Moonlight explodes into a halo of crimson and sparkles. I bite My tongue, feel the white-hot sting of fear careen into my brain with the force of a thousand dying horses. It’s hard to tell just how hard I’m breathing, how frightened my nerves really are. My heart doesn’t pound very fast, in fact, it doesn’t pound at all. It’s just a useless fistful of crumpled pink flesh hanging behind the ribcage.
My eye only a millimeter away from the keyhole, I’m entranced by the terror before me. Abel was mixing a drink at the bar in the corner of his apartment, and then the boom hit, like a hundred pounds of dynamite curled into a ball and thrown through a plate-glass window. My ears popped, I fell to the floor, and there she was: couldn’t have been more than a hundred and ten pounds of pale flesh and hair the color of burnt cinnamon. She smiled once through the rubble of broken pine door and eggshell plaster, and then picked up Abel without even touching him. She lifted a single black-painted fingernail and before I could crawl away, Abel’s torso dripped with the charcoal goo that typically runs through our veins in lieu of red plasma. His thin blonde hair was replaced with spinning gray smoke, and it took only a few seconds for me to shove my way into his bedroom and slam and lock the door.
She tosses him to the side and looks around, her eyes like two tiny dark mirrors. Two tattoos that resemble stars adorn her slender shoulders. She’s wearing a black tank-top and tight leather pants. When she sees my big baby blue in the center of the keyhole, I panic. She smiles again and I curse the night for bringing me to this apartment at three in the morning. I look around the room for an exit and only one is available.
I’m either tossing myself through the window or this destructive little woman is going to tear my limbs off like she just did to one of the only friends I had. I count to ten, hold my breath at the last digit. Loud clicks and the bedroom splints and pops. Bits of wood fly through the darkness and in a matter of seconds I force myself through the bedroom window, eager night caressing my backside as I plunge to the ground. When my body hits the top of whatever vehicle was parked seven stories from the apartment, vision quickly fades in a mess of black and blue, the colors of a floating bruised peach.
#
Pulsating waves of static, wind scraping my face with delight. I open my eyes and liquid strands of moonlight greet me with a dewy slap. My arm in the air, fragments of broken windshield stuck in the skin like seashells in beach sand. I shake my head and let the panic escape my lungs with one last giant gasp. I look around me and see the chaos: more broken glass and long slivers of dented aluminum and steel. My head thumps with the recurring alarm, flashes of red shining in the corners of my eyes like a police siren. I can see the fire swimming out of Abel’s apartment, the lone representation of destruction in an otherwise perfect apartment complex. When the fire department turns the corner, I push my beaten body off the top of the car and into the bushes at the end of the parking lot.
The last thing I need right now is to be questioned by guys much larger than me, especially after a woman half my size brutally murdered a friend I had known for a decade. There’s only one place I can go at this point, and it’s Cale’s tattoo shop.
#
By night, I’m a bouncer at The December Club, a decently-sized bar off of Tremont Street in downtown Boston. The staff there like me because I never take breaks and I have no problem lifting a drunk off his ass with one hand and tossing him out the front door. I guess another reason they like me so much is that I’m never tired, I never call in sick and I have no problem taking a punch to the face from an unruly patron.
Of course, all of these positive attributes are only part of my makeup because I’m a vampire.
The Ink Station is about a mile and a half from Abel’s apartment. It’s only when I pass a brightly-lit diner that I pause for a moment and take in what just happened. I saw one of my oldest friends picked up into thin air and destroyed by a beautiful woman who burst through the front door with a vicious eruption. I light a cigarette and watch its rosy tip cut through the night. A long drag and a little halo of smoke dissipates into moonlight. I close my eyes and force myself to keep walking. When I reach the outside of the Ink Station, Cale’s lone Hummer is the only vehicle in the tiny parking lot in the back of the studio. I knock on the front door twice, wait for the light hops of clanging guitars and gritty drums to pause before Cale opens the door barely an inch.
“What the hell are you doing here so late?” The tips of his jet-black eyebrows touch in intrigue.
I shake my head and push open the door. The familiar scent of new plastic and glycerin washes me immediately. “What a night, what a night.”
Cale closes the door and locks it, then scans me up and down. “What the fuck happened? You get jumped or something?”
My head resting gingerly on the back of the studio’s comfortable leather sofa, I crack my neck so loud that I imagine the ghosts in the room can hear it. “Abel’s dead, Cale.”
Cale nods once, and we both remain silent for what feels like hours. “Jesus,” he eventually says. “How?”
“I dropped by his apartment and within fifteen minutes, a little chick that looks like she’d come here to get inked exploded through the front door.”
