Adam Rex: Fat Vampire: A Never Coming of Age Story

Later he walked with Abby to her car. She was talking to him or something. Doug was too occupied in contemplating what he’d seen of Sejal and Ophelia and what it meant. Only when Abby suddenly lowered her voice did he give her his attention, and then only to hear her say, "There’s a guy by my car."

He scanned the dark parking lot and fixed upon the small figure of Stephin David, standing just in front of the passenger door, arms heavy at his sides. Face flushed, probably from drink.

"I know him," Doug told Abby. "You go ahead home."

"With…without you?"

"Yes."

"I was hoping you’d drive. I feel dizzy."

"What? No, I’ll find my own way home. Don’t worry about me. Good night." He walked off toward the edge of the soccer field, leaving Abby to sway unsteadily under a yellow, moth-battered lamppost. Stephin gave her a clipped nod and came to meet Doug on the grass.

"What are you doing here?" Doug asked, looking around him. Cast and crew spilled slowly out of the auditorium. There were other students, too, here and there, coming from the quad or the track.

"I was in the neighborhood," said Stephin. "You’ve been so elusive, I had to find some way to grab your attention."

"Well, okay, you’ve got it. And good move, too: single guy, single gay guy, hanging out at the high school? You look like a child molester."

Doug knew he wasn’t supposed to throw Stephin’s sexuality in his face like that, but the man was making him supremely uneasy. He did not belong here.

Stephin said, "We play the roles in which we are cast. Every play’s a tragedy, if only you leave the curtain raised long enough—"

"God! Please, just…What do you want?"

Stephin took a moment before speaking. "I received an interesting message about your friend Victor. It seems Cassiopeia is under the impression he’s hunting his maker. It seems that you gave her that impression."

"Shit," said Doug. "That was…I didn’t mean to throw Victor under the bus like that, but I needed a diversion. It’s no big deal."

"I doubt Victor will see it that way. But can we be clear? Victor does not aim to find and kill his maker, with the intention of undoing his curse or for any other reason?"

"No," said Doug. "No, and I’m not even sure I want out anymore either. I…have to think about it."

"You should. It’s a big decision, an enormous responsibility. Consider all the people you may meet during your long existence. Souls you can’t even imagine. People not yet born. Would you deprive all these people the pleasure of your company?"

Doug chewed his lip and watched Stephin for some hint that he was joking. But his dead face was as illegible as ever.

"Of course, you have also to consider all the lives that may curdle at your touch. You could be a curse to others, something worth breaking. Such responsibility."

"Well, I guess I’ll just kill myself."

"Suicide is ungrateful."

In the parking lot engines cleared their throats, and red and white lights winked on. Doug was dimly aware that Abby had not yet pulled out of her space. She was just sitting in her car. Was she watching them?

"So, then…is it possible? Becoming normal again? You sound like you’re saying it’s possible."

"Hm. Well, I’ve been doing some research, purely with the intention of dissuading you from this course, you understand. But, I can’t lie — I’ve uncovered evidence that such a thing may be possible, if certain conditions are met. But do leave Victor alone. It has to be the head of the family — the oldest active vampire in the lineage. I think a stake in the heart may be necessary. You won’t do it, will you? Of course you won’t — you don’t even know who made Victor. And you with your newfound zest for life."

"Asa told me you only have to kill the next vampire in line," said Doug, though he wasn’t really sure what Asa had meant.

Stephin was silent for a moment, during which a steady pulse of red taillights passed like heartbeats behind him.

"Did he, now."

Doug heard a distant squeal of tires. He looked over Stephin’s shoulder just in time to watch Abby run her car into a fence.

HE WASN’T the nearest student to Abby’s car, not by a long shot, but he was the first on the scene. Her face was lost in the white pillow of the airbag, tassels of curly hair splayed like creeper all around. She wasn’t buckled in. He wrenched the door open and was already pulling her from her seat as Troy came running up yelling, "Don’t move her! Don’t move her!"

There was a right thing to do in a situation like this, and a wrong thing. The right thing was to call 911 and wait by Abby’s side, maybe even initiate CPR until the paramedics arrived. The wrong thing was to load Abby into another car and move her yourself to the closest hospital. A distant third might have been to lift Abby into your arms and run thirteen blocks to St. Mary’s Emergency in Pennwood, despite shouts of protest from the mob of kids that had gathered at the school gates.

I just acted without thinking, Doug explained to an imaginary jury of his peers after he’d been running for a mile and his mind had cleared. In emergencies a person can sometimes demonstrate astounding feats of strength.

He didn’t notice the wood-paneled station wagon that followed him all the way to the hospital. He was in another world.

The hospital waiting room was filmy and crowded with people. One man had a piece of rebar in his foot, but apparently not enough of a piece of rebar in his foot to leave the waiting room. CNN silently played on a television bolted to the ceiling.

After handing Abby off to the ER nurses Doug had been unable to answer, for various reasons, the following questions about her:

What kind of insurance she had

Whether she had a middle name

How her last name was spelled

If she was allergic to any medications

How, exactly, she’d come to have only three liters of blood in her body

Abby’s parents had been called. He’d have to face them soon. No one had actually asked him to stay, but leaving now would feel like fleeing a crime scene. He got up and sat down, got up again, walked to the hospital gift shop and stared at Mylar balloons and fist-sized teddy bears, then returned to the waiting room to find all the seats taken.

A lot of people had come to the ER in sweatpants. A thin, well-groomed woman in a tailored skirt and hose shivered in her seat while the sweatpants crowd seemed to look askance at her and wonder: Did she change clothes before coming? Did she freshen up? Doug wondered if his own clothes communicated the right amount of human concern and went to the restroom to check.

It wasn’t getting any easier, looking in mirrors. Most days he could focus below the neck, examine his clothes, all but ignore his hair now that it never seemed to get mussed up anymore. Tonight was no different, except that it was completely different. Putting aside for a moment that he was actually trying to muss himself up a bit, he also sensed the insistent stare of a pair of eyes in the mirror.

His eyes, nominally. They were set in his face, or in a kind of counterfeit of his face. There was something wrong with the expression. Something wrong with the eyes.

They looked old, inevitable. Like they’d always been here in this hospital, waiting for Doug to arrive. He didn’t like their air of blunt satisfaction. He wanted to give them something to look surprised about.

Exiting the bathroom he took this hospital scene in again and wondered, suddenly, if Abby was going to die. The white floors, white walls, cold white light that robbed everything of shadow and substance, the flimsy gowns and white coats and pajamas — were they trying to make it all look like some cheap heaven? Were they trying to prepare you for what came next?