by Ben Archer
A jarring scream, unlike all the rest, suddenly yanks me from the whirling tornado of bliss. Without the blinding happiness, I unexpectedly find a young boy locked at the end of my unbreakable grip. The shocking discovery comes as teeth are already snapping toward his exposed neck. I force them away, but not before they carve a shallow valley from the underside of his chin. The taste of blood threatens to send me into a frenzy to cure the craving.
I’m fighting to cling to what little control I have left. The panicked crowd doesn’t help by weakly attacking me. The only thing they’re hurting is my already loose grip on reality, and shoving me away from a kid I already wanted away from! I try carefully swatting them back before this gets even worse than it already is.
They wisely choose to leave me alone after the first few fly off. The diversion gives me an opportunity to escape during the madness of rushing bodies. On the way through a startling revelation hits; I don’t see people anymore ─only meat. No faces, just the salty blood in their veins.
What’s wrong with me? Is this all I am now?
I hurry to find the darkest alley this sunny place has and bury myself in its deepest shadow. In my freshly scrambled mind, time passes with no regard. Five minutes, maybe five hours, go by while desperately searching for a shred of stability. The only comfort comes from submerging myself in the bustling sounds of the lively city. I enjoy listening and making up my own stories about them. Like, if it’s a bus I’ll decide what color it might be. Or why someone is walking in uneven steps, are they hurt or old? Anything that keeps my attention off the murderous impulses.
And it works for a long time too. It’s not until the sound of approaching footsteps that I finally get yanked away from my solitary trance. But once the calm feeling is gone, it’s gone. I burst out of that happy place with a vengeance that frightens even me. It turns out the feet belonged to a guy who simply wanted to check on a crying girl in a dark alley. How do I know that? Because, just before my hands connected his face to the brick wall, he politely asked if I’m ok.
It seems the same urges that guide me through trees and over buildings, will also kill anything that comes in reach. Thankfully, not this time. His nose is definitely broken, and shards of brick are stuck in his face, but he’s still alive. There’s so much blood gushing from the fractured nose that I have to fish out old napkins from a dumpster. Shaking off bits of food definitely increases my already immense guilt. The extra shame helps to rid any lingering desires to drink his dripping blood. Well, most of them.
He doesn’t look much older than me, and the side of his face that’s not bleeding is quite charming. I can feel my cheeks blushing at the thought. Thankfully, none of his wounds seem bad. There’s a nasty gash cutting across the eyebrow, a deep lip scratch which hopefully won’t scar, plus a few more that ―once you get the rocks out― should heal just fine.
Since I’m stuck holding the leaking nose, there’s plenty of time to study all his colorful tattoos. My favorites are the red and blue samurai’s stretching all the way down his forearm. Actually, my favorites are the Koi fish playing right below them. It’s amusing how blissfully unaware they are of the intense battle raging above them.
My semi-creepy obsession is broken up by a rustling garbage can at the far end of the alley. I’m already on top of the dumpster before my mind can even catch up to what’s going on. I sling the metal box aside, ready to maul whatever’s hiding in there, only to find a skinny orange cat with terrified eyes. I certainly must have been drunk on power earlier, because as I’m fangs deep in alley cat ─all that’s gone. Tears stream down while draining the unfortunate thing of every last drop. My hands are sloppy from the buckets of spilling blood. When I’m finished the soft body melts to the ground, and all I want to do is dissolve along with it.
At least there’s a moment of clarity that should last long enough to get me out of here. I begin by wiping myself with more random trash pulled from the dumpster. It takes Herculean effort not to melt into a blubbering puddle of tears while scrubbing the cat away with used tissues and coffee filters. Then I slip into a large passing crowd when I’m clean enough to blend in. The “blending in” part is likely just self-delusion, since I’m covered in smeared blood and trash. No one would look at me and think this was normal.
I can’t control myself. That much is becoming fatally obvious. My only option is to fight back the crazies long enough to reach the crappy hotel room. Like it or not, I have nowhere else to go. While he isn’t family, or even a friend, Hayden is the last thing I’ve got left in this world.