I grunt. “Yes, Cale, exploded. Like, boom.” The great thing about Cale is that he’s not very good at conversation, but I’ve learned to deal with it. We’ve been friends since I moved to the city, only a few months after I caught the virus that made me what I am today.
He turns on the faucet in the corner of the studio and scrubs his hands. “You need any meds?”
I roll up my jacket sleeve and examine the slits where the windshield had broken into my skin. Most of the tiny lines of open flesh have healed. “No, I should be fine.”
“You’re taking this pretty well.”
I frown. “Abel’s dead, man. He’s gone. They tell you when you catch our disease that you’d live forever. What a crock.”
Cale’s been like this much longer than I. “We’re not human, but we’re not invincible. You know that, Charlie.” He turns off the faucet and starts to clean up his corner of the studio. “What did this woman look like?”
“About five-foot two, if that. Pale skin, brownish hair. Tattoos on her shoulders.”
Cale stops what he’s doing and closes his eyes. “Tattoos?”
“Yeah.”
“Were they black stars?”
I stand up. “Yes! How did you know that?”
Cale’s face looks like that of a tired ghost. He drops a bundle of packaged needles and immediately locks the deadbolt on the studio’s front door. He presses one eye against the keyhole and leaves it there for a full minute. He leaves the door and drops the thick velvet curtains down in the two front windows of the shop. Pacing a few steps back and forth, he turns to me and gives me a look I’ve never seen on his tanned face.
“What? Tell me, Cale…”
“Sit down.” He points to the couch.
I take a seat in the corner of the couch and ignore my instinct to frenetically rub my hands together out of anxiety. A cigarette is what I need. I pull one out and offer it to Cale but he waves it away.
“Charlie, we both need to be careful.” He leans back into the couch and pushes his sandy locks out of his face with both hands. “That woman, fuck, I can’t even believe this is finally happening.”
“What is happening?” My words are quick and clear.
Cale takes a deep breath. “We’re being hunted, that’s what’s happening.”
“Hunted? Why?”
“I know a lot more about our kind than you think, Charlie. I’ve been hearing rumors about this for the last two years, little rumblings that something like this would start to happen again.”
I’m already on my second cigarette and it’s only been two minutes.
Cale crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. “They’re called suicide angels. And they’re a lot older than you and I, my friend.”
I tilt my head in confusion. “Angels…”
“They’re almost legendary, Charlie. We’ve only heard rumors of their kind, like they were some type of mythical creature that only existed in the imaginations of a million diseased creatures.” He pauses, then motions for a cigarette. I lit one off the tip of my own and hand it to him. “You ever wonder why our population is dwindling overseas, more so than in the States? Why you never see as many cross the Atlantic to come to the States?”
“I thought it was just an issue of sustenance, you know, the way we need a specific type of blood, maybe the risk of being on a flight without a meal…”
“That’s only the beginning of it. Have you been anywhere else since Abel’s apartment?”
I twist in my seat. “No, just walked straight here.”
“Did she see you?”
“For how long?”
I slide forward on the couch cushion. “Jesus, Cale, she burst into the goddamn room and in a matter of seconds I was hiding behind the door to Abel’s bedroom.”
He shakes his head. “Then she’s most certainly looking for you now. Neither of us are leaving the shop tonight. You can take the couch. I’ll find a blanket somewhere in the back.”
“What makes you think we’ll be safer in the morning?”
“Suicide angels are averse to daylight,” he says. “Or, at least that’s what I’ve heard.”
#
I dream of a million black clouds above a purple sky. I’m sitting in a pool of dirty puddle rain, mud and sand stuck to the bottom of my jeans. A comet trails across the sky and penetrates the moon with a single glittery blow. Ice and snow sparkle into a fiery sideshow of dust and bright green explosions. Abel stands next to me, binoculars glued to his eyes like they were a part of his skin. He removes them for a second and drops them to the ground. The black plastic shatters into a million tiny piece, little shards scampering away like an army of imaginary ants. Abel points to the sky and a thick gray ooze slithers out of his eyes.
“They’re coming,” he says.
#
I wake to the sounds of humming needles and soft whispers, the fuzzy reminders of sleeping somewhere other than home. I jerk upright and quickly realize I’m lying on the couch in Cale’s tattoo shop. A woman with hair as black as tar sits across from me reading a newspaper. She’s covered in about a gallon of ink, two full sleeves of dragons, koi fish, roses and skulls. She pushes down the paper and smiles at me, nods at the steaming mug in the center of the coffee table.
“Cale poured that for you a couple minutes ago,” she says. “Drink up, it’ll make you feel better.”
