The First

by Michael Santana

  From state to state, I fed without fear of reprisal. With dead and dying all around me, I drank gluttonously. If a battlefield was nowhere to be found, I rode the train. I love trains. Over the years they have proved very useful to me. The containers effectively block out the sun, allowing me to rest undisturbed as it moves down the rails. The frequent stops provide me a bevy of choices for meals. The small towns poorly lit stations have become the deathbed of many a traveler. More times than I can count, my victims came to me in the form of a traveling bum, or hobo if you will. I moved easily through the country this way, without having to find a cellar, or hole to bury myself to escape the sun's rays.

  The acrid, swamp-like smell from the marshlands assaulted my nostrils as I exited the train and walked through the fog of Savannah, Georgia in the summer of 1861. How any human tolerates that stench is beyond me. With my senses as heightened as they are, certain smells can be almost painful. If it hadn't been for the beauty and charm the little city offered, I would have left it immediately. After my fourth night, I had become used to the smell of the city to where it was almost undetectable, almost.

  I hadn't realized until I entered the city streets that first night, exactly how their war did, in fact, include me. The color of my skin caused a commotion as I moved among them. In my life, I had become accustomed to people staring at me. I was also used to slavery. I had been a slave for many years before my change. However, I had never been in a place where just your pigmentation would harbor such resentment.

  As I moved down the cobblestone streets with the breeze from the adjacent river washing over me, I stopped to stare out at the water.

  "This city would be a wonderful place to spend a few centuries." I said to myself.

  At the time, it was the perfect feeding grounds. Many of the able-bodied men had left their homes for Virginia to fight in the war. I hadn't realized that the ones that had stayed were ignorant, foul-mouthed animals.

  Suddenly, a stone struck the side of my face, followed by another that hit my shoulder before falling to the ground at my feet. I turned to see two young men in their twenties, marching aggressively toward me.

  The hatred in their eyes was evident. They hurled obscenities now as they had hurled the stones earlier, with venom: both meant to do me harm. They seemed confused, as to which of us were in peril. I watched them as they moved confidently as if they were invincible. I baited them as I slowly stepped into the shadows of a nearby alley bidding them come and play. If it hadn't been for the group of men that crossed the road and followed the two, I would have finished them there. For a moment, I thought of taking them all ripping and shredding.

  The thought of spraying the walls of the little alleyway with their blood appealed to me. After careful, yet quick consideration, I decided against it and lifted myself to the roof of the building. Shadows have always been a friend to me and me to them.

  I watched from above as they entered the alley. I could smell the sweat as it emanated from them. The stink of their ignorance was evident, as they stared moronically for minutes, at the dead end of the alley. Staring at the three walls surrounding them, they shouted more curses and one other word that would haunt them as long as they lived. I chose to wait, to follow and that night both them and their families would die at my hand or fang to be more exact.

  A dog barked softly as I passed him in the fields. His cold grey eyes watched me suspiciously as his hackles raised. He bore his canines in a nasty snarl and let out a low guttural growl. I did the same and watched amused as his tail fell quickly between his legs and he slowly rolled over putting all four legs in the air, exposing his throat. If he only had known what he was offering his throat to, I doubt he would have been so quick to do so.

  Moving past the shaggy, rusty-haired dog, I made my way to the house that sat far off from the road. They saw me from their little cottages as I walked past them to the big white house with dark green shutters. Eyes peered from slightly cracked doors, little faces poked through the legs of their elders and watched. I turned my head to the sounds of doors and shutters closing before my gaze fell solely on the little brown shacks.

  I waited for a few moments, and the doors opened again. The eyes returned, staring almost through me. I didn't know if it was the clothing I wore, which was of the finest silks or the jewelry I wore, which was exquisite that had attracted so much attention. I thought of feasting on every one of them. It was something in the way that they looked at me, that stopped me from doing so.

  Normally, I cannot always explain why I choose to kill some and not others. I am not entirely certain myself. This time I knew why. These humans had assaulted me with stones while spitting venomous words of hatred at me. The way the two Europeans had approached me with condemnation in their face had garnered my immediate attention. The way they said that word as they moved forward, almost spitting it at me.

  "Nigger"

  I had heard the word before without knowing its meaning. In the little tents, the soldiers had used it when they spoke of their homes as I fed on their wounded. I had figured it was a mule or bull or some other animal from the disgust at which they spoke the word.

  "Nigger"

  I didn't like the sound of the word or the way it felt on my tongue.

  "Nigger, Uppity Nigger," they said to be exact. I wasn't sure what one was, but I knew one thing. I wasn't going to let something so far beneath on the food chain, call me by it.

  There were seven people in the house. The two older I assumed were his parents. A young woman who I assumed was his wife. Then there were the three little ones, a boy and two girls. I found him first, as I snuck from room to room. My hand clasped over his mouth, and his eyes widened. I laughed as he beat at my head and chest with his fist. The blows did little to slow or dissuade me from my intentions. I ripped the spun cotton shirt he wore into strips as his fist repeatedly pummeled my face.

