by Ben Archer
There was plenty of panic in this paralyzed state, but also something spectacularly new ─the world I came back to was entirely different! It was as if the volume of life had been turned up to eleven! Every drop of rain now sent shockwaves rattling throughout my motionless body. The tiny droplets collided with the weight of mighty boulders! And not only could I hear the squirrel scurrying in the pine fifty yards away, I could “feel” every single needle scrape its fur.
All the different sounds allowed me to paint a vivid portrait of the world in my mind. The longer I listened, the clearer it became. It was both astonishing and confusing at the same time! I laid there, lost in the soundtrack of life, as if I were hearing it for the first time. It was that much different than everything I’d ever known.
Of course, since everything in life comes with a price, I was about to discover mine. At first it was only a faint whisper that blended in with all the rest.
Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
But it quickly built with my own racing heartbeat.
Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
That simple sound transformed me into a mindless beast. It instantly unlocked some long forgotten piece of savage DNA. Those feral new instincts made saliva begin drizzling down my chin simply because the creature was inching closer. Little tremors shook the ground as its claws dug through the wet dirt. I could feel them trying to shake off the sloppy mud.
His pulse accelerated as he drew closer.
So did mine.
My once useless muscles roared back to life when the heat of heavy breath steamed up my left arm. I almost lost the game of opossum when a coarse nose tickled my fingertips. The smell of his last putrid meal, still lingering in its matted fur, raised my excitement level to staggering new heights. Anticipation grew as the creature circled me. The pounding of my anxious heart became the only thing I could hear anymore. That was the moment my life changed forever. Boring old Hayden Archer Flynn became something far more, well… complicated.
That was the day my monster was born.
Acting on uncontrolled instincts alone, I hurled myself on top of him. When I did, the entire world burst into the brilliant colors of a waking dream. This intense new reality made it seem as if I’d been living in black and white my entire life. Standing directly in front of me was my soon-to-be prey; a stunned Creole mustard mountain lion with terrified eyes. Before that day I would have feared his sharp teeth and claws. Now all I saw was a fresh new toy to play with.
Tunnel vision hid everything except its frightened face and exposed throat. An addictive inebriation quickly spread over me. Anything resembling morality, or even humanity, was instantly swept away in a flood of unadulterated insanity. Hayden Flynn was gone. All that’s left was a snarling beast with an insatiable appetite for violence.
What happened next I’m not particularly proud of, but I’ll admit to because it happened. I sat over him, hunched like a wild animal, for what seemed like days. When he moved, I moved. I did everything possible to keep enjoying the sweet intoxication of his fear. That’s also the first time my monster found his fangs.
It’s impossible to describe the insane rush as they sank into his furry throat. Let’s just say it was powerful, life-alteringly powerful. At that point it wasn’t about the blood, it was about the control. I pulled back to find a patch of the cat’s flesh had returned with me. It tried to cower in pain and run away. However, by then it was too late… I already had fresh blood on my lips. That first taste took our cruel game to a place that could only be called pure madness. I would let him bite me just to feel the pain. It would drive me deeper down the rabbit hole of insanity. I’ll never forget the pure terror locked in those yellow eyes. As shameful as it is, my heart still races at the thought. My fingers still itch to feel that wet fur running between them. I’ll spare you the worst details, but needless to say we continued on like feral dogs for a heartless amount of time. The only thing finally stopping me was accidentally sinking my new fangs in a little too far. My inexperience was the only thing that saved the poor creature from an even worse death.
While the physical rush was intense, the resulting mental fallout would break me for decades. When the fog of hunger finally lifted, reality flooded back in. Each passing second made the mangled carcass in my lap more real to me; more shameful. The taste in my mouth, which had been amazing seconds ago, now ripped my heart open with a guilty torture. I stared down at my stained hands, covered in matted fur, as if they were no longer mine. They couldn’t be. I basically shut down while watching the blood and rain pool in the palm of my hands. It wasn’t just because of that one guilty act, it’s because I knew there would be more.