I rub the slumber out of my eyes and slowly sniff the contents of the mug. If it’s from Cale, it’s coffee with milk and whiskey. The first sip is bliss, pure awareness mixed with a quick jolt of sweet amber. I tilt forward, rest the mug back on the coffee table. I’ve met the girl in front of me at least a dozen times and I can’t remember her name. Soon enough, I hear Cale’s voice and I know I won’t have to involve myself in meaningless conversation.
“How do you feel?” He wipes ink off his light purple latex gloves.
I nod, the caffeine circling through my body. If there are two things that can bring me to life, it’s caffeine and blood. “Not bad at all. I think I’m going to head to my place for a while. Not sure if I should work tonight or not.”
Cale smiles. “Take this.” He hands me a black business card with raised blue lettering. “His name’s Davey. An old friend of mine from back in Philly. He called this morning and told me that something similar happened near Citizens Bank Park late last night.”
I scan the card, feel the punching touch of his name: Davey Rain.
Cale puts a hand on my shoulder. “He’s driving into town right now. He’ll be at the club in the afternoon. Make sure you’re there.”
I shove the card deep into my front jeans pocket. “What did you tell him about me?”
“Only the things that mattered,” he says. “He’s been around for a long time…a long, long time, Charlie. There’s news coming out of New York and Philly about this. It’s best to stay informed…and safe.” His eyes reflect the pale rays of sunlight peeking in from the front shop window.
“News?”
“Suicide angels.” He nods, pulls me aside. “Davey told me that at least three others were killed in Atlanta over the weekend. Two more in D.C. And, of course…one in Boston last night.”
I sigh for Abel, one of the only true friends I had. “Call me later,” I say, pushing the front door open. I pause when the cool winter wind hits my face. I’m being hunted, we’re all being hunted. Hundreds of years of living like unknown legends and now the minutes are numbered.
#
I was twenty-six years old when it happened. I can even remember the tune playing in the club. What I don’t recall is who infected me. “Psycho Killer” was ringing in the corners of The Roxy, reverberations of twangy guitar and David Byrne’s voice fizzing with angsty glee. I stepped outside for a cigarette, mild summer air a pure signal of heaven. The shadow approached within a second and when I felt the bite, the sting of new life enter my veins, I dreamt for a full day. It was like a black-and-white celluloid version of my life, the life that would never be again. I woke up in my apartment, limbs numb and lifeless. It took a full hour for the virus to greet me with dead, open arms. The hunger doesn’t resemble anything like that for human sustenance. It speaks your name with the voice of a dying child, whispers in the most remote corners of your brain. It consumes you, asks you to do anything for a single goddamn drop.
Here’s the thing about being me: it isn’t as easy as find, kill and drink. We’re not supernatural creatures that lurk in the shadows. Sunlight affects only those who prefer the darkness. The blood in our veins remains, but when it hits the air it reflects a steel gray quality that most people don’t even notice in daylight. The only way you’d know I am who I am is if you put an ear to my chest. You’d hear nothing, not even a single thump of my heart.
If my heart could beat, it’d be on overdrive. I can remember every inch of her body, the sweet smell of danger and lavender as if it were stuck to my skin like morning dew. Fourteen seconds were all it took to destroy Abel’s body like it was fluffy doll. Fourteen seconds were pastel beauty blasting through the door. Fourteen seconds were death and destruction.
I take hurried steps along the pavement, careful not to knock over any kind pedestrians on the busy Boston streets. My apartment is two blocks off of Cambridge Street in a part of town that’s often crammed with tourists and children. Some would say it’s not the perfect place to live for someone like me, but I have no complaints. Two major train stations are only a few minutes away, and the highway is a stone’s throw away from my front door. If I wanted to, if I needed to, escape is only a moment away. When I reach the apartment, I scan the alley before the door out of habit. There’s nothing there except for the dumpster and a few stray beer bottles.
My apartment is warm, immediate waves of comfort as soon I step foot into the living room. I bolt up the three deadlocks behind me and slam the door. I’m not taking any chances, even in the calm light of day. It’s been over twelve hours since my last dose and my body is starting to ask for it. The whispers are almost real, as if a dozen ghosts were blowing kisses from inside the walls. I shake them off for a moment and walk into the bedroom. I push the bed a full foot towards the wall and lift up the crimson rug from the wooden floor. It wasn’t an easy device to install, but a hidden dorm-sized refrigerator is the only place to store my stash. I plug in the combination and two floating rivers of cool mist escape from the hinges. I thumb through the clear plastic packages. The top layer of blood is all O-positive. The dozen or so packs below it are what I need: AB-positive.