  One of the blows caught me across the bridge of the nose and l snarled. I could hear the wet sound trumpet as he shat himself then fainted straight away at the sight of my fangs. The sickeningly sweet smell hung in the air as I tied him to his chair. The chair made a sucking sound as I adjusted him in the seat.

  While he was unconscious, I continued my search of the house. His mother and father, I tied back to back on the floor with their knees drawn into their chest in front of the chair where the man sat.

  His wife, who wasn't expecting a large African vampire to visit her, screamed as loud as she could for the few seconds that I allowed her to do so.

  The top of her nightgown fell away as my nails sliced through the cloth as I reached for her. Her breasts, large and fleshy bounced as she tried to run past me. I could only assume she worried I came for something other than her blood. She need not have worried her pretty, little head about that. My choice to feed mostly on women and children is for the same reason the lion picks off the slowest of the antelope herd. They are easier. As far as sex goes, I prefer my own kind. The mixture of feeding, and being fed upon, during the act is something you cannot share with a human woman. If I were to engage in a sexual act with anyone, vampire or human, it would never be done without consent. I had seen the horrors that Keeza and the women of the Pygmy tribe had endured, and I have no taste for it.

  Anyway, she would be more frightened when she understood my true nature and intentions. I love fear; the heartbeats become faster and harder which forces the blood to flow with so much more force and fluidity through their arteries when they are scared. These people were doubly scared. They feared the dark; dark of night, dark of skin, and dark of heart, I was all three. I hung her upside down by her ankles, which I am sure you have probably already figured is my preference.

  The children were already awake and scared when I entered the room. Their bed sheets, tossed and twisted, lay in their empty beds. I could hear their heartbeats in the room but couldn't see them. I could smell the aroma of fear in the tiny cramped space. I heard a little whimper from under a bed. I found all th
ree under the beds with their hands covering their eyes. I love children; they see the world through simple eyes.

  "If I cannot see you, you cannot see me" is a rule they live by until their early teens. Little feet kicked at my hands as I grabbed for their ankles. Low crawling on the floor like soldiers, they blindly tried to make their escape. I spent the next few moments chasing the children through the obstacle course of under and over their beds.

  Their screams, every now and then would harmonize, turning their voices into that of a choir. Their hearts raced from fear and the unplanned exercise I provided in my chase. Finally tiring of the chase, I snatched them up and hung them next to their mother; their four bodies trembled as I lightly stroked the dangling woman's hair.

  By this time, the remaining gown had fallen on the floor under her. Over the years, I have learned that when humans come to terms with their demise, they do one of two things. They will either, beg and plead to be allowed to live, or defiantly dare me to take their life. I prefer the first, but I respect the latter. I could see in her eyes as she hung there that she was the latter. She would have been a wonderful traveling companion if I wasn't about to eat her.

  He awoke to his father screaming obscenities as I playfully skinned the old man alive. Pulling his flesh in strips from his body, I laughed watching the eyes of the older woman who looked on. She could no longer scream since I had previously bitten her tongue out of her mouth and sucked the delicious blood that pooled in there for using the same words her son had.

  He looked from his parents to his children and then his wife and started to beg for mercy. "Mercy, you want mercy. Maybe, I will not make your wife watch the deaths of your children. You, who called me that horrible word, you will watch though. Yes, you will watch and scream as the little one's eyes go blank and their blood fills me." I said softly, sweetly.

  At hearing this, his eyes closed, and he dropped his head to his chest. I would have none of this. I flew to him grabbing him by his hair and lifting his face until it was even with mine. With my pinky nail, I cut away his eyelids. I held him steady as I slowly slid the nail below the brow of his right eye, paying careful attention not to injure the eye itself. Scant moments later, I was doing the same to his left eye, carefully slicing through the tender skin. He asked one and one question only. "Why?"

  I spit the word back at him with as much venom as he had.

  "Nigger"

  He opened his mouth to respond. When he did, I reached in and pulled down. His jaw unhinged, and blood poured, as he spoke unintelligibly. With every attempt at speech, his lower jaw bounced uncontrollably.

  The next few hours passed with his unblinking eyes looking on as one by one I fed on his family, the father first then the mother. I fed from the femoral artery of his wife, making sure that he saw every depraved lapping of my tongue as the blood fell from her thigh, into the crevice of her sex. He seemed more distraught at my nearness to her naked form than he was of the fact she was dying. His lidless eyes stared into mine as my tongue darted back and forth, not missing a drop of the blood no matter where it fell.

  I kept my promise about the mother, and she never saw the death of her children. My promise, also kept to him, as I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him and ripped out the throats of each of his offspring. The little ones' blood filled my mouth then spilled from my lips, trailing from my chin to my chest. I fed on his wails of anguish as I had his children and the rest of his family.

  When he was the only one left, I took my time pulling strips of flesh from him as I did the old man. Each strip pulled and licked clean as he watched and screamed. I was able to understand some of his words now after hours of listening to his jawless speech. He screamed every obscenity he could think of besides the one that had put him in this position. I can tell you honestly if I had allowed him to live, he never would have uttered those two syllables again.

  "Nigger"

  Finally, minutes before sunrise, I used an oil lantern to set the curtains of the house ablaze. There would be no evidence of what had happened there, the snapping and crackling flames would see to that. I stepped off the porch as the rest of the house caught fire. I left the home and the family in it, forgotten.

