Lewis Aleman - The Anti-Vampire

I recognize a lot of the more flamboyantly dressed people from ‘80s Night. I think this bar’s regulars would show up for a combo Do-Your-Taxes/Root-Canal Night as long as it was here and there was going to be some dancing.

Despite the undying enthusiasm of the usual crowd, I don’t really want to be here. Only here looking for my crazy friend—my crazy, innocent friend who’s gotten herself tangled up with a monster. Until her blue hair bounces into the bar, I’ll be here—hiding behind the upstairs bar, pretending to be a bartender. The girl who is the legitimate bartender is none too thrilled to have another female crowding her workspace, but she smiled and agreed right away when Simon asked her to keep us here.

The upstairs bartender certainly hasn’t minded having Simon within her close quarters, having found countless opportunities to brush up against him while fixing drinks and taking orders—her hands sliding across his back, her hips rubbing against him as she passes.

Simon’s stayed with his eyes to the window all night, taking no notice of her behavior—not even a flinch—as if his body’s lost all feeling.

The lights from the dance floor reflect and flash in the window, falling on his unmoving reflection. He’s like a jagged mountain in the middle of a lightning storm, light explosions and thundering carnage falling all around him, but he remains still and certain.

It all moves in his eyes—all the frantic activity mirrored inside his beautiful blue irises, but his stare moves not. A stillness usually only reserved for the dead.

He’s only taken his sight off the window a few times in the two hours we’ve been up here. He’s blinked as if remembering something, and then he’s turned to me and given me a smile or a kiss. Immediately, he’s turned right back to the window, and the bartender’s given me a sneer.

Whenever I could, I’ve taken a few orders, filled some cups with ice, grabbed some beers out of the iced bins—not so much to help her out, although I wouldn’t mind helping her if she’d keep her hands off my man, but to give me something to do and to keep the illusion that I have some unsuspicious reason for being here behind the bar.

Most times she’s said nothing to me when I’ve helped her; sometimes she’s graced me with a nasally, “I got it, hun .”

Maybe I should just tell everyone the unbelievable truth: I’m hiding up here from bloodthirsty vampires that are after me and my blue-haired friend. No one’d believe me anyway—this place never has a shortage of delusional eccentrics. Then I could just stand here and put my arms around Simon—wouldn’t need to pretend to be a bartender, and I could block her nasty hips from touching his delicious body again…yeah…maybe just push her down the crooked, old stairs. Two rounds of free drinks and everyone up here’d forget all about it… mean, you’re getting mean in all this madness, Ruby …okay, okay…maybe just lock her in the little bathroom all night.

Despite it all, the upstairs bar is a great place to hide. There are no signs letting people know they’re allowed to go upstairs—it’s a narrow, unevenly constructed, wooden staircase that is dilapidated and dimly lit. It turns at 180 degrees in the center, offering no view to those on the bottom floor of what it leads to.

The dark blue upstairs room itself is tiny, about the size of a large bedroom, with a one-person unisex bathroom. Getting to use that closet-sized bathroom, locked in and alone while Simon stood guard outside, has been the only small joy of the day. But, it’s hard to enjoy regaining my feminine mystique that I so crudely lost under the trees and moonlight—because my friend’s in danger, and we could all be killed trying to save her. That kinda sucks all the joy out of reclaiming my dainty appeal. Never been too big on that frou-frou stuff anyway, but the incident in the woods was a bit much even for me.

Most people don’t come up here—most don’t know it exists—and some of the ones that try don’t make it all the way up here on their drunken, creaky stairway climb, crashing to the uneven steps beneath them or onto their annoyed friends who came along on their ill-advised and inebriated expedition.

As crowded as it’s been downstairs, it’s been calm and steady up here all night. Simon found right where to put me. Safest place in the unsafe storm, perched above the raging waters below.

Suddenly Simon’s eyes light up—jolting from complete stillness to furious intensity, shocking me as if a statue has just reached out to grab me.

My eyes follow his stare down to the dance floor—sure enough, it’s Ambrosia, bopping her way up to the bar, smiling and strutting like it’s just another night out—no fear of creatures of the dark on her face, just a mischievous smile welcoming the energy of the night.

Before I can take my eyes off her, Simon’s whispering in my ear.

“Stay here—I’m going to get her.”

“Okay,” I say, filled with fear and relief at the same time.

So close to getting her and us out of here.

So close to being away from the beasts that want to tear us apart.

But so close to being caught.

So far from the exit.

Simon rushes into the crowd to grab the only blue-haired girl in the joint. He stands out like a man among children—a tiger among kittens, and Ambrosia…well, she’s Ambrosia. Can’t be hard to spot—even for the bad guys…if they’re here…

God help him. Crazy dancing people better part a path for him. In the name of love and all that’s good, let us get out of here.

Maybe I should wait at the bottom of the stairs. Makes no sense for him to have to come get me and then go back down the stairs again to the exit. But then I won’t be able to see him. Can see Ambrosia here. Will see him going after her here. Wait till he has her then run to the bottom of the stairs.

He’ll want to kill me for leaving here before he gets back, but I’ve got to help. Only thing I can do.

Always thought Juliet was foolish—immature and infatuated. But now, I feel that wherever Simon is at the end of the night is where I want to be too. I’d rather it be here, but couldn’t live with myself if I knew I let him slip to the next life without fighting alongside him.

Wait. There’s something below. Something awful. Is that…

Body slams off me—crashes into the wall—and starts to slide toward the ground.

Didn’t see him coming round the turn.

Catch him by his arm with one hand and his bebop hat that has fallen off with the other. Steady him quickly on the stairs—toss his hat on his head—give him a nod but not a word and rush down the second part of the stairs that squeak beneath my boots louder than the booming music flooding from the dance floor and into the narrow stairwell.

Rest of the steps are a blur and then gone.

Feel like I’ve hit a staggering herd of cattle as I smack into the mass of bodies that stumble, some of them to the beat of the song and some to the pounding of the arrhythmic alcohol rushing through their brains.

Push with my hands—a sea of human waves—trying to swim through them. Some spill. Some shout. Most just get the hell out of my way.

Two bouncing strands of blue. Her hand grasps a drink from the bartender—takes a sip—looks around. Can almost see the liquid light up her eyes. Heartbeat races through her—two of them.

See something moving near the stage. Emergency door opens wide.

Ambrosia spots me coming toward her. Pulls cup from her lips. Nervous lips.

Roderick steps off the edge of the stage onto the floor. Followed by goons.