Red Sky: Rising

by Ben Archer

  I go ahead and playfully toss a handful of dirt on myself to symbolize my upcoming second burial. This one will certainly be more successful than the last. Maybe I’ll even stay in the ground this time? It’s a funny joke until the searing pain of moving makes it no longer amusing. After that, I lay back down and wait. I only hope death finds me before crows do.

  The selfish wallowing is interrupted by the quiet clatter of a diesel engine. It’s only a small ticking at first. So tiny that I almost can’t hear it over my own bitterness. But even I can’t ignore when the calm morning is suddenly interrupted by the booming sound of pistons rattling through trees. Of course I know there’s a good chance that whatever it is, is filled with people we don’t want to see. People who want to kill us. However, from where I stand (or lay like a rotting corpse) it may be our only choice. We either take our chance with whatever’s coming up the road, or I eat Quinn myself.

  And that won’t be good since vampires can’t eat each other. Our viruses are not compatible. Like, at all. Sometimes, if they come from the same family, it’s ok. Quinn and I might be able to cross because I infected her, but that’s still no guarantee since different blood types mutate the disease in a variety of ways. That’s also why some of us have different abilities. (Example: the hypnotic spell she was under.)

  If there is conflict, you’ll die all kinds of really terrible ways.

  Best case: My nervous system will shut down and leave me paralyzed for life.

  Average case: My temperature will get high enough to boil several internal organs. Usual result is a slow, painful death.

  Worst case: I’ll expel every foreign object in my entire body. Basically, crap myself to death.

  Even knowing all this, I still have to hold the monster back from feeding on the lifeless girl. Facts don’t matter to him. He sees a body, wants its blood, that’s all.

  So from a mental standpoint, the decision is easy. The hard part is actually dragging Quinn through the heavy brush. That turns out to be one of the hardest things I’ve done in my extra-long life. There’s no way of stopping the skinny branches from lashing against any bare skin they want. With my hands currently occupied, I have to just take it and keep moving.

  Several permanent scars later, we finally reach the edge of a deserted road. Well, it’s not really much of a road, more like a tightly packed gravel trail that barely looks wide enough to fit a compact car.

  I pause one last time to reconsider the (possibly) tragic idea. The engine doesn’t have an industrial military sound to it. It’s quiet like a commercial engine ─at least that’s what I tell myself before exiting the safety of the trees.

  My reward is the dim yellow headlights of a retro-looking bus slicing through the early morning fog. Beautiful sleek panels flow seamlessly down the sides of the silver aluminum fox. It appears to be an expertly crafted tour bus that’s been forged from a solid block of steel. This kind of craftsmanship is something you really don’t see anymore; especially bouncing around the potholed backroads of a small mountain town. She’s certainly a welcome throwback to a much better time.

  Stumbling into the road, looking as we do, brings the bus to a sudden halt. The squealing tires trigger several flocks of birds to abruptly fly out from surrounding trees. The ruckus also brings about a dozen people up to look out the windows. The weight of a thousand worlds lifts when all those curious faces turn out to be extremely wrinkled. The chance these pruned people are trained killers has to be pretty slim. I feel pretty secure while pulling Quinn up to the unfolding door.

  "Everything alright son?" the driver asks in a deep voice. True concern drips from the raspy words. Coincidently, his hair is the same glossy silver as the bus he drives. Judging by the loose stitching of his hound’s tooth cap, it could be just as old as he is.

  His kindness is contagious when I catch myself laughing at the colorful moose adorning his sweater. The quilted animals are the same cheerful shade of blue as my room growing up. Anything that reminds me of home gets an automatic smile or two. This is going far better than I could’ve ever hoped for!

  I try briefly explaining our situation, while “forgetting” to mention a few details; the horde of people chasing us, plus she might wake up and try to kill everyone onboard. Midway through I get the distinct feeling that even if I had told the whole story it wouldn’t matter. His comforting voice says, “Of course son! You get that girl on up in here. We’ll take you anywhere you need.” By midsentence I’m already limping up the short steps.