Chapter 25: Gold on the Ceiling
I lazily drift back from some of the best dreams I’ve ever had. There’s a grinning bobble head on the bedside table that perfectly fits in with my calm mood. The cheap trinket, an Oriental-style cat that looks stolen from a Chinese take-out place, welcomes me back with its constant nod of approval.
How much time has passed? The fog of a blissful sleep still has a powerful grip on me. First I stumble into a wall, then get my toes tangled in the shag carpet. I eventually find the light switch, mostly by luck, and watch it flicker on with an ugly florescent color. The grey/green glow helps to highlight every cut and bruise in painstaking detail. The haze finally lifts enough to realize the reflection is showing me two things: a bruised man and an empty bed. It takes a couple more seconds to grasp the big problem with that…
Not again.
I skip across the bed and rush to the door. The crushed knob is an obvious sign she went this way. A long list of bad possibilities are already stacking in my brain before even making it through the flimsy door. The thought of Shepherd dragging her out (even though I was sleeping a foot away) actually makes sense in my hungover state.
I run out franticly barking in a raspy morning tone, “QUINN!”
"Shhhhhhh! I'm up here!" a little voice floats down from overtop the doorway. A quick stretch of the neck finds her delicately perched on the low rooftop. She’s seems to be up there enjoying a spectacular view of the sloping dome I didn’t even notice before.
"What are you doing up there!" My heart is still pumping from all the excitement.
"Just watching."
It takes a few more seconds of settling nerves before I’m capable of continuing our conversation. She’s obviously fine, and I’m more spitting words out than saying them. After the anxiety drops enough to talk without sounding chastising, I ask if there’s anything worth seeing up there.
"Not really, I ate a cat." She explains. The odd, unexpected statement immediately draws me onto the roof to join her.
"Wait, you ate a cat?"
"Well I didn't eat it, but you know what I mean."
"Oh trust me, I’ve eaten way more pets and rodents than I ever wanted to. Not that I ever really wanted to eat any, but you know… that didn't really work out either.” It’s the kind of clumsy explanation that forces a lengthy pause after it.
“So how long was I out?" is apparently the best transition I can think of.
"Two days I think. Although I’m not sure how long I slept so maybe more."
“Damn. I didn't think it’d been that long! And the doorknob? That was you?”
“Yeah. I’m still trying to get used to this stuff.” This time there’s more irritation in her voice. She’s also leaning in as if she’s preparing to say something very important.
“Hayden, I’m angry…” Her voice trails off, even though there’s obviously more on the way. “I don’t know why. There’s been this crushing hatred poisoning everything I do. It’s made me sit up here, watching the sun rise and fall, debating on the best way to end this. I even went down to the docks to stare over the edge for a little while. All I could do was stand there, looking straight down, picturing what it would be like to fly through the clouds one last time. There’s worse ways to go, you know?”
She has a far-away look that’s different than before. The words might sound ominous, but her face tells a different story. There’s a resolve she didn
’t have mere seconds ago.
“…but I couldn’t do it.”
And that’s it. No other explanation than a simple, “I couldn’t do it.” Luckily she doesn’t need one because I understand. These are the first bricks of the wall she’ll need to keep her life separate from the monster.
I offer honestly, “Some people embrace the hatred and it utterly consumes them. I’m certainly one of those. I let it drive me to some dark places that took a really long time to leave. Quinn, what you’ve been through is beyond evil, and the vampire virus won’t be making it any easier. See, the disease has the same effect on your emotions as it does your body, meaning that everything will be amplified to extremes.
So when it’s good, it’s going to feel REALLY good.
But when it’s bad, it’s going to feel EXTREMELY bad.
The one thing I won’t do is lie to you. I’ll be honest even when it hurts. So when I say we’re going to get through this, believe me. Sometimes it’ll be ugly. You’re going to screw up, but that’s all part of it! Trust me there’s no mistake I haven’t already mastered. Just don’t punish yourself like I have. You don’t have to lock yourself up in that prison of solitude.”
