Red Sky: Rising

by Ben Archer

  "My bike is back at the bar.” This new confident voice is a total departure from mere seconds ago. “It has a first aid kit we could both really use.” She doesn't say a word, although her confusion says plenty. The abrupt switch is hard to understand for anyone that’s not me. Trying to explain it would only make me look like a bigger psychopath, so I just put my arm around her, partly for comfort, but mostly for support, and set off towards the bike.

  I clumsily transition, "I know this place where they make the best boardwalk fries. Seriously, they're as big as carrots! They fry them in peanut oil so hopefully you’re not allergic? Also, they frown on the use of ketchup so don’t ask. Vinegar is the only way to go anyway. Apple cider vinegar." I ramble on, and on, over-emphasizing every word to re-emphasize my own sanity. She gives me the look of a confused girl who’s trying not to freak out. Can’t blame her though, it’s creepy to me too.

  I’ll explain it this way: when I was fourteen, I was walking to the courts to play basketball. An old family friend, named Huggie Bear, just happened to be driving by so he offered me a ride. As soon as we got in, I noticed something unusual, “Bob,” I said to the driver, “you don’t have a rear view mirror.” The man straightened his dirty baseball cap, looked me dead in the eye and answered very matter-of-factly, “Well we ain’t drivin’ backwards.”

  Something about that stayed with me. Maybe I read too much into it. He probably wasn’t trying to make some grand metaphysical statement on how to live your life. Most likely he was just a whole lotta crazy, and too cheap to replace a broken mirror, but it was a message I’ll never forget. He’s the reason I keep going forward, even if I’m not very good at the “not looking back” part.

  Chapter 11: Living for Two

  I quickly make good on the promise of two orders of the largest fries known to man. We immediately drown them in about a gallon of very pungent vinegar as soon as they’re handed to us. There’s a common misconception that vampires can't eat regular food anymore. Bullshit. I would’ve run a stake through my own heart if I couldn't munch on a New York-style cheesecake occasionally. It’s only because I like the taste though, it doesn't "feed" me anymore. The vampire virus keeps my metabolic rate so high I’m basically running on overdrive all the time. That's also where the advanced senses and strength come from.

  Although, the downside to this “gift” is that the virus literally eats me alive. Red blood cells are the fuel driving the virus, and they’re broken down so fast that a fresh supply is needed almost every week. Of course that all depends on how hard my body has had to work. Luckily, I fed last night so the bruises should be gone by sundown. The deeper cuts will probably become simple scratches by tomorrow. With any luck the shoulder should be useful again in a couple days. Long story short, all this healing will leave me needing to feed much sooner than usual, maybe just a day or two.

  I’ll enjoy these fries now, then sneak off later for the real stuff. There’s no need to shove the worst parts of my life in her face. She doesn't seem to be in a huge rush to tell me where home, or anything else, is. There’s also a newfound awkwardness between us that won’t seem to go away. It’s the same kind that comes when two people share a shameful secret. She wasn’t talkative before, but there’s a coldness to her now.

  Adding to the fun are all the heads we’re turning from simply walking down the street. People are staring at us like we’re made of diamonds. This one is understandable though ─it’s pretty obvious we’ve been through something pretty tragic. We’re both covered from head to toe in the most disgusting stuff imaginable. As far as I’m concerned, we can’t reach the bar fast enough.

  Since the word “quick” is not in my current vocabulary, due to the bruised body and sore legs, I’m growing increasingly impatient with the gawking public. The growing tantrum builds, and builds, and builds, before finally erupting all over the next poor guy that looks at us the wrong way. My (very mature) response is to hurl the mostly empty cup at the condescending prick. They ricochet off his smirking face, sending salt and vinegar splattering absolutely everywhere.

  Sadly, the simple act of tossing French fries hurts so bad that it leaves me bent over on the verge of tears. Quinn busily apologizes to man, saying everything possible to keep me from getting my ass kicked. She must have a silver tongue because he finally agrees to walk on after exchanging only a few bad looks.

