote corners of your brain. It consumes you, asks you to do anything for a single goddamn drop.

  Here’s the thing about being me: it isn’t as easy as find, kill and drink. We’re not supernatural creatures that lurk in the shadows. Sunlight affects only those who prefer the darkness. The blood in our veins remains, but when it hits the air it reflects a steel gray quality that most people don’t even notice in daylight. The only way you’d know I am who I am is if you put an ear to my chest. You’d hear nothing, not even a single thump of my heart.

  If my heart could beat, it’d be on overdrive. I can remember every inch of her body, the sweet smell of danger and lavender as if it were stuck to my skin like morning dew. Fourteen seconds were all it took to destroy Abel’s body like it was fluffy doll. Fourteen seconds were pastel beauty blasting through the door. Fourteen seconds were death and destruction.

  I take hurried steps along the pavement, careful not to knock over any kind pedestrians on the busy Boston streets. My apartment is two blocks off of Cambridge Street in a part of town that’s often crammed with tourists and children. Some would say it’s not the perfect place to live for someone like me, but I have no complaints. Two major train stations are only a few minutes away, and the highway is a stone’s throw away from my front door. If I wanted to, if I needed to, escape is only a moment away. When I reach the apartment, I scan the alley before the door out of habit. There’s nothing there except for the dumpster and a few stray beer bottles.

  My apartment is warm, immediate waves of comfort as soon I step foot into the living room. I bolt up the three deadlocks behind me and slam the door. I’m not taking any chances, even in the calm light of day. It’s been over twelve hours since my last dose and my body is starting to ask for it. The whispers are almost real, as if a dozen ghosts were blowing kisses from inside the walls. I shake them off for a moment and walk into the bedroom. I push the bed a full foot towards the wall and lift up the crimson rug from the wooden floor. It wasn’t an easy device to install, but a hidden dorm-sized refrigerator is the only place to store my stash. I plug in the combination and two floating rivers of cool mist escape from the hinges. I thumb through the clear plastic packages. The top layer of blood is all O-positive. The dozen or so packs below it are what I need: AB-positive.

  The first conversation I had after I was infected was with Cale in the back of The December Club, a place I’d soon enough call my second home. One of the few fantastic traits is that you can sniff out other similar souls, and Cale did just that while downing whiskey sours at the club’s colorful bar. He was my mentor, my guide to this new world, this new life. One of the first things he told me was that just blood wasn’t enough to sustain our life; the only blood that would satisfy the hunger deep within our bodies was that of the same grouping system when we were human. Since my blood was of the AB-positive variety, the only blood I could drink with any effect on my system was AB-positive blood. Although any type of blood could quiet the virus for an hour, one of us couldn’t live alone on blood that wasn’t within our grouping system. As Cale would say, “It’s just like a fucking appetizer.”

  If there was one thing that made me clamor for my previous life, it would be the fact that only 4% of the general population could provide me with the proper nourishment. This proved extremely difficult for an abnormal soul like me. I couldn’t walk into the streets in the middle of the night with a 50/50 shot of fully feeding the virus. The ones that ignored this crucial element of their existence are the ones that are weak. They’re the ones that are constantly hungry. This is why I learned to keep a deep stash buried in my safe. This is why I developed the trait of hording blood in my apartment. I could never take the risk of running low.

  I toss a packet of the O-positive to the side and sigh. I take a moment to think of Abel, his infectious laugh, his soulful eyes. We would droop our legs over the sides of the Tobin Bridge when the rest of the world was sleeping. We’d share beers and stories, words that calmed the hunger of contact deep below the surface of my skin. Some would say I could live forever and never know what love could be. Abel was my brother, a soul that would pour you a drink and relieve the tension in your bones with just a smile.

  I fish out a packet of AB-negative and waste no time. I don’t need a cup; I just pinch a hole in the corner of the bag and drink. When the blood rushes through my body the whispers turn into silence, every pore of my body dripping with the sweat of satisfaction. I sit back against the wall and let the blood soothe my insides, full nourishment the only thing that a vampire craves more than sex. Sunlight drips into the bedroom window and for a moment I’m alive again, in my head my heart is beating and I’m back with my family. I’m normal again.