The first conversation I had after I was infected was with Cale in the back of The December Club, a place I’d soon enough call my second home. One of the few fantastic traits is that you can sniff out other similar souls, and Cale did just that while downing whiskey sours at the club’s colorful bar. He was my mentor, my guide to this new world, this new life. One of the first things he told me was that just blood wasn’t enough to sustain our life; the only blood that would satisfy the hunger deep within our bodies was that of the same grouping system when we were human. Since my blood was of the AB-positive variety, the only blood I could drink with any effect on my system was AB-positive blood. Although any type of blood could quiet the virus for an hour, one of us couldn’t live alone on blood that wasn’t within our grouping system. As Cale would say, “It’s just like a fucking appetizer.”
If there was one thing that made me clamor for my previous life, it would be the fact that only 4% of the general population could provide me with the proper nourishment. This proved extremely difficult for an abnormal soul like me. I couldn’t walk into the streets in the middle of the night with a 50/50 shot of fully feeding the virus. The ones that ignored this crucial element of their existence are the ones that are weak. They’re the ones that are constantly hungry. This is why I learned to keep a deep stash buried in my safe. This is why I developed the trait of hording blood in my apartment. I could never take the risk of running low.
I toss a packet of the O-positive to the side and sigh. I take a moment to think of Abel, his infectious laugh, his soulful eyes. We would droop our legs over the sides of the Tobin Bridge when the rest of the world was sleeping. We’d share beers and stories, words that calmed the hunger of contact deep below the surface of my skin. Some would say I could live forever and never know what love could be. Abel was my brother, a soul that would pour you a drink and relieve the tension in your bones with just a smile.
I fish out a packet of AB-negative and waste no time. I don’t need a cup; I just pinch a hole in the corner of the bag and drink. When the blood rushes through my body the whispers turn into silence, every pore of my body dripping with the sweat of satisfaction. I sit back against the wall and let the blood soothe my insides, full nourishment the only thing that a vampire craves more than sex. Sunlight drips into the bedroom window and for a moment I’m alive again, in my head my heart is beating and I’m back with my family. I’m normal again.
It’s only when that initial jolt passes that reality kicks in once again. The voices in my belly are quiet for now, but like every one of my kind knows, a pint can only keep them at bay for oh so long.
#
The telephone rings and I shove the receiver to my ear with a violent jag. “What?” My voice is crackly, like it’s bouncing off the walls of an old and tired radio.
“Charlie, there’s a guy here who’s looking for you.” The other voice is Mickey’s, my boss.
“What’s he look like?” While it’s true that my body is never actually tired, sometimes after a full dose the eyes need to sleep.
Mickey clears his throat. “Older, but you know, he’s one of…us.”
It must be Davey. “Tell him to sit tight. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Within moments, I’m in the shower and scrubbing off the bits of Abel’s blood that I didn’t notice before. I sigh once, remember what it’s like to have real friends in a world that needed them.
I towel off in the bedroom and grab a pair of broken-in jeans. Black t-shirt, brown leather jacket. And, of course, a nine-millimeter pistol lodged uncomfortably into the back of my jeans.
#
The Boston transit system is a lot like the fourth or fifth layer of hell: every soul trapped down here is vague of smiles and warmth. Every passenger looks as if the world could end at any moment and it’s something they’d welcome. The train shifts for a second and I balance myself with a hand gripping the dirty steel bar above the row of seats below. I close my eyes and sniff. Traces of urine and sweat and rage. I look around the car and don’t see a fellow lifer like myself. Another sniff. No, I’m the only one on this train.
I get off at State Street and walk for a mile or so before the sun dips below the horizon. The December Club’s lights echo from a distance, its attractive glow alluring and dangerous. I don’t even remember what day it is, but I can tell it must be a weekend because there’s at least three or four dozen mini-skirted girls waiting behind the velvet rope. Slowly letting them in is a hulking brute of a Mexican named Johnni.
“Charlie, you working tonight?” He smiles and points to the entrance, letting a girl who’s presumably underage into the club.
I pat him on the shoulder. He’s all muscle, much stronger than I. Any shifts that I’m not covering, Johnni’s usually here. Who can complain? It’s good money and you get the chance to knock around people who have even the slightest attitude.
“Not scheduled, but I came in to visit…” My words trail off at the sight of a woman with the eyes of a tiger, twisted vines of ink adorning her pale frame. The wind sucks the air out of my lungs for a second and all I can feel is that cold metal keyhole pressed against my face, the eager breeze of death ripping limbs and life. The girl giggles and holds a man’s arm, probably her boyfriend. I catch my breath again.
“You okay, buddy?” Johnni puts up a hand to the long line and grips my shoulder.