  That’s probably a blessing since I wouldn’t have been much of a challenge in my current condition. I’ll need to check my bruised ego if there’s going to be any hope of making it all the way back to Pandora.

  My priorities need to be:

  1) Beer

  2) Not getting ass kicked before getting to beer.

  After ten more minutes, and dozens more judgmental stares, the dirty old bar shines like a beacon at the end of the alley. There’s Ol' Red, still parked out front where I left her. I don’t remember taking up two parking spots with the stubby bike, but it is what it is. At least they haven’t towed it. Suppose they wanted to see if I made it back first?

  It actually doesn’t seem to have been touched at all! She’s still packed with all the random crap and meager camping equipment I came here with. It seems there was nothing worth stealing, I guess.

  "Aspirin?" I offer while digging for the first-aid kit. It's best to be prepared when you spend as much time away from civilization as I do. There’s a flimsy sling (which I’ve used far more times than I care to admit) for my busted shoulder, iodine for our numerous cuts, and the last two aspirins in the tin box.

  Without being asked, she snags the sling and quickly sets my separated shoulder. She has a delicate, yet firm motion that pops it back into place, wraps it tight, and secures it with medical tape. I’ll admit to shedding a few tears during the process, though it’s not because she did anything wrong. I fell out of a tree once (tip: don’t drink and hunt) and I was convinced the doctor cut my arm off and beat me with it. Compared to that, her treatment is a bee sting. Most surprising is that she did it without any guidance at all. This was obviously not her first time around a first-aid kit. What a little box of puzzles this girl is turning out to be.

  I reflexively joke, "You want some hard liquor to wash down those pills?" She replies in a deadpan voice that makes it hard to tell if she’s joking or not, "I really do."

  "Oh... well, um... yeah." I stutter without really knowing what else to say. "Well you're in luck because I happen to know the bartender!” I purposely over-exaggerate to hide my sudden confusion.

  Swinging the familiar double doors open reveals all the changes since I’ve left. The collapsed side of the building has become a fresh wall of sloppy plywood. It looks pretty hastily thrown together from whatever they could come up with. Most likely a temporary solution to protect against late night shoppers. Half the tables are already stacked against the wall to make room for the real construction to come. The crowd is understandably small and Shepherd is in the middle with a partially-folded blueprint. "Doing some remodeling?" I shout.

  He whips around with a wide open jaw, "Flynn? Where have you been?" He then works through the mess of tables to bear hug me. I’m pretty sure he isn’t, but it feels as if he’s trying to break me in half. I growl through gritted teeth, "Aggghhh, easy there champ… broken shoulder and all."

  "Oh, my fault! I wasn't paying any attention!" He apologizes emphatically, and since I don’t want him to feel like an ass, I play off the throbbing pain as merely a flesh wound. With crooked brow he dives right in, "Why in the world did you go after a bloody Eutherian? Don’t you know how vicious those things are?” Trust me, I do, and although this would be the perfect chance to explain my day in graphic detail, I don’t take it. There’s no need to stifle the little bit of personality Quinn is starting to show. "Ha! Yeah, I followed it back to the nest and found this young lady here.” casually gesturing to Quinn. “Shepherd meet Quinn. Quinn, Shepherd.” I scoot back slightly to give him a look that says “no questions”. This obviously isn’t the who
le story, not even close, but it’s the only version I’m comfortable sharing right now.

  "Yeah." He offers an oddly brief response. He’s still smiling politely, even though there’s a thick undertone of uneasiness surrounding him. He has the pale look of a man who’s seen a ghost. A BIG ONE. I hesitantly ask, "Have you met before?" trying to get to the bottom of the abrupt mood change.

  "I'm sorry. I don't believe we have.” He snaps out of the strange funk to offer Quinn a charming smile. “Shepherd Roberts, but my friends call me Shep." reaching for her hand. Apparently, whatever crawled up his ass found its way back out again. Quinn obliges, so he leans down to gently kiss the back of her hand. "Wow! Is it my imagination, or did it just get very Victorian in here! Smooth Shep for the win! I didn't know you had it in you, Mr. Roberts!" I joke while struggling to throw my one good arm around him.