  They’ve already cleared us a seat in the back by the time we make it up all the way up. Since the narrow aisle won’t let me carry Quinn any farther, two of the more muscular men (relatively) spring up to carry her for me. She’s already lying next to the window when I finally make it back there. With any luck she’ll sleep off the rest of the harsh transformation. That’s especially true when the bus bounces down the road again and her head falls in my lap. I want nothing more than to sling it off like a hot rock, but turn my jacket into a makeshift pillow instead. Partly to not alert the passengers that anything’s wrong, mostly because she needs me now.

  Without the jacket, the full extent of my injuries are shown to the world. The worst of which are claw marks leading down two extremely bloody shoulders and a thumb stuck firmly in the hitchhiking position. A sweet little lady peeks around the seat and, on first glance, my uncovered state causes her to gasp. She quickly replaces the shocked look with the kind of polite smile only a grandmother can make. “Would you and your lady friend care for a sandwich? It’s peanut butter and honey without crusts. Harvey doesn’t like the crusts!” she whispers.

  All I really want is blood.

  Lots of it.

  However, I’ll settle for the perfectly trimmed snack. By the time Rita finishes handing me things, I’m loaded down with two sandwiches, a travel pillow, four caffeine-free sodas, and several mostly current issues of Cat Fancy. The outpouring of kindness is both overwhelming and much appreciated at a time like this.

  "Oh my gosh Rita, this sandwich is amazing! How did you get that little bit of crunch in there?”

  “The secret is to top off the peanut butter with some freshly chopped almonds!” She winks as if letting me in on a closely guarded secret. It feels good to have a casual conversation, even if it’s over something as trivial as peanut butter. I truly embrace the moment and thank her for everything she’s given me. Not the sandwich, or cat magazines, but for the temporary respite from a very worried mind.

  Taking a quick peek down the aisle makes it abundantly clear we’re the only ones on the bus under seventy. Yes, I'm actually far older than that, but for appearances sake I’m 50 years their junior. I turn to the lady across the aisle whispering, "Excuse me ma'am. Where is this bus heading?" She excitedly replies after adjusting a hearing aid, "Young man, don’t you know? We're going to Vegas!"

  Chapter 21: Soul Suckers

  The days on the bus crawl by painfully slowly. At our first stop, a small truck stop diner that could barely fit everyone, I found a raccoon rummaging in the dumpster out back. It definitely wasn’t a glamorous meal, but quick enough to pass off as an extended bathroom trip. I have to blame my newfound grin on the damn fine cup of coffee and cherry pie.

  Since then my wounds have healed slightly. Hopefully the small snack will keep me from having to scavenge again before reaching Vegas. My newest fear is that my nose has been permanently stained by the overpowering smell of prunes, muscle rub, and baby powder that saturates this entire bus. The origin of smells are only one of the many mysteries bouncing around my brain. Mainly, why was there no pursuit from town? It’s not like Shepherd to cut and run like that. Of course, I could end up eating those words if this all turns out to be some elaborate set up.

  I’ve seen Shepherd’s vicious side up close. He has a way of disconnecting that leaves his entire world in black and white. Back then I respected his hatred of messy grey areas, now things are looking a lot different from the other side. Thoug
h my most urgent problem has to be which Quinn is going to wake up? The one that wants to maul my lap or, well… anything other than that.

  The folks on board have graciously agreed to let us go the whole way with them. And what a great group of people they are too. They’ve been so incredibly warm and inviting in every way imaginable.

  Each of them have stopped by to offer food, drinks, or words of encouragement. Turns out they’re a bridge club from Eureka, California on their annual trip to the new Sin City. All the little old ladies want to talk about are the Bublé impersonators. Seems that the Michael Bublé experience is the hottest ticket in town! Like Elvis before him, when the Canadian crooner died a few years back, the impersonators really took off. Maybe if everything goes well we can catch a show? I mean, we need to rest anyway, so why not take in some holographic tigers and dancing monkeys? They sound like a great distraction, even if I have no clue what they have to do with love songs and swing music.

  I’ve overheard a few of the ladies whispering about Quinn. They’ve become understandably worried because she hasn’t budged an inch in the last few days. The lead chatterbox, a gossipy redhead named Flo, is convinced that she's dead and I won't accept it. She’s kind of right, I guess.