I nod. “Yeah, just thought I saw someone I knew.” I force a grin and motion towards the entrance. “I’ll catch up with you later. I gotta talk to Mickey for a bit.”
Johnni nods and continues scanning driver’s licenses. I clutch my chest, feel the panic swimming alongside the smooth edges of my ribcage. It all seems like fantasy to me; another breed on the hunt for vampires, tasked with hunting us down like fucking rats. I push open the doors, neon rays dissipating into a cloud of cigarette smoke. I scan the bar for an older gentleman but only come across an array of twentysomethings and Goth burnouts. When I step into the lounge a familiar voice slices through the thick noise overhead.
“My friend.” Mickey’s holding onto my arm, that golden smile plastered across his face like he was a used car salesman.
“Mickey,” I say, eyes continuing to scan the rest of the club like a focused hawk. “What’s going on?”
His smile fades into wrinkles. “My office, now.”
“I’m looking for—”
“I know.” He cuts me off. “He’s in my office.”
I follow Mickey into his office, loud rock music from the club downstairs lightened into silence. He slams the door shut behind me and motions for me to sit next to a sharply-dressed man, pinstriped suit and an aura of prestige. His hair is as gray as dirty snow. The man stands up and offers his hand. I shake it with full force and his fingers are strong and firm.
“Davey Rain,” he says, perfect white teeth glimmering in the dark light of the office. “You must be Charlie.”
“That’d be me,” I say, plopping down into the plush leather guest chair in front of Mickey’s desk.
Mickey coughs, then shrugs his shoulders. “Gentlemen, we have a problem on our hands.”
“That’s putting it lightly, cowboy.” Davey crosses his legs, peek of black dress socks marked with white dots. Not many of our kind dress like they’re running for office.
Before Mickey can interject I raise my hand, gently let it fall to my lap. “He’s right, Mick. I know what’s going on. Pretty soon our entire race is going to know what’s going on.”
Davey nods, lips parted in a frown. “Well, I can tell you for sure that Philly knows what’s going on. Dallas found out last week. New York is going through it right now, and well, the whole friggin’ east coast is ablaze.” He clears his throat and pulls a faded black cigarette from a bronze case. He lights its tip and smoke engulfs the room within a few seconds.
“Is this really a threat?” Mickey leans over the front of the desk.
Davey chuckles. “A threat, sir? You can ask your good friend right here if “threat” is the right word for what’s going on.”
Mickey looks at me, and I look at Davey. Davey nods. “Tell him what happened last night.”
I look to the carpeted floor, try to focus on a rogue patchwork of crimson loops and swirls. “Abel was killed last night. Torn apart by a woman that looked like she could be a dancer here. Short, pale, star tattoos on her shoulders. Didn’t even have to break a sweat, picked him clean up off the ground and tore him to pieces.” I swallow urgency, let it boil in my throat.
Mickey’s mouth stays open. He leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. “Who did this?”
“They’re called suicide angels, or at least that’s what the folks down south have been calling them.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mickey twists in his chair. He’s never been the kind to accept the fantastical, save for the fact that he lives off blood and could probably live forever.
“Listen to him, Mick,” I say. I turn to Davey. “Continue.”
“They’re fallen angels. Eternal souls vaulted from the divine. Angry angels with a path to burn.”
Mickey groans. “You believe this shit, Charlie? Fallen angels? Can’t be real.”
Davey smiles, full grin swooping from his cheeks. “You mean to tell me you can accept your lifestyle, you can accept our existence…but you’re not open to the possibility that there’s something out there even more twisted than our kind? Just think, my friend, of the possibilities.” At his last word, his eyes are as wide as tea plates. His voice booms with authority. “The virus that swims in our blood, the virus that controls our every thought, our every action, it had to come from someplace.”
“What is this? Retribution?” Mickey’s standing up, turned to the open window that looks down into the club. Flashing lights penetrate our reflections.
“There are things that we’re never meant to know, gentlemen. If creatures like us can exist, why can’t angels?” He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a slick silver laptop. He props it open and pushes a button below the screen. When the monitor bursts alive with light, he holds a hand up. “Are you guys ready for this?”
Both Mickey and I nod in unison.
“Okay then.” Davey fiddles with the laptop for a few seconds and a square box is alive in the center of the screen. He pushes the laptop towards the edge of the desk and motions for us to look at it. “This is thirty seconds of surveillance footage from one of my bars in downtown Philly.” He pushes a key and the video comes to life.