  "How about you kiss my ass. Better?" He proclaims with a snide smile. "Well, you see, I have a problem that only you can help me with, Sir Roberts! I have this aspirin here and nothing to wash it down with. I’m sure a man like you can understand." I grab dramatically at my forehead.

  "Of course my good fellow! A round of drinks for this noble knight!" He commands in a pretty damn good English accent. “Thank you squire!" I play along, “Squire? Is that the right word here? It means you're a noble, right?" "No.” he answers. “A squire was the knight’s trainee. You basically called me your bitch."

  "Oh, well then I stand by it!" I nod with an extra wide grin. Shepherd laughs and squeezes the good shoulder before excusing himself. We take the opportunity to make our way over to one of the few remaining tables. Running my hand across the bruised tabletop is surreal. All the dents bring a swell of emotions ranging from grateful to utterly ashamed.

  A tiny man interrupts my reflective mood to get our drink order. Now the mystery of my (possibly) young alcoholic friend can be solved. "What can I get for you folks?" He summarily asks. My request is simple, "Let’s start with two big amber ales and please, whatever you do, don't let me see the bottom of the glass for an hour."

  "And for you ma’am?" he motions to Quinn who has sat down next to me ─very close actually. "Coke please" she responds. So it was just some kind of weird comedic timing? It appears her sense of humor might be as odd as mine. Looks like we should get along just fine!

  Several minutes later, Shepherd makes his way back over with drinks in hand. He sets each one down on a little coaster that I really don’t understand the point of. I felt the deep gouges myself, so what kind of damage are a few drops of beer going to do? It’s exactly the kind of thing I would normally use against him, but I put all jokes aside when he asks for the full story.

  I spit out a roughly edited version of our trip through Hell, with only quick mention of the first lost girl. Quinn has a perplexed look that shows she’s actively putting this story together with the events at the gate. Thankfully it doesn’t cause her to shy away, or retreat back into her shell. In fact, she actively participates in the recap; stepping in to describe the flaming bats in a way that paints me as the hero. Given the events at the gate, mountain, and my life in general, that’s a role I’m so uncomfortable with that I chug the rest of my beer and half of Shepherd’s.

  Chapter 12: The Memory Remains

  By the time I rejoin them, I’m in just the right mood to begin a very lengthy rant against the gruesome cave of devil bats. It doesn’t take long to figure out the wounds are still a little too fresh to carry on anything close to actual conversation. All I’m doing is railing on while repeating the same basic idea, they should all be burned the ground.

  There’s an excitement to the idea that catches on with Quinn, but appears entirely lost on Shepherd. His total indifference only spurs me to try harder to convince him of the danger living a few mountains away. "Oh, and I haven't even told you the most astonishing part yet! I merged with one of the devils ―long story there― and buried among its horrible life was the memory of an infant vampire! A true pureblood baby!"

  This news doesn’t seem to affect him the way I expect either! When I found out it was like a bomb going off inside my head! I was certain he would feel the same way, except the news rolls off him like water on a duck’s back! Quinn’s also tuned out a bit, since she’s not one of us I expected it from her, but not Shepherd! Increased frustration leads me to spiraling into even greater detail. Why is it so hard to get them to understand the impact this could have on the entire world?

  I continue trying to describe the infant and group gathered around him. Trying to explain the strange atmosphere is the hardest part. Describing the conflicting emotions of watching him, and watching others watch him, is impossible. There was a complex mix of love and fear that’s hard to put into words. I finish the exhausting report with, “I guess you just had to be there.” Hell, I wasn’t there, but whatever…

  There’s still an argument stuck in the back of my craw. It’s driving me nuts that no one else seems to care about this life changing news! A pureblood vampire is out there somewhere! What are they not understanding about that? Sadly, the back and forth conversation never comes. I have to drown all the bubbling frustration with the glass of warm beer in my hand. It, like me, has become increasingly hot during the extended rant. The disgusting drink only pisses me off more on the way down.