Much more.
All I could do after that was run. Not just from the field, and the stone with my name carved into it, but my entire life. I ran away from mom, dad, and the warm holidays. Away from Dru. After all, how could she see me like this? Hayden Flynn was dead. Whatever crawled out of that hole didn’t deserve the happiness they would bring. That long, brutal night was only the beginning of my new life. One filled with a mindless thirst for violence and a hunger that would haunt me for several lifetimes. It was a drug that hooked my very soul. I did everything possible to kick it, starved myself until the monster would take control, lived as an outcast on the fringes of society, ate rodents, ate people… everything.
The ghost of my parent’s oak door would torment me to come home almost every night. Stepping through it would surely make everything alright again. Our mangy old dog would be warming her soft pink belly next to the fire. The sweet smell of caramel glazed apple pie (mom’s specialty) would welcome me back home. Sometimes the dreams were so vivid that I would wake up still feeling mom’s soft touch on my shoulder. But eventually those imaginary worlds, painted with the rich colors of love and acceptance, would be replaced by whatever filthy alley that had served as my shelter for the night. The heavenly aroma of apple pie would became the stale stench of urine wafting up from my dumpster blanket.
How many times did I almost go home? Thousands. Each time I would talk myself out of it for one reason or another.
“What if I lose control?”
“I need to get better first.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
Well, twenty years passed and “tomorrow” never came. So eventually, like everything else, that option was taken from me too. The war between vampires and humans burned across the globe until nothing good was left behind. Those of us that remained were only charred husks of our former selves. We would occasionally try to sift through the ashes, looking for long-missing pieces, but rarely found any.
And I’m ashamed to admit it, but not even after the fire did I have the courage to discover what happened to my missing family. I didn’t need to. I knew they didn't stand a chance against an army of creatures just like me.
After that I wouldn't allow myself the dreams any longer. That final piece of hope, just like Dru's warm voice, was silenced forever. All that’s left is the heartache.
Chapter 3: Tin Pan Alley
The smooth dirt road gradually becomes a busted concrete path (I can’t really call it a street) the closer I get to town. Mother Nature and all her woody pines are eventually replaced by the mismatched walls of our little Colony. This patchwork metal is supposed to create some kind of a barrier between the dangerous world outside and the relative safety within. Although I technically live inside, I’m only truly free when surrounded by fresh leaves, a smoldering campfire, and animals chirping the night away.
The best part of coming home must be the sight of me puttering back on this tiny scooter. I’m not a huge guy by any means, however, everybody looks gigantic on this thing. Especially when it’s packed down with camping gear and a full slab of deer meat. It’s as if the circus is rolling into town and I’m the lead clown.
But apparently not a very ente
rtaining one. The guards greet me with their usual indifference. After years of passing through the same gates, you would think they would just wave me on through. Well, no. I still get all the extensive full-body scans. After this they’ll toss my meager equipment around for no apparent reason. Thankfully, when you don't have much, it doesn't take very long.
I shouldn’t complain about living in a place where security is still valued. Most of this rebellious world is filled with outlaws, thieves, V-heads, and blood whores. Our Colony, “Cedar Points” is around a 60/40 split of humans to vampires. That would put me in the minority, except this place is motivated more by money than food preference.
The gates only swing open after the exhaustive pat down is finished. I affectionately blow a kiss to the guard that did the deepest part of the search. He quietly slinks away without making eye contact, or accepting my offer to finish his search over a romantic dinner for two. The way I see it, if you’re going to toss my junk around, I get to have a little fun too. Judging by the cold shouldered response, he has no interest in taking our relationship to the next level.
Anyhow, navigating the points is a breeze. It’s basically a three-acre sized hand with five fingers of housing radiating off the central palm. The nicest homes are found up in the thumb area. Unsurprisingly, that’s not my section.
