by Carlos Colon
“Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?”
“Believe it or not, we do,” said Donny. “But you don’t have time to gauge what’s real and what is not. When the sun comes up—”
“Oh, what, now you’re going to tell me that I have to sleep in some kind of coffin?”
Travis and Donny gazed at each other, deciding who was going to answer. They didn’t need to.
“You gotta be shitting me.”
“It’s your genetic resistance that is keeping you from accepting what you are,” said Donny.
“Yeah, what is this with the genetic resistance? Genetic resistance to what?”
“I’m going to come right out with it,” said Donny. “You are a vampire, a vampire with genetic resistance.”
Okay, they said it. “I gotta get the fuck out of here.” I turned towards the door.
“Mouth off with your filthy tongue all you want,” said Travis. “But know that we are real. And so are you. Personally I couldn’t care less if you walk out that door right now and shatter the hearts of your family more than they have already been shattered. But I am giving you a chance to think about it.”
“Think about what?”
“What you’ve become. You need to understand the change that’s come over you since that night in that hotel room.”
Donny chimed in. “You really are free to go if you want. But first you should let us talk to you. We can help you. And maybe you can help us.”
There were no answers anywhere in sight to the windstorm of questions flying around inside my head so I reluctantly agreed to listen. It was pointless to do anything or go anywhere until I could make some kind of sense of what was happening. I sat down and opened the floor. “Okay, go ahead. Tell me what you have to say.”
Donny sat beside me and began to speak gently as if that could possibly make things more manageable to comprehend. “We had to take you out of there. We couldn’t let anyone find you the way she had left you. We want as little evidence of these types of occurrences in our area as possible. Your case is already raising too many unanswered questions.”
“And questions lead to investigations,” added Travis. “We don’t like investigations. Our business in this city is conducted without littering the streets with bodies. The rest of our kind aren’t as careful. They tend to be nomads and don’t care what kind of mess they leave behind.”
I stuck my hand out at Travis. “Give me that newspaper again.” He handed it back and watched quietly along with Donny as I read the witnesses’ accounts.
I was last seen at the Ritz-Carlton with a red-haired woman in a red dress. That much I knew. After that night we had both been declared missing. The article then went on to describe the crime scene. It was determined that all of the blood splattered around the hotel room was mine. And with that amount of blood loss there was little or no hope of finding me alive. My red-haired lover, though, (yes, that’s how they described her) was believed to be alive (how ironic) and she was wanted for questioning.
The cyclone of scattered recollections spinning above my head started falling into place. The blurs were coming into focus. I raised my head from the paper to find Travis and Donny staring back at me.
“You, me, Donny, we’re all genetically resistant,” said Travis. His tone was softer but he still sounded threatening. I would come to learn that that was just him. That’s how he always sounded. “Being genetically resistant causes us to retain our human identity. It can be an advantage and it can be a disadvantage. In your case the main disadvantage is that it will give you problems feeding. And as you can see you will also have problems accepting what you are.”
“If you were not genetically resistant you wouldn’t even care who you were,” said Donny. “You would feed off anyone, even someone that you had loved while you were alive.”
“What we have is communicable like a disease,” said Travis. “So a smart vampire—” Interrupted by a mocking snort, Travis glared as I shook my head before continuing. “A smart vampire always makes sure that when he feeds he doesn’t leave any chance of his victims rising again. Our lady friend Simone has a pattern of not caring what she leaves behind. She also knows that this is our city and that we will destroy her given the opportunity. Like I said before, we can sense when another one of us is feeding in our territory.”
“Territory?”
“Yes, territory,” said Donny. She probably knew we were coming and left you as a calling card. She likes to taunt.”
“Taunt!” I was waiting, hoping, for someone to break out into a big laugh. But there was no laugh, nothing but dead seriousness, a pun that I wish I could laugh at. “Who is this Simone, anyway?”
“She’s the one that made you and me what we are now,” replied Travis. “She’s as savage as they come and with more power than any of us combined, which brings us to why you are here.”
“Yeah, let’s get to that, shall we?”
“We need to find her and end her existence.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Simone likes to travel,” explained Travis. “But her favorite place to be is here, right here in New York. So every now and then she likes to come around and rattle our cage. This was her city once and she’d like nothing more than to reclaim it. That means getting rid of us. There’s no coexisting when it comes to our kind. It’s either her or us. And we’re not going anywhere.”
“So... again, what is that you’re looking for from me?”
“Is there anything that you can remember from that night that could help us find her?”
I shook my head. “The first time I ever saw her was at the hotel. I’d never seen her before and obviously I haven’t seen her since.”
“Are you sure?” asked Donny.
“Think,” said Travis.
Much as I scrambled to get my decimated brain in order, nothing was coming to mind other than what must have been going on in Stefanie’s. “Jesus, I need to call my wife.”
Travis slapped his leg impatiently.
Donnie, while not as exasperated, reiterated that I should reconsider. “You may want to call your wife now but when you accept what has happened and what you have become, you might feel differently. This is not going to be the way you want your wife and children to remember you.”
Travis grew more frustrated. “One more time, do you have any information, anything that could help us find Simone?”
“Hey man, don’t you think that if I had anything I would tell you? With everything that had happened don’t you think I would be the first one to want that Simone woman dead?”
“She already is,” said Travis. “Just like the three of us.”
“He does have a point,” said Donny to Travis. “He would want her destroyed just as much we do. Give him some time. This is a lot for him to absorb. With a little more time, he might begin to remember some things.”
After studying me for a moment, Travis put his arm under my shoulder. “Can you stand up?”
I pulled my arm away. “I can stand up on my own.”
“Good, come with us.”
They started walking towards what I figured was their bedroom. Not interested. By that time, I had seen enough of how they related to one another. These roommates were sharing more than just the rent.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
Travis smirked and frowned at the same time. (How does he do that?) “Relax, young man. You’re not our type.”
Donny opened the bedroom door. “Go ahead, look inside.”
Not having been the most enlightened person when it came to the homosexual population, I walked over cautiously, in no rush to see what went on behind their bedroom door. The events that had led up to the state I was in probably should have prepared me for anything—emphasis on the words should have.
If this was all a big practical joke they sure pulled out all the stops. Their bedroom was pitch-black. Even their windows were painted black like the Stones song. In the middle of the
room, to no surprise, was a neatly made queen-sized bed. But apparently, it was there only for play because on each side of the bed were two high-end cushiony coffins. I looked at them like they were both insane.
“We don’t have a guest coffin,” quipped Donny. “So when the sun comes up you’ll have to go in the closet where there are no windows. That’s where you’ve been for the last few days.”
Their story, the newspaper, my lack of reflection, my thirst for the blood of the college students across the street, the coffins—even with all that facing me, I was still waiting for a punchline. “What lunatic asylum did you two break out of?”
“Young man, if you want to end this nightmare of yours easily, I can hand you a stake and you can drive it through your own heart,” said Travis. “Personally, I don’t care.”
Donny shook his head. “Travis, there’s no need—”
“Donny, however, appears to have taken a liking to you. For some reason known only to him, Donny wants to help. If I were you I would take him up on his hospitality,” continued Travis. “On the other hand, if you wish to end this nightmare in more pain than you have ever felt in your entire life, then go home. And make sure your wife and kids are up to see you when the sun rises.”
Donny kept trying to have Travis lighten up. “Travis...”
“You will learn the truth. That much you can count on,” said Travis, eyeballing me. “The only question is, whether it’ll be too late.”
A couple of hours later, when they retired into their bedroom, I remained on the living room sofa, afraid, weak, with no idea of what to do. By that point, since neither of them was stopping me from leaving, any theory of them being captors or abductors was out. And since they were in their bedroom entertaining themselves, I concluded that they had no interest in having me join in their little party. In fact, all they really cared about was that redhead they referred to as Simone.
My mind was clearing. The ugly images from the Ritz-Carlton were becoming more vivid. If I was on narcotics and they were wearing off, my current situation still couldn’t have been explained in any sane kind of manner. The nightmare idea was out, too. I felt way too alert. Everything around me was too real. And if this all was real, how was I going to explain what was in the papers to my family?
It was a little bit after 6:00 a.m. when I first felt the burn. And with the enhanced senses that I was developing, I detected a faint smoldering scent. It was my flesh.
I ran into the bedroom where my undead hosts laid undisturbed in their closed coffins. Once I was inside the darkened room the burning subsided a bit. But there was no sense in taking any chances. I went inside the closet, taking a seat on the floor and shutting the door.
My hosts had been very hospitable. They’d patched me up to the point where I was somewhat functioning, though weak and in dire need of energy. If I was going to figure out what had happened to me, I needed that energy back. And there was only one thing that could restore it.
14
“Listen, you son of a bitch! I know you’re in there with that whore. I saw your car around the corner!”
Jessie was only twelve years old when my human existence was terminated at the Ritz-Carlton. Despite that and the fact that I haven’t been around in twenty-seven years, she apparently has inherited my mouth. “Come on out so I can cut off your puny little dick and shove it down your throat!”
Otherwise it would have been a calm, quiet November night outside the door of this nice little house in suburban Long Island.
“You have three daughters at home and you’re sticking your dick in this whore! Come on out, you coward!” growls Jessie, wielding a knife from one of her kitchen drawers. “You too, you skeevy little cunt! Come on out so I can cut up those fake tits of yours!”
Inside the house on the opposite side of the door, Ross Nemeth, my daughter’s husband, is listening quietly next to his tarty lover, Naomi Shannon. I never liked this bastard and if I were alive when Jessie started dating him, I would have done everything I possibly could have to keep her from marrying him. This prick, who is thirteen years older than her, in his early fifties, had already been divorced once before and he had been living with another woman for about six years when they met. But as the owner of the successful real estate business where she worked, Nemeth knew how to dazzle my daughter with his healthy portfolio and strut his fiscal capabilities in front of her adoring eyes.
Jessie was also on hand to witness his problems with the woman he shared his house with. She was his first relationship after his divorce and they ended up having a daughter who was four years old when Jessie and this piece of shit got together. When their relationship ended a fierce custody battle ensued, which Nemeth eventually won when she was declared unfit with a serious substance abuse problem. This was the kind of shit Jessie walked into when she married this ass. Stefanie begged her not to do it. Rippey too, but neither had any luck in dissuading her.
Keeping out of sight while being only inches away from this wretched slime ball is a major challenge for me, but I remain seething quietly while Nemeth shelters himself in his fuck-buddy’s love shack with all the shades down. Both are unclothed, quietly waiting for tropical storm Jessie to pass so they can run back to the bedroom where Nemeth can resume enjoying silicone-enhanced Bronski’s.
It’s suddenly quiet outside. The ringing and the knocking have stopped—not a good sign. Nemeth knows it, too. Jessie’s not exactly known as the type that easily gives up. If anything, she’s the type that would do something outrageous or explosive. I already had a son go to jail. I better go outside and see what she’s up to. I’ll leave the bare-assed lovers to ponder their situation while I sneak out the back.
Passing some frames on the wall on my way out, I notice no family photos. No husband, no kids, just pictures of Naomi throughout the past couple of decades. Well, I shouldn’t say no family pictures. There’s one with her parents and one at a younger brother’s graduation, but no family of her own. I’m not making anything out of it—just an observation. The only conclusion I can make from the photo above the mantle, where Nemeth left the flowers he bought, is that her tits were purchased sometime around the late nineties.
Quietly closing the back door and coming around to the front, I see Jessie still in her car, parked in Naomi’s driveway. Stepping to the front of her car, I’m getting the uneasy feeling that she’s enraged enough to drive it into the house, although at this moment the engine is still off.
Calm down Jessie. He’s not worth it. Just stay behind that wheel and take a couple of deep breaths.
She’s a grown woman now. A grown woman but still my child. A father hates to see his child in any kind of pain. And it’s especially grating to see his daughter sitting alone, dejected, staring through the windshield of her car at the front door of the house where her husband’s lover lives.
The last time Jessie saw me alive she was upset at me because I wouldn’t let her go on a date with Tommy Puccio. I had once passed that kid in front of a liquor store where I heard him bragging to his friends about feeling up a girl at the movies. It immediately crossed him off the list of potential suitors for my daughter. The only thing I was going to let that little prick feel was my fists walloping against his skull if he ever put his hands on my baby girl. That protective instinct never leaves you, living, dead or undead.
Jessie grips the steering wheel tightly as if trying to steady her trembling hands. Her chest is heaving, her pain worsening by the second.
It builds.
I know how it builds—especially if you have unwelcome guests like Los Ruidos sounding off in your head. It just builds and builds until...
... don’t, Jessie, don’t...
... it builds; it builds...
... until it erupts.
This is not what I expected.
I’m not sure if it is a scream, a wail, a cry... all I know is that it’s awful.
It brings me back thirty years. As a little girl Jessie’s mouth would contort int
o a wide, trembling frown before letting out a screech that would rattle the frames on the walls. The adult version is even harder to watch—an asphyxiated pause of silence that erupts into a torrential bellowing. Thick lava-like tears ooze out of my daughter’s eyes which are shut tighter than a vault as she leans her head against the steering wheel.
All this while, inside, that worm she calls a husband seeks refuge in the store-bought bosom of Naomi Shannon.
That fuck. I want to kill that fuck right now. The two of them, I can kill them both. I can feast on their blood, maybe even...
Fuck, what am I saying? Control, Nicky, control...
A frightened shriek echoes through the neighborhood. Dogs are barking. Windows light up on both sides of the street. The scream, it was Jessie! Her head is up from the steering wheel, and though the tears are probably blurring her vision, whatever she saw has completely taken all the color away from her face. I don’t see anything around that could have caused such a reaction except...
Me!
My reflection! It’s on her windshield! It turns out Jessie isn’t the only one to have lost control of her emotions.
As quickly as it appeared, I just as quickly regained control. My reflection is gone. She has literally screamed me out of sight. Still, I have to get away, although the damage has already been done. I can distance myself all I want now but I can’t run away from the fact that I have just traumatized my daughter, irreparably.
Scrambling halfway up the block, I can hear Nemeth running out of Naomi Shannon’s house. “Jessie! Jessie, what’s wrong?”
Her voice quivers. “I just saw a ghost. It...it was my father.”
Nice going, Dad.
#
Understandably, Jessie is now terrified of being alone. Her shaken condition even forced Nemeth to temporarily abandon Naomi’s love hut to drive her home. He’s been sitting on their living room couch for the last fifteen minutes feeling like the shit that he is, wondering what to do or say next. One thing’s for sure, he’s not going to get a clue from Jessie. Terror-stricken as she is, her anger hasn’t subsided and she hasn’t spoken a word to him yet.