  They lined the walkway as I exited the house. A gathering of the descendants of Africa bowed their heads as I passed by. I stopped for a second and turned to them. Rising into the air, I floated backward. Dozens of eyes watched awestruck as I moved past them, my arms outstretched, hands and fingers cutting the air above their heads.

  Since the people of Savannah had chosen, not to let me live among them, I once again embraced the beast inside. My time in the little Georgia city was one of my bloodiest. I reaped a whirlwind of crimson through their city and adjoining towns.

  The hatred they showed for the darkness of my skin would cause them to bury their loved ones. I didn't just feed, I feasted. I painted the walls of their homes with the blood of whole families.

  Weeks later, I found the second man that had thrown stones that night. It was early morning, and the sun was about to rise when I saw him. I had been moving through the trees, looking for a place to hide from the oncoming sun, when the smell of fresh blood entered my nose. The source was an African man who had been tied to a pole outside of a grand home. The flesh of his back and legs were torn, and blood oozed from the wounds. Never one to miss an easy meal, I stealthily moved through the tree line closer to my prey.

  As I moved nearer to the bloody man, a door opened from the house and light poured from its interior. He emerged whip in hand and descended the steps, walking towards the bloodied African. The exhausted, hanging man never saw it coming as the whip cracked, breaking the silence of the morning. The black man screamed as the whip fell again. My bloodlust almost drove me insane. With each scream more of the amber liquid flowed from fresh wounds. At first, I hadn't noticed my own flinching body. With each crash of the whip, my own body jumped in reflex.

  I was shocked that I felt empathy for the man, yet I had. The memories of my own skin being flayed those many centuries ago played in my mind nightmarishly. I remembered the torturous feel of the leather as it had cut through my flesh: the way the sweat had stung as the little steams entered the wounds.

  Repeatedly he struck the screaming man, his whip cracking like gunfire. On the last strike he reared his head up, and his eyes looked right at me. The treetops made a perfect canopy to shield me from the sun's rays. He watched me as I felt every lash with him. He looked to me, silently pleading for relief. I could offer him none, not that day. That evening was a different story. Now that I knew where the last of the stone throwers lived, I would finish what I promised to do that first night.

  The sun had barely set when I stepped onto his property. This time I walked down the middle lane of the slave quarters. With fangs bared, I boldly strolled towards the main house. I wondered if the same architect designed all the houses in Savannah. If he did not, they all used the same blueprint. The house that stood before me was an exact duplicate of the other stone thrower's house, down to the green shutters and the red door.

  I could tell you all the details of how he along with his three younger brothers and father died, but that really is not the story now. It was the events that happened soon after that are of more importance. I set the house ablaze with the bloodless corpses inside. The orange and blue flames lit up the night sky as the fire consumed all that was left of the family.

  I left the same way I came. I brazenly walked down the center of the slave's shacks, wiping the remaining blood from my face and hands with a silk handkerchief. The red blotches stained the violet material making dark images in the fine cloth. If I turned my head just right, I could see an elephant, another twist of the head and a lion came into view, before an errant drop of blood made its mane long and thick. I tossed the ruined cloth over my shoulder and continued down the path. I saw no harm in letting them see who had freed them from their tormentors. That is a decision I would soon regret. As much as I
hate to admit It, I felt a kinship with them. It wasn't just the color of their skin that connected us. It was the way they were viewed by the Europeans that enslaved them. The same way as I had recently learned that those same people viewed me. I didn't want a kinship. It was forced on me. We were Africans in a hostile land. We had to stick together. I vowed as long as the darker races were under the yolk of slavery I would grant them a reprieve. Never before had I done this and not since. As soon as they became free men and women, they also became free for me to hunt. President Lincoln had given them a blessing and a curse.

  The next night I was in the mood for something delicious, and I moved from rooftop to rooftop in search of it. I glided through the night scouring the streets. Finally, I found what I was looking for and crept behind a tree. Her dress, an almost fluorescent white in the moonlight, billowed out like an igloo from the hoop she hid under it. The shape of it made it appear as if she floated down the path instead of walked.

  I studied his choice of clothing while deciding how I would approach them. Maybe, I would move slowly and watch as the terror slowly rose. I was thinking about the way their blood would taste as it coursed down my throat when the pain hit me.

  The first one was like a dagger through my right thigh. I roared as I fell to one knee and quickly spun around to kill whoever had dared. I was shocked to see no one there. As I stood staring in stunned silence at the empty space in front of me, the pain came again. This time it was the left leg. I howled, as it sliced down the length of my leg. Again I spun, and again I stared into vacant space. A burning fire started in my chest which kept the chorus of screams going. I beat at invisible flames trying to make the pain stop.

  A gunshot boomed in the night before a large piece of my right bicep disintegrated. Another loud boom and a sledgehammer-like blow knocked me onto my back tearing a gaping hole in my chest. I raised myself up to see the advancing young man, revolver in hand. One more pull of his trigger and the ground next to me ruptured sending a shower of dirt and grass in the air.