My kind sticks to the shady pinky known as “Tin Pan Alley.” That’s where those of us who trade in... um, less civilized fair, go to make a living. Believe it or not, I’m actually considered a high ranking trader since I mostly deal in stag and rabbit. Maybe a squirrel or two occasionally, although I find the blood to meat ratio is usually not worth my time. Most of my fellow traders prefer rats, rodents, or even hobos that have passed out in the wrong place. Of course that’s illegal, but completely over-looked by the ruling class who consider it a cost effective way of controlling the miscreant population.
Our de facto leader is the man in the green shanty at the very end of Tin Pan Alley. His real name is John Buttonfold, though I prefer Old Man Buttons. Over the years we’ve set up a pretty fair deal, I hunt the game, take the blood for myself, and then sell the meat to him. Good deal, right?
The portly old man rushes up to greet me with the usual wide open arms. His enthusiastic tone is much higher than you would expect to come out of such a round and robust body. Honestly, he’s probably five feet tall and six feet wide.
His wardrobe is always flashy, as any good trader should be, so he stands out while peddling his crap to you. That being said, today’s outfit is particularly bad. Only people who’ve lost a bad bet should wear a knee-length velvet coat with purple trim. Normally the vanilla shirt tucked underneath would be considered a reserved choice, except this one has ruffles that would put any Victorian nobleman to shame. The icing on the unfashionable cake are the many impenetrable mounds of grey chest hair bursting out from between every button. Each set has been perfectly trimmed to resemble miniature snow-covered hedges. They could be confused for fluffy cotton balls, except they appear to be as stiff as tree branches.
“Good day kiddo!” he eagerly squeaks. Of course there are two things wrong with this statement.
First― it's night time.
Second― I’m more than 90 years older than he is!
That’s just one of the many special treats that comes when you stop aging in your twenties. No matter how much older you get, you’ll never get the respect that comes with a few wrinkles and silver strands of hair. He knows how old I am, of course, but this is the first of many bad jokes still to come. It’s also my cue to put on my normal forced smile and banter back, “Hey there, old man. How’s today treating you?” I can already tell you his response word for word. It's been the same since he was young man Buttons. “Still warm!” he playfully delights. That’s his gentle stab at us cold bloods.
Side note: A vampire’s blood is not cold, nor are we dead, despite what I said earlier. This is a damn dirty stereotype so don’t believe everything you read!
We wrap up a few minutes of casual conversation by moving around back to wait for the metallic clunk of a dead bolt, before unloading my latest kill. One new addition to our old routine is having to help the frail man slide open the heavy door. I joke, “About time to get an electric opener isn't it?" He boasts in return, "Why would I do that when I can make you work for your money!" Touché old man, touché.
“You know the worst thing about buying your venison?” he asks when I sling the deer onto massive scales.
"No Buttons, what's wrong with my meat?”
“I ain't had a real juicy steak in 40 damn years! Hahahaha!!!!” This isn’t a new joke, but I’ve only heard it fifty or sixty times so it’s better than most. Although something about it must have really tickled him since he’s laughing way harder than a person really ought to at their own joke.
“Because I drain all the blood, yeah. Good one, Buttons.” My painted-on smile fades a bit more each time I visit. Don’t get me wrong, he's a nice enough guy, but I’ve grown far more comfortable out among the trees than socializing with people. The monotonous politics of navigating society just don’t have the same appeal as they used to.
We continue laughing on through a few more bad jokes until he pays me my “ransom money," and then I’m free to scooter off into the night. Luckily, I don’t have far to go. Only a few buildings up is my favorite watering hole, “Pandora.” It’s nothing special during the day, but for a desperate man, she looks real good at night. Especially since there’s a parking spot right up front with my name on it. Today was a particularly good hunt, so that’s reason enough for me to celebrate.