The first few seconds are black-and-white motions of at least a dozen men standing, drinking, talking, laughing. The bartender leans over the beer tap and pulls back the handle. As he slides the glass to the man next to the cash register, a rogue burst of smoke explodes from the corner of the screen. Bodies are tossed by an unseen force, a poor patron’s scalp ripped from his skull like it was latex. The smoke clears nearly twenty seconds into the video and we can see her: the black and blonde hair, tattoos on her shoulders like medals of evil. She grabs the bartender with a single hand and in a matter of seconds two little dribbles of white fly from his face. He falls over the edge of the bar, eyeless and lifeless. The angel turns to the camera and smiles. She’s not the same one from last night but it really doesn’t matter. The video stops and I finally take a breath.
“It’s not safe in the city.” Davey stands up and points at me. “We need to go. You, too, Mick.”
“We’re not going anywhere.” Mickey’s voice booms with anger.
“We don’t have a choice, Mick.” I stand up with a jolt.
Davey turns off the laptop and slides it back into his briefcase. “Some of my guys are in a hideout on the border of New Hampshire and Maine. So far, they’ve only hit the most densely populated areas. We might be safe there, together.”
Mickey pushes back his thick black hair. “This is fucking ridiculous, guys. We’re just supposed to pack up and leave our lives like this? And for how long?”
Davey shakes his head. “I can’t answer that. Do you want to die, or do you want to come with us?”
Mickey opens the closet in the corner of the office. He flicks the light switch, reaches on the top shelf, and tosses down a large gray duffel bag. “I need about twenty minutes.”
“That’s fine,” Davey says, shoving his arms into his blazer. “I bet our boy Charlie would like to stop at his place before our ride, don’t you?”
I nod, place a hand on Mickey’s shoulders. “Mick, be careful.”
“I concur,” Davey says, and hands Mickey a business card with an address scrawled on its back. “We’ll all be there.”
#
The population hit its benchmark sometimes in the ‘80s. Some inside sources claimed that we were only outnumbered fifteen-to-one by normal humans. Clans erupted all over the country, some clashing with each other even though the constant threat of being outed hung over our heads like a lingering dark cloud. Although it didn’t happen overnight, the numbers dwindled into the ‘90s. Some, like Mickey, claimed that the scarcity of rarer blood types prohibited a regular feeding cycle for most of the infected. Without that fresh burst of life, our bodies shut down. The virus turns on us, causes our organs to eat themselves in lieu of proper nourishment. Our bodies have the same medical qualities as a dead human if we were shot in the head or hit by a car. Others, well, they’re not so lucky to leave something so quaint behind.
When I was a pup, I saw first-hand what the hunger can do to us. A rogue lifer stepped into the December Club one summer afternoon with a gun planted at the sky, lips as tight as bridge cables. He pointed the pistol at one of the bartenders and in a matter of seconds I was on his back, pounding his skull with the bloody edges of my knuckles. We didn’t know he was like us until the sixth or seventh hour of keeping him locked up in the walk-in refrigerator in the back of the club. He shuddered in the midst of frost and hunger, his skin melting like cookie-colored candle wax. It took a full hour for the virus to sweep through his figure, destroying every last living cell. I watched in awe as all were left were the burnt edges of bone, a skeletal ghost lain in a pool of orange dust
It’s almost as if only the strong survived. Only those who were willing to become monsters stepped outside of the boundaries of decency and planted their teeth into the soft flesh of a human. For some, it was just too hard. Even I found myself sitting in dark days during those years. It was only when I learned to stash, learned to make the right connections did I find myself fed, satisfied, and, until now…safe.
Cale was well-connected within the East Coast societies. He knew the leaders of local clans. He knew how to get the right quantities of fuel without causing a stir or raising attention. And, most importantly of all, he hooked me up with Mickey, who kept me well-fed and well-paid with a gig at the December Club.
It’s very rare now that I sniff out a fellow infected soul in the public realm. We’re an endangered species, whittled down to the smallest number in decades. If you’re not like me and you live in the rural areas of the country, I can’t imagine you’d be anything but fucked. Only the powerful ones survived the worst, and now the few of us left have to deal with something even more violent than starving the virus.
Everything before this week was perfect. I lived day-to-day with the same routine, the same bittersweet emotion of eternal life. I stay off the radar. My driver’s license is under a different name. I don’t have credit cards or bank accounts. I deal in cash and blood. I don’t have many friends. It’s a simple life, but it’s a life I’ve been used to for so long. And now that all seems to be crashing down around me. For once, I’m not worried about my next meal. For once, I’m not worried about finding a woman who I can share my terrible secret with.
Because now, all I’m worried about is death.
#
Davey switches the radio station with a quick twirl of his perfectly-manicured fingers. Hard rock, jazz, then silence. He can’t settle on a station. He finally puts his hand back on the steering wheel and we continue into the night. We reach the Ink Station and Cale’s already standing on its doorstep, plum cherry tip of a cigarette dangling from his lips. Davey rolls down the window and smiles. “Two hours and we’re not stopping.” Cale nods and opens the back door, tosses his duffel bag between mine and Davey’s and hops into the truck with a sigh. He looks back at the trail of fog and exhaust, as if the tattoo shop is his home.
I lean against the passenger’s side window, cool glass pressing into my cheeks. Before long, I’m dreaming of the life I lived before all of this.
#
Night burns into a smoldering trail of haze and moonlight. I wake to Davey’s voice. “We’re here, partner.”
I’m out the truck and surrounded by the woods, far different from the world two hours ago. Cale tosses my duffel bag at me and I catch it with both arms. He looks around and shakes his head. “Thirty years and it comes down to this,” he says. “Thirty goddamn years.”
I can’t do anything but look away, listen to the speckles of rural nature tickle the innermost portions of my mind. It’s beautiful up here and dangerous at the same time. Only a few yards from us are the booming echoes of misplaced laughter and other voices. Drips and drabbles of other clans, souls lost and wandered into a place where we all might die. Davey motions for us to follow him up to a bleak and gray building that’s oddly out of place up here in the woods.
“This place was once used to store my group’s supply,” he says, dragging his bag over a hefty shoulder. “For years I’d make trips up here with my guys and fill up. Local government thought it was a waste management facility. Never would have thought we’d have to use this place for a safe haven.”
The voices grow louder as we approach the entrance, some of them familiar, most of them new. Davey holds the door open for us and we’re greeted with a dozen different sets of fiery eyes. These are the hunted brethren, the fellow lifers that have come here as a last resort. I find my place at a table in the corner of the lobby where I recognize Betty, a black-haired raven that once tended bar at the December Club. Her face lights up when she sees Cale and I, arms outstretched and gripping my shoulders with the force of a burning memory.
“Charlie,” she says, lips as red as Christmas. “Long time.”
A single peck on the cheek. “I know, Betty. Too long.”
Before we can start a conversation, Davey’s standing on the counter of the makeshift bar in the corner. His words cut through the thick stench of ammonia and fear.
“My friends. We are not here because we are afraid. We are not here because this is a final stand. We have not come here to die. For the last hundred years, we’ve lived as we’ve wanted and along the way there’s been bumps. We’ve seen our share of misfortune. We’ve seen our share of hardship. And tonight, my friends, is just another hurdle that we have to approach with caution. We’ve lived this long and tonight is not the last time we’ll see each other, you can mark my words.”
He hops down from the corner of the bar and greets a group that has just walked into the building. I look around, see a set of doors and I imagine this place is not equipped as a bunker or even as a home.
Cale grabs my arm. “I’m not in the mood to socialize. I can’t believe what we’re doing here.”
“I know, I know. But this is the only way we’re going to be safe, or so says Davey. I’ve seen what they can do, Cale. I’ll never forget those moments. I’ll never forget what they did to Abel.”
Cale looks away, sighs. Davey approaches from the corner, two beers in one hand. “Drink, my friends. I refuse to realize the fear.”
I can’t help but smile. Long sip of alcohol and my nerves subside with a groan. Ten or so minutes pass and I feel just as Cale did. I set the bottle on the edge of the table and slide away into the opposite side of the room. I open the door next to the bathroom and find a storage room, dozens of large boxes stacked perfectly along the walls. It’s cool and dark and perfect. Cale’s right behind me.
“Don’t feel like socializing?”
“Not tonight.”
“Me too.” He plants his backside against a stack of boxes and lets out a deep breath. He unscrews the top of his beer and flips the bottle to his mouth.
I sit cross-legged on the cool tiled floor, stomach mixing alcohol and the whispers of the virus. It’s hard not to ignore its siren but there’s enough fear careening through my mind to keep it at bay for at least the rest of the night.
Cale finishes his beer and rolls the bottle along the floor. He burps and tilts his head back. “Jesus, Charlie…we really should be at the club, you know? Mickey booming with laughter, tearing through a bottle of scotch with everyone. This just doesn’t feel right.”