I could go on and on about the challenges ahead of her, but there’s no need. My point isn’t to scare her, simply to be honest. And real truth, naked truth, usually contains things that hurt to hear.
She watches me intently the entire time I talk. Despite all the focused attention, her only reaction is a tiny fold in the side of her cheek. She’s not very open with her feelings, or anything else, really.
The stale air stretches on between us until I break the ice, “Want to go drain my bank account at a casino?" Have I mentioned I’m not very good at being serious? Judging by the continued silence, I’m not very good at joking either. I’m not sure if it’s wearing my heart on my sleeve, or suddenly ripping it back off, that makes people more uncomfortable.
We stay trapped in the silent prison until the warden finally releases me with a casual nod. I take the cue to immediately hit the shower and scrub off the grime of the last few days. The moment I step foot in that water, the weight of the world runs down the drain. I lean against the wall to let every sin wash away with the built-up dirt. Before I know it, the once steaming shower has become an ice cold bath.
Then comes the part I hate the most ─having to put those damn clothes back on. It honestly takes more courage to drag those filthy abominations across fresh skin than it took to blindly leap into a cave of monsters. Needless to say, we’re at the souvenir shop across the street within minutes.
Given the lack of available options; Quinn ends up with a serviceable violet shirt and grey hoodie. I, on the other hand, get to leave with an “I heart Vegas” t-shirt straight from the $5 rack. Admittedly, it’s not a great look for anyone, but far better than the Hawaiian floral that was option two.
Even with the fresh clothes, I’ll occasionally get a whiff of rotten that unwillingly draws my mind back to dark places. It seems the miraculous shower couldn’t wash away all the foul remnants of that cave. I guess it shouldn’t be much of a surprise though. I’m sure both our souls have been stained by its rancid wickedness.
Piss poor wardrobe and fowl stench aside, I think we’re doing pretty darn well. I try to keep the positivity flowing by taking a trip to a new shake shop. One that will, hopefully, have something Quinn finds a little more appetizing. And while these are much easier to drink, it still takes several painful minutes for her to gulp down the frozen treat.
With our spirits filled and wallet still full, I leave it up to Quinn to decide where we go next. She picks a place called “Moxxee's” due to an apparent love of double letters. It’s not nearly as big and lavish as most of the places here. It’s also funny to consider a building being guarded by golden lion statues as modest. Beyond the twin cats is a traditional neon casino with a glass roof that mimics the city’s dome.
The large bouncer out front pretends to card us, before waving us through. I’m not sure what Quinn showed him, but he didn’t look at it so I guess it doesn’t really matter.
Once inside the red double doors we find crowds of skimpily dressed dancers grinding away on a bunch of sweaty men. The music is loud and drinks are flowing, so it should be easy to blend in with this group. I pause when Quinn’s light touch disappears briefly. Being programmed to fear the worst, I turn to fight, only to find her blocked by a wheelchair that’s stopped in the way.
It’s been an eternity since I’ve relaxed. Even now I’m looking around for the nearest exit. It reaches the official height of ridiculousness when a crippled man (oxygen tank and all) looks too long, so I find myself ready to fight. The entire point of being here is to show Quinn that life isn’t over. I’m definitely not doing that by making up problems constantly. We should be taking advantage of the atmosphere instead of poisoning it with imaginary fears. The way I see it, I might not be alive in two days, so why not live a little?!?!
We plop down at a poker table and trade in every dime I have. I’ll admit my ego takes a bit of a hit when the dealer hands back a surprisingly small amount of chips. We’ll have to be really good if there’s going to be any chance of stretching this feeble stack of coins out more than thirty minutes. Though it might not be too tough, the entire table appears to be filled with ancient old ladies whose husbands are occupied with the inappropriately young cocktail waitresses.