  Thankfully the old crow is proven wrong eventually. Quinn finally begins stirring in the cutting morning of day number three. Everything begins innocently enough, with soft little grunts while stretching out muscles that haven’t moved in days. I proactively rush a hand up by her throat after one particularly loud squeak, you know, just in case.

  She’s softly rubbing eyes that are straining to focus on anything. Several funny mumbles leak as out if she's busy fighting off a bumblebee. Before long she calmly grabs the seat in front to help pull herself up to the window. Her peaceful demeanor helps settle my nerves enough to risk lowering my hands… a bit. Well, she hasn’t eaten me yet, so we’re off to a pretty good start.

  "Where are we?" she mutters blankly while staring outside at the passing cactuses. She’s obviously confused by all the rolling sand in place of the usual evergreen pines. Her face looks as if it’s been through a brutal twenty round boxing match. Her eyes look particularly sinister from the deep, dark circles surrounding her new baby blues. Up until the moment I spot the hair sticking straight up from the back of her head like a peacock, then she’s not quite as terrifying.

  "We're on a bus headed to Vegas," I say hesitantly without knowing how she’ll take the news. Although, she didn’t make an appetizer of my twig and berries so I’m pretty sure I’ve already won this battle.

  "Vegas? Oh…" and that's all she says about it. The way she sits calmly looking out the window is disarming. Or maybe alarming… I can’t tell. Either she is the most laid-back person ─or she’s in total shock. It’s not like she was that talkative before, so maybe this is just her way of dealing with things? I always think everyone should ramble on like me, even when they never actually do.

  I continue talking for a few more hours, mostly to myself since she doesn’t want to. Every now and then I’ll catch a few tears in the window’s reflection. After a while I decide to give her a break from the constant yammering and respect that we’ll talk when she’s ready. The silence leaves me trapped in a very scattered mind. I wish it would focus on something other than the last few crap-tastic days. Not that I want to avoid reality completely, just that it does me absolutely no good to constantly stew in the anxiety of what’s yet to come. I’ve had more than enough time to dwell on it during my solitary days on the bus. I could really use a small mental break from the all the turmoil.

  Desperately searching for a positive thought sends me down the rabbit hole of chasing good memories. There’s not a lot to choose from in the last fifty years, but tons from before I knew how to appreciate them. About the time I reach my 6th grade trip to Williamsburg VA, I glance over to see Quinn staring at Rita like a veal cutlet with cranberry sauce.

  "Quinn! Look at me right now! You absolutely cannot eat Rita! She gave us peanut butter sandwiches! I mean, don’t eat any of them, but especially not Rita!" Her eyes have retreated further into their hollow sockets. She’s so completely imprisoned by the hunger that she’s looking right past me. Absolutely nothing breaks her laser-like focus on the octogenarian meal.

  "Did you hear me? I know what you're thinking, and no Quinn!" Planting my face directly in front finally breaks her trance. She snaps back long enough to plead, "I’m hurting Hayden! It feels like my skin is shrinking around me! I want to peel it off!” I know where she's coming from. I remember what it was like crawling out of that grave. The worst part was fighting against cravings that were totally unimaginable before. Back then I would have been willing to do anything to make them go away ─including eating little old ladies.

  Her restraint is actually quite amazing considering that she’s freshly turned. Right now she’s the worst kind of junky; wanting terrible things, and loathing herself because of it. The need to feed is consuming her in a real way. And the longer she has to go without blood, the worse it will get. Tunnel vision has probably already started seeking out anything with a pulse. Eventually she’ll start tasting the air, when that happens… let’s just hope we’re off this bus.

  The only help I can offer is asking Rita for more snacks. Salty ones preferably. She of course grins like a fool, delighted to help, while passing over countless bags of travel sized nuts. They go straight from my hand to Quinn’s determined lips. Her eyes reluctantly shift from the eighty year old entrée, to the crazy guy shoveling things in her face. "Try to taste the salt on these. It will make you feel better until we stop again. I promise.”