Before I can speak, the familiar rumble of broken glass and bursting explosions echoes from the room outside the door. Cale’s eyes widen, black and blue drops that radiate with dread. I stand up and my brain flutters, wonder quickly if I’m dreaming the sounds on the other side of the wall. Before I can turn the knob the door dents and cracks into a million sprinkles of wood and gray paint. One of the group’s bodies is bloodied and beaten, tip of his skull scalped around his temple. Mushy squiggles of brain and flesh goop onto the floor and it only takes me three total seconds to grab Cale’s arm and jump out of the broken entrance in the storage room door. I push my way through smoke and screams, quick glance of black-and-blonde hair swooshing into the wind. I don’t take the time to find Davey or anyone else involved in the slaughter. I can hear Cale’s words close behind me. The truck…the truck…
In a squeal of seconds I find the open wall that once stood solid before the angel burst her way into the building. Moment of freshness from the cool night air, soon dissipating into a frantic run for Davey’s truck. Cale reaches the driver’s side and flips open the door. I jump into the passenger’s seat and breathe again while he plucks the keys from the visor. Loud roar of the engine and we’re off. I take a single second to look behind me, long wispy trail of smoke and fire spinning from the building.
The truck careens along the dirt road, Cale pressing hard on the gas pedal. The speedometer rifles with glee and soon enough I can’t hear the disparate voices in my head. He doesn’t anticipate the curve at the end of the road and time freezes as we’re spun upside down.
Crank of metal and wood, gush of red from the open wound in my forehead.
#
The stars blush and smile, bits of glitter exploding into long streams of hazy purple liquid. I can’t feel my arms or legs and I imagine this is where my soul is trapped. The virus robbed me of my soul and forever I’ll be a part of somewhere that has no depth, no air.
I look down and see my boots are level with the sea. I’m walking on water, the glistening edges of violent waves crashing against each other in a fit of winter storm. Snow and ash fall from the sky. When I close my eyes I fall backwards into sand. She’s standing above me, hair floating in the wind like a cloud of black snakes.
“The angels form the demons,” she says.
I can’t speak, can only watch a whisper of smoke escape from my lips. She raises a white-painted fingernail and I’m drawn to the ground, an unseen force pulling me below the sand and into darkness. When I finally shout, my voice is beaten and broken. I hear the murmur now, like a million dead souls singing with their final breaths.
The angels form the demons.
#
I wake to the sounds of blood sloshing against my chest. It’s wet and painful and I don’t know where I am. Blurry vision gives way to an aura of broken light. I wince when Cale’s head is thrown onto my lap. I’m lying at the side of the truck, steady downpour of rain dousing the goosebumps trailing across my arms and legs. I claw along the ground, fingernails digging against a mix of dirt and grass and mud. It’s only when I bring my hands to the air that I can see the two events unfolding before me: the rain is my best friend’s blood and the light is coming from the fire in her eyes. A suicide angel, the same one from the beginning of my downfall. Leather pants as tight as latex paint. Pale skin, two tattoos now drenched in the blood of her kill.
She stands above me, the rest of Cale’s body floating in the air. On the horizon, the last breaths of night slip into the distance. The trees beyond the fence shudder in the wind. I kick off Cale’s lifeless head from my legs, his face locked in a cold, dead stare. My breaths are erratic and as she nears closer to me, every inch of every hidden memory of my life before all of this flashes in the corners of my eyes, each scene and every bit of dialogue muddled by the sparkling cigarette burns popping into view with every drop of my eyelids.
I can’t see the sun, but I know it’s in the distance. I know it’s there. She kneels next to me, traces a finger alongside my arm. Her touch anesthetizes me for a moment, leaves my blood in a standstill. The angel opens her mouth and I can hear her words. They swing past the curves in my brain, past the memories and past the consciousness of my mind. Lost and back again. Lost.
She straddles her wet frame over mine. I can barely feel the weight of her backside. She leans forward, lips that could kill with a single bloody kiss. The thrust of a million blind souls drives my body to slide against the mud. She pushes me back down without moving. A long trail of icy breath slips from my mouth and into the air, caught between the moon and the sun. The center of my shirt splits and the fabric snaps. Her face curls into a smile and I know that it’s only a matter of seconds before it’s over. She closes her eyes, eyelids as dark as wet mulberry. My body throbs and each jolt from her hands twists my veins until they pop and collapse. Her hand stuck to my bare chest, she slides it down to my pelvis, leaving a path of gashed skin and boiling blood. The virus is frightened and subdued. Even its powerful grip can’t stave off execution at the hands of the angel.
The hair dangles in front of her face like charred icicles, her cheeks as white as virgin snow. The other hand digs into the new chasm between my chest and stomach. She pulls out a handful of my insides, steaming hot blanket of angry blood slithering away from the mess. She shows her teeth and in only three seconds does she stand up again. My hands wobble in the mud before the bone erupts from below the skin. She lifts a finger to the air and my body slides along the grass until the sound gives out to a wall of black noise.
The curves and lines of a miscible disk of light penetrate my final visions. My eyes follow the comet trail of red dust dancing above my face. Night burns into a cavern of lost echoes, breaths swept away in a muddle of melting static.