  After thirty seconds of full-on pouting, there’s a firm tap on my shoulder. It’s one of those aggressive full-hand-wrapped-over-the-arm kind of attention grabbers. It’s likely that some nosey drunk has overheard our conversation and has an opinion to share. Since there’s not much going on at our table, I’m tempted to hop over and hear his vodka soaked observations. At least he’ll have something to say about it!

  I remove the hand before turning to greet him. Instead of one drunkard, what’s waiting for me is a very large, very angry, group of armored men. These aren’t the wannabe town’s guards either. No, these guys appear to be true bad asses. Even their uniforms range from dark black, to darker black, to darkest black.

  The closest two are something even scarier than the others. They have aluminum faceguards that have been decorated in uniquely intimidating ways. The farthest one has sharp flames crawling up his mask like a gnarled hand. They flow with the same buttery fluidness of a real fire. Even his eyes are hidden behind the intense blazing inferno. The other one is far less mysterious with his appearance, he went in a more “you’re gonna bleed” direction.

  His entire head is encased in a molded chrome skull that would probably slice your finger to touch. Sharp creases run into snarling teeth that look more rabid wolf than human. Sitting above them are deeply sunken eyes glowing an intense cherry red. He continues the skeleton theme with a bulky chest plate of chiseled chrome ribs. And the entire outfit proudly displays dozens of unpatched gunshot dents.

  "You really don't know what she is, do you Flynn?" Shepherd asks while dramatically gesturing toward the stunned girl. His voice elevates as if leading to the punchline of a bad joke. "What Quinn is???" My response is filled with equal parts amusement and confusion. The dramatic amount of guns in the room would suggest I should be cautious with my words, instead I ask, "Are you a princess running away from her loving, yet over-bearing father? How did you get out of your tower again young lady?"

  I’m the only one laughing.

  I’ve obviously stepped into something pretty bad involving Quinn. It seems, as always, I’m the last asshole to the party. I lean uncomfortably close to Shepherd, "She's a kid, that's what she is. I don’t know anything beyond that. So now it’s your turn to tell me who these men are."

  The mood in the room turns to an uncomfortable fusion of anxiety and aggression. I can sense the hulks inching closer until Shepherd finally breaks the dangerous silence with, "You don't understand, my friend. She’s merely a gift." His inviting grin has returned, and brought with it a slathered on fakeness that weakly attempts to avoid the unavoidable. With his last words still ringing in my ears, Quinn leaps from the chair and slams he
rself into the solid wall of guards. “NO!!! DON’T TAKE ME HOME!!!” She screams hysterically.

  Ok, so she’s in on the secret too.

  Dammit.

  This is clearly not some misunderstanding. That means this will only end in one of two ways: bad or worse.

  As hard as she tries, the massive guards easily overpower Quinn. They begin by slamming her down hard enough to leave a steady stream of tears leaking onto the dented table. Welling up in her wide green eyes is the unmistakable look of desperation. She pleads through trembling lips, “Please, please, please, please, please, please.” The guards answer with a smooth metallic needle that slows her frantic lips. Eventually they stop for good; although the desperate look never fades.

  My eyes dart back and forth between Shepherd and the girl. I know where my allegiance should be… I mean, I know literally nothing about her and he’s one of my closest friends, but I’ve seen that look before. This is something beyond fear.

  “Seriously, what’s going on Shepherd? Is this a kidnapping or something?” He straightens to the stiff stance of a soldier being called to attention. “You really do spend all your time in the woods, don't you Flynn? Take a look at her clothes. How do you not recognize the uniform of Gas Light Colony?” His question seems more rhetorical than anything.

  “They are human cattle that only exist to be what we need. Front line soldiers, body part donors, or ─like this one─ an offering to the Eutherians! We give them as gifts and the bats leave us alone." His fake charm is completely missing. It’s been replaced by an emotionless stare and a matter-of-fact arrogance.

  "Why are you giving those monsters anything at all??? They don’t need pacified, they need destroyed!" I shout to anyone who’ll listen.