One of the biggest advantages to being of the vampire persuasion is that sleep hasn't been a major concern of mine in over a hundred years. My state of mind is only relative to my hunger level, and with a full belly I’m ready to kick off the party with two squirts of special occasion cologne. You know, in case someone in there wants to keep me warm tonight.
These are the optimistic hopes that launch me through both double doors to make a very grand entrance. Sadly, not a single interested head turns my way. Disgruntled, but still determined, I casually stroll past each table so slowly one person asks what my problem is. I keep on walking since it’s only some old man that strongly resembles a wrinkled bulldog. After that I really start putting maximum swagger into each confident step, yet my trip still ends without one lady eye caught! A more realistic scan of the room reveals that nearly every table is filled with grumpy looking old guys! Suddenly my spirit, outlook, and crotch deflate like a balloon. This night is certainly not going the way I had hoped. I eventually have to resign myself to a lonely place at the bar.
My evening then takes a very unexpected, but welcome turn when a long lost voice calls out, “I didn’t know we let people like you in here!?” The happy face of one of my oldest friends happens to be working the bar tonight! “Well if it isn't the man, the myth, the legend Shepherd Roberts here to fill my belly with his finest ale!” This is a not-so-subtle hint for some of the private reserve he keeps stashed behind the bar.
“Where have you been? And why haven’t you been here?” I ask because it’s been years since I’ve seen him.
“Well, the normal bartender was a no show, so here I am pedaling booze to the likes of you!”
“Whatever it took to get you here! I’m just thrilled to see you after all this time! What's it been, almost fifteen years?”
“It’s definitely been far too long my friend!” he warmly replies while giving me an awkward man-hug over the wide-top bar. He continues, “I could never keep up with your crazy ass! Remember the last time we hung out? You ended the night butt-ass naked with a stuffed monkey just so you could shout loudly, ‘touch my monkey!’ to everyone that passed.”
“Oh, that’s right!” I vaguely recall. “It was all the absinthe! I swear that stuff was mean! Where did that monkey come from anyway???”
He laughs, “It was some teenager’s Valentine present you apparently want
ed more than she did. Don’t forget that you still owe me for the ‘donation’ it took to get your wobbly ass back home that night.”
Shepherd’s a good friend. As a person with very few, it’s safe to say he’s my best friend. I don’t say that lightly either; it was a lesson learned long ago. Our friendship goes way beyond keeping me from making a drunken ass out of myself. We fought side by side during the vampire uprising, and spilled a lot of Mongrel blood together. That’s what we called the rebel vampires, “mongrels,” because they had lost touch with their humanity like a dog without a breed. They believed they were somehow far superior to humans. Shepherd and I strongly disagreed with that. We believed no matter what the virus had made us, we were still the same people inside.
He was motivated by protecting loved ones.
I was driven by a rage so pure that it obliterated every other emotion I had.
I was absolutely numb to everything except anger, so it comforted me to force everything through a dirty filter of unadulterated hate. I channeled the loss of my family into a string of violence that made me a valuable soldier, but a terrible person. I could actually see Dru in every fanged face, that’s how messed up I was. Not knowing how they died let my madness ran wild. It drove me to do things that wouldn't be acceptable in even the bloodiest of wars. My morality was gladly sacrificed at the alter of uncontrollable violence.
Let’s just say he fought the better war. While Shepherd's kills were swift ─mine were not. I wanted to share my pain with them. Fill my personal void with their suffering. It’s certainly not something I’m proud of, but it’s true.
Thankfully, those are not the stories we share this evening. Tonight is filled with fantastic tales of great victories and many terrible jokes. I make fun of him for living up on the top side of the Colony where the grass is actually greener on the other side. Far away from Tin Pan Alley and his own bar. We aimlessly chat the night away while knocking back beer after beer. Our stories devolve from genuine memories, to slight exaggerations, to outright damn dirty lies, all in an attempt to remember what it was like to be something greater than ourselves.