Quinn seems to take to the game like a fish to water. She shoves me back into my seat after only a few quick tips. One by one the drinks fall, while I become more and more convinced that I’m a real poker master. Maybe this is just the universe’s way of shifting some of that bad luck back around our way? A few great hands later and it’s confirmed.
I am, in fact, THE POKER MASTER!
Quinn laughs off a large bearded man who was already making his way to the cash prize. His cigar drops to the floor when she flops a straight flush right down in front of him. Somehow, she’s a card shark too! Within ten minutes we’ve not only tripled our money, but collected a swarm of fans along the way! I spot several familiar faces from the long bus ride. Even dear old Rita has found her way into our cheering section! They must not have found the one lady we threw off the bus! This really must be my day!
I shout to a nearby waitress for a round of drinks for all my friends ─two to Rita! This isn’t as high roller as it sounds because they’re totally free. That fact doesn’t stop me from raising the highest glass in the room to make a sentimental toast to a new day! Hopefully one filled with less murder!
Almost immediately after that is when a rather large man plops down awkwardly close to me. He’s the first unfortunate thing to happen since my lucky streak began. I’m also not sure why he bothers me so much. Perhaps it’s his cheap cigars that force me to breathe into my hands as a filter. Plus, he’s sweating like a marathon runner even though it’s a perfect 68 degrees in here. Every one of his wheezy breaths are an epic struggle that usually ends in a phlegmy cough. And overtop it all is the unmistakable stink of blood. He’s a vampire? How? It’s almost impossible to be this unhealthy with our metabolism!
I wanna be nice, and maybe it’s the liquor speaking, but something’s just off about him. I offer, “Can I get you a drink, buddy?” in hopes of scooting him back out of my bubble. “Why thank ya’ kindly” he replies in a thick Texas drawl. He then proceeds to order a Scotch that should really add to his growing collection of grossness. I do my best to shake off the man before returning to my card game.
The dealer shouts “21” as my amazing run of luck comes to an official end. From that moment on I either bust or lose on a 16. Every. Single. Damn. Time. Each passing round makes it more and more clear that it’s past time to walk away. I need to turn these cursed cards in and just go find a red-head… except my stubborn pride has to right this sinking ship!
My next hand is obviously a 16, plus since I decide to stay, I lose to the dealers 17. Now it’s time to walk away, right?
Wrong.
Arrogance leads me to double up the next bet instead. And again, the cards add up to 16! I defiantly lay two fingers on the table to signal for the dealer to give me one last hand. Guess what happens? That’s right, I bust!
DAMMIT!
My growing anxiety can only be comforted by a cute cocktail waitress with a fresh new drink. I quickly bow out of the next couple rounds to slam back the much needed beverage. I actually end up sitting out enough hands that the same cute waitress threatens to cut off my accelerating beer orders. But before that can happen the putrid Texan leans in, “He is the Phoenix. The Phoenix of hope by rule of the divine. And in order to rise from its own ashes, a Phoenix first must burn.” Even through my alcoholic haze, I recognize the words.
They’re the same ones Shepherd used back in Gas Light. Even the vile tone of voice and smug appearance are eerily similar. Then I notice the cowboy’s grave look is not confined to him; the entire room has ground to a sudden halt. Only my tumbling barstool dares to make a sound in our sudden standoff.
The silent mass eventually parts like flowing water around an unmovable rock. Emerging from the hushed stream is a tall man shrouded in a long leather coat that sways the same way he does, deliberate and irritated.
He’s physically imposing, rising several feet taller than I am. I find myself staring up at him as if I were a tiny child when he comes to an impactful stop in front of me. The first thing I notice is the over-head lights perfectly reflect off his smooth, bald head. His chocolate skin is so dark that his eyes appear to float in their cavernous sockets. The second thing I notice is the air around him is thick with the unmistakable sensation of utter despair. And that’s before he speaks in a crackling voice that’s both deep and hollow, “Hayden Flynn, you have been far more trouble than we ever expected.”
Shit.
He knows my name.
In my experience, when you first meet someone and they already know your name, well… it’s not good.