  It’s only when that initial jolt passes that reality kicks in once again. The voices in my belly are quiet for now, but like every one of my kind knows, a pint can only keep them at bay for oh so long.

  #

  The telephone rings and I shove the receiver to my ear with a violent jag. “What?” My voice is crackly, like it’s bouncing off the walls of an old and tired radio.

  “Charlie, there’s a guy here who’s looking for you.” The other voice is Mickey’s, my boss.

  “What’s he look like?” While it’s true that my body is never actually tired, sometimes after a full dose the eyes need to sleep.

  Mickey clears his throat. “Older, but you know, he’s one of…us.”

  It must be Davey. “Tell him to sit tight. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Within moments, I’m in the shower and scrubbing off the bits of Abel’s blood that I didn’t notice before. I sigh once, remember what it’s like to have real friends in a world that needed them.

  I towel off in the bedroom and grab a pair of broken-in jeans. Black t-shirt, brown leather jacket. And, of course, a nine-millimeter pistol lodged uncomfortably into the back of my jeans.

  #

  The Boston transit system is a lot like the fourth or fifth layer of hell: every soul trapped down here is vague of smiles and warmth. Every passenger looks as if the world could end at any moment and it’s something they’d welcome. The train shifts for a second and I balance myself with a hand gripping the dirty steel bar above the row of seats below. I close my eyes and sniff. Traces of urine and sweat and rage. I look around the car and don’t see a fellow lifer like myself. Another sniff. No, I’m the only one on this train.

  I get off at State Street and walk for a mile or so before the sun dips below the horizon. The December Club’s lights echo from a distance, its attractive glow alluring and dangerous. I don’t even remember what day it is, but I can tell it must be a weekend because there’s at least three or four dozen mini-skirted girls waiting behind the velvet rope. Slowly letting them in is a hulking brute of a Mexican named Johnni.

  “Charlie, you working tonight?” He smiles
and points to the entrance, letting a girl who’s presumably underage into the club.

  I pat him on the shoulder. He’s all muscle, much stronger than I. Any shifts that I’m not covering, Johnni’s usually here. Who can complain? It’s good money and you get the chance to knock around people who have even the slightest attitude.

  “Not scheduled, but I came in to visit…” My words trail off at the sight of a woman with the eyes of a tiger, twisted vines of ink adorning her pale frame. The wind sucks the air out of my lungs for a second and all I can feel is that cold metal keyhole pressed against my face, the eager breeze of death ripping limbs and life. The girl giggles and holds a man’s arm, probably her boyfriend. I catch my breath again.

  “You okay, buddy?” Johnni puts up a hand to the long line and grips my shoulder.

  I nod. “Yeah, just thought I saw someone I knew.” I force a grin and motion towards the entrance. “I’ll catch up with you later. I gotta talk to Mickey for a bit.”

  Johnni nods and continues scanning driver’s licenses. I clutch my chest, feel the panic swimming alongside the smooth edges of my ribcage. It all seems like fantasy to me; another breed on the hunt for vampires, tasked with hunting us down like fucking rats. I push open the doors, neon rays dissipating into a cloud of cigarette smoke. I scan the bar for an older gentleman but only come across an array of twentysomethings and Goth burnouts. When I step into the lounge a familiar voice slices through the thick noise overhead.

  “My friend.” Mickey’s holding onto my arm, that golden smile plastered across his face like he was a used car salesman.

  “Mickey,” I say, eyes continuing to scan the rest of the club like a focused hawk. “What’s going on?”

  His smile fades into wrinkles. “My office, now.”

  “I’m looking for—”

  “I know.” He cuts me off. “He’s in my office.”

  I follow Mickey into his office, loud rock music from the club downstairs lightened into silence. He slams the door shut behind me and motions for me to sit next to a sharply-dressed man, pinstriped suit and an aura of prestige. His hair is as gray as dirty snow. The man stands up and offers his hand. I shake it with full force and his fingers are strong and firm.