Lewis Aleman - The Anti-Vampire

“You promise?”

“Now, what good are words, sweet thing? Desire is good enough—you know I want it as much as you. Ache for it,” fight to keep my eyes from rolling in the back of my head, “All the better to feed on it together.”

“How are you gonna get it?”

“Just found out where it’s kept.”

“Okay…okay.”

I pat Desirée’s cheek with an open hand and finally release her wrist. She disappears out the doorway, so far into the pitch black that I can’t see her, but the marks of my pressing fingers are still red in her wrist and my promise in the dark tantalizes her senses. Her heartbeat pounds with the thought of the new breed —not even the darkness can hide her lust for it.

She’ll keep quiet. At least until her rising urges make her scream out in impatience. Better not take too long.

Birth of flames. Hungry tongues surging out—lusting for air to burn more—hotter—faster—spreading.

They burn out of the engine—flickering high in the air around the hood that has been busted open and mangled.

The edge of the fallen balcony crashed into the driver’s seat—crushing the roof of the car—smashing it down toward the ground—mangling its axles under the immense weight—bending the wheels crooked and sticking out. Flames rise up and scorch the wood.

Don’t know if I hate or welcome the fire. Definitely welcome the dark smoke billowing from out of the hood—wish it would be thicker, more dense—everywhere, granting me a smoky cloak to hide beneath.

Don’t know if I’m far enough away if it explodes suddenly—flames could reach the gas tank—could have ruptured the gas line—could engulf me in an instant. Start to wiggle my body—push with my legs to shove myself deeper under the house.

Need a minute to heal. The sting still shoots through me. Maybe need two minutes.

Even in the darkness I can see discoloration in the shape of puddles and drips on the wooden floorboards above my head. The terrible tales these stains could tell—each dripping from some atrocity, spilling from something wicked.

Sharp nails pierce my left ankle. More dive into my right. They tense and drag me back toward the smoke and fire.

Nails hanging around the corner move in my direction. Swing the sharpened stick at them—all my strength. Feel like time’s grown lazy and slow as the stake slices through the air.

Much faster than the small, pointed branch moves, the sharp-nailed hand chops at the stake, slicing through it, shattering it—sending splinters shooting in all directions.

The jagged edge of the stub left in my hand dives into its shoulder, scraping and tearing.

Woman—it’s a woman. Black and gray hair—angry, lit eyes.

She grabs my forearms and slams me hard against the wall. Fangs threaten. Frantically she scans over my face—my eyes—then to my fingernails.

“You’re no vampire.”

“No.”

“Ruby?”

Scared, “Yes.”

“Damn it, girl—I’m here with Simon.”

“Simon! Simon’s here!” my heart touching joy I thought it’d never reach again.

Her hand presses over my mouth.

“Keep quiet,” she commands in a hard whisper, then releases my mouth.

Looking over the wildness in her eyes and her gray and black hair, I say, “You’re the one he went to see—Katrianna. I mean Kari—”

She cuts me off, “It’s fine—Katrianna’s fine. I am what I am. Suits me better anyway.”

“I-I’m sorr—”

“No time. Got to get you out of here. Out the back—the back door.”

“That’s what Maxine said.”

“Maxine! Oh, God! Where?”

Quint pushes himself off the floor onto an elbow.

She looks at me with untamed eyes, “Run! Down the stairs—out the back—red car—five blocks toward downtown—can’t miss it. Now!”

She turns to go after Quint. Carvelli starts to twitch.

Without looking back at me, she says, “Run!”

I can hear her feet charging down the hallway as mine scramble toward the stairs.

Hear male screams as soon as I hit the first step. Hard to remind myself it’s a good thing—sounds so far from anything good.

Flames flicker in the tall windows that flank the front door—one of them shattered and cracked.

See something at the base of the stairs. Man—not impressive enough to be Simon—but imposing enough to be deadly. Keep my head down. Pray the craziness—flames—and Maxine’s clothes keep whatever horrible thing he is from noticing me. Not likely.

On the mangled front porch, my throat is pinned against the shut door.

Roderick’s eyes look even more maniacal with the flames raging behind us and half the balcony above us cracked and crashed onto the roof of the car. He looks perfectly at home in the midst of destruction—belonging as much to the fire as the smoke and flame.

“Where is she, Simon? Where is my girl?”

Trying and failing to not wince at the shocks still shooting through my spine, “Don’t think I’d bring her to you, do you?”

He stares into my eyes, his gaze brushes past the physical pain and the worry for Ruby, searching for himself in them—knowing that if he finds a shred of himself in me that I’m lying to him.

“Yes, I do, foolish young one; yes, I do. Is she here?”

“Of course not,” I answer, hoping it to be true—hoping she’s waiting in the car just like we told her. Figured if we had no other options, could use her as bait to get us out of a jam—a chance to get Ruby out of here, but best to keep her away from all this until we need her. Her life, Ruby’s, Katrianna’s, and mine could all depend on if she’s going to do what she was told. God help us.

“Metal wrenches, buildings burn, and bodies bleed.”

“What?” I ask.

“All of this—this destruction is all so unnecessary. So much in life is so unnecessary…so meaningless…so irrelevant—the world would never know the difference whether you win this struggle or lose. So little changes no matter what we do.”

“That’s the creed of every coward I’ve ever known: doesn’t matter—why bother? It’s a lie. It all matters—every breath, every thought, everyth—” heavy coughing stops my words.

“So wrong, young one. A human is nothing but a speck flittering for a fraction of a second and then vanishing from our world forever. The whole race of them will be gone in an instant compared to the eons we will come to know, and so few of them flicker for even the briefest moment that their little lives last anyway.”

“How can you say that? Maybe we’re some mutated branch of humans. We could all be the same. No one knows where we came from.”

“And maybe, my deceived young friend, maybe they’re a branch of us, sickly and rotting in the sun long past their time.”

Little feeling returns to my right arm. Slide my hand into my pocket. Fingers grasp a small stake that I sharpened in the woods. Pull it out of my pocket quickly and slam it into the side of Roderick’s head.

In Shakespeare, I’d be Shylock. Except my gold is chemical and flesh, and no one despises me for my race—no one who knows my race exists lives long enough to even have the opportunity to hate me for it.