  It won’t.

  Her gaze returns to the juicy old lady after finishing the bag. She continues to mindlessly eat and salivate over the silver haired meal. I hardly recognize the withered shell she’s become. The olive skin that was so vibrant before, is now pale and cracked. It looks brittle enough to rub off like old paint. The only colors left are the large red canyons of chapped lips and bloodshot eyes.

  For now though, I’m helpless to do anything about it. All I can do is anxiously watch the miles go by. A few magazines do help pass the time; however, Quinn wants nothing to do with them either. She’s too busy sniffing people as they walk by. I have to keep grabbing her chin and tilting it back toward the window. Occasionally she’ll snap at my fingers, or shoot a look that sends my testicles turtling for cover.

  She scolds with an angry growl, "I have to go to the bathroom."

  I happily answer, "Of course! Maybe splash some water on your face. That will definitely make you feel better!"

  It won’t.

  This is another lie.

  I’m just hoping that all these little distractions will keep her busy ‘til we can find a real solution. Judging by the way she sluggishly walks down the aisle, touching every seat, taking long sniffs of every person ─it won’t.

  And she’s not discrete about it either. Everyone gets a turn with the strange little girl smelling them up and down. I want to explain, but what’s there to say? “Sorry, she thinks you would be delicious with gravy” isn’t particularly reassuring. Without a reasonable excuse to offer, I simply bury myself in the folds of another gossip magazine. They do a good job of hiding my embarrassment and become a nice diversion too.

  I lose myself in an article about UFOs living on the dark side of the moon. Vivid fantasies of exploring the universe unfold while reading the far-fetched story. How cool would it be, to be a starship captain cruising the galaxy with a bunch of colorful friends and a foul-mouthed raccoon? Imagine being able to say goodbye to the Earth, and living among the stars as a sailor on an endless sea!

  My instinct is to share the funny idea with Quinn, until I realize she never came back. Also I don’t really know how much time has passed. Fifteen minutes maybe? I usually try not to barge in on people in the bathroom, but this seems like an exception. I don’t even make it out of the seat before my mind is hijacked by all the terrible poss
ibilities. Could she have passed out? Worse yet, jumped from a window!? Full panic mode sets in by the time I reach the flimsy door.

  What if it’s too late?

  Can I get her some blood on here?

  Do I need to kill Rita???

  No, not Rita. I can find someone else. Maybe that gossiping redhead… Ok, so I might be getting a bit carried away here. I need to slow down and just take a peek inside. Perhaps there’s a simple explanation for what’s taking so long. Maybe she’s simply crying it out?

  Of course the door is locked. Fortunately it’s one of the cheap plastic ones that opens with a simple tug.

  "Hey kid, you ok in there?”

  “OHHH FFFFFFFUUUUUUuuuuu!"

  Blurts out before I can cork my own mouth. The bathroom door is half blocked, but it’s more than enough to find Quinn curled up next to a mangled, bloody corpse.

  Chapter 22: Many the Miles

  "What the hell, kid!?!? I thought you had to pee?" I struggle to keep my scream at barely louder than a muted whisper. Franticly flipping over the body reveals that, yes this lady is dead as hell, and the entire room is now a major crime scene. Blood’s splattered so thick that it drips from every wall and low ceiling. The wrinkled old lady appears to have been mauled by an entire pack of hungry wolves. Luckily her face is one of the only things left unharmed. For what it’s worth, I don't recognize her.

  "How am I supposed to live like this Hayden?" she cries without looking for any kind of comfort. It’s nothing more than the blunt words of a harsh new reality setting in. She’s realizing that what just happened will continue for the rest of an endless life. The worst part is I don't have an answer for her blunt question. For us to live, others have to die.

  "I don't honestly know Quinn." Attempting the same naked truth she deserves.

  "I killed that woman, HAYDEN!!! I could see my hands doing it, I tried to stop them, but they WOULDN’T STOP!!! I couldn’t stop them from tearing that lady into pieces! OH GOD, I can still taste her blood in my mouth!!!! What did you do to me?!?! You made me one of those…” She tapers off hopelessly.