by J. R. Rain
Jack watched the steady stream of cars pass his house every day, usually in the evenings, because he mostly slept in the mornings and early afternoon. But he would arise, restless, and he would come to his window and watch the cars drive by. In the evenings, the traffic was heavy, and he would sigh.
Jack Hollywood had lived in this house for a very long time, nearly fifty years, in fact. Before this he had lived in Hollywood, and had been miserable. Too much sun, too much heat. Yes, Seattle was just right.
Except, of course, for one problem.
Maybe two problems.
The first was that he had driven up and down all the roads in his county, and even many of the connecting counties. There were, he was certain, no new roads. This was a problem for a vampire who loved exploring new roads.
The second was that he was pretty certain the police were looking for him, although he hadn’t heard from them yet. It was just a feeling he had, perhaps a premonition. He had the gift of premonitions, and he also had the gift of warning bells. Both seemed ready to go off.
He knew, as he watched the red taillights snake off into the distance from his upstairs study—a study that still smelled of the minor fire he had extinguished two nights ago—that the jig was up. He would soon have to move to greener pastures, so to speak.
How many had he killed? He didn’t know. Hundreds, definitely. Thousands, more likely. Perhaps even tens of thousands.
He had almost certainly worn out his welcome in Seattle.
Yes, he would need to leave.
But not quite yet. After all, had he explored all the roads? As in every single last one of them? Maybe, maybe. It had, after all, been nearly a month since he’d come across a new road. Jack Hollywood wasn’t ready to give up just yet. Surely, there was at least one last road to explore.
***
Now Jack found himself pacing in his upstairs study. Pacing, pacing. He ran his fingers through his rakishly long hair, his pointed nails grazing his scalp and drawing blood. And just as the blood flowed, he already felt the skin stitching together, healing itself. By his next swipe just seconds later, his scalp was already healed. Jack didn’t mean to cut his own scalp with his own pointed nails. It was just this time of day, that terrible time when the day turned into the night, those last few seconds when the sun hovered near the horizon, those last few seconds when Jack could literally crawl out of skin.
And so he paced and ran his fingers and gasped and shook and paced and cut his scalp. Through the windows, the long line of cars still wound into eternity, but now he didn’t care so much. Now he didn’t care about exploring roads. Now he just wanted this goddamn day to end, for the sun to disappear, for the night to come. The night, the night, the night.
It was like this every day. Every day. Every day.
This time of day, every day.
He loved being what he was, but he did not like this feeling of waiting for the sun, this in-between feeling of anxiety, of yearning, of restlessness.
The sun, the sun, the sun....
He paced some more, and then some more, and then accidentally dug a deep furrow in his scalp. Blood poured free, then stopped pouring. This furrow took twenty seconds or more to heal, and when it finally did, when it finally filled in and smoothed out, something glorious happened. Something majestic and oh-so-right.
The sun had finally set.
Jack Hollywood paused at the window, took in some useless air, then went to fetch his car keys.
***
The open road wasn’t so open, not at this time, and not where he lived.
But that was just fine with Jack. He knew, from decades of experience, exactly when the road would open up, and where. Truth was, he didn’t need the road to open up; no, he just needed to be behind his wheel. He needed to be right there, in the driver’s seat, on a road, any road. No, not just any road. He needed a new road. He craved a new road. New roads gave him life, almost as much life as feasting on his fresh kills.
Now, as Jack sat behind the wheel of his Range Rover, with his seatbelt on—he never enjoyed run-ins with the police—he decided that he might have to someday soon succumb and buy a map. A map, he suspected, would surely reveal a road or two that he might have missed. Except that he saw using a map as cheating. And one thing he never liked to do, was cheat, even if he had cheated death these past 90 years. He saw the irony in that.
Jack had even gone down any and all residential streets. All dead ends, too. He made it a personal point to go as far as he could down each and every dead-end street. Once at the furthest point, he would make a U-turn and head back, satisfied that he had seen as much of the street as possible. He took a small pleasure in knowing that there was no road in this county and the nearby counties that he had not conquered. That’s how he saw it: as conquering new roads, the way a king might conquer a neighboring kingdom.
Jack would have surely loved to explore the whole state, but his range was limited to the time it took him to drive to the road and drive back, all of which had to be done before the sun rose again. Had he found himself on a road that, say, wound through the Cascades—and oh, what a joyous road that would be—he doubted he would have time to return before the sun came up. And if that should happen...
Jack Hollywood didn’t want to think about that. There weren’t many things that could kill, but prolonged exposure to the sun would be one of them. He doubted even his tinted window would help.
Now, as Jack traveled down this old familiar road, past a Costco, past an apartment (Jack even drove through any and all apartment mini-roads, as he called them), and past a freeway on-ramp, he began thinking about where he might want to move to next. He considered Los Angeles again; after all, he hadn’t done much exploring back in those days. He also considered Las Vegas and Miami. The problem was, those places had too much sun for him. He liked Seattle. He liked the clouds and gray skies.
He next considered going to Canada, but he never really liked the sound of their accent. He considered going to Alaska, but it was really too cold, even for a vampire. He considered other places too. Like New York City, Chicago and Detroit, but again, those places were too cold, and too busy. And had too much crime. He saw the irony in that too, especially since he was an ace serial killer.
He drove on and on, aware of his distance and the time. He drove on, searching for new streets. He drove on, searching for new lanes to conquer. Sadly, he had been down them all, many times in fact.
He turned left, then right, down one neighborhood and into another. Yes, he had been here before, many times in fact. Same houses, same signs. He had seen them all before. Nothing to conquer here.
On an impulse, he turned right down a side road he had been down before, one that had been particularly dull in the past, but one that he couldn’t quite remember where it led to. If Jack couldn’t find a new road, then at least he could go down an old road and remind himself of where it connected. It was at least something to occupy his curious mind.
He passed a farm he remembered. A big red barn, too. He also spotted a leaning silo that he recalled. But that fence, hmmm, he didn’t remember that leaning and broken fence, and Jack Hollywood had a near-photographic memory. He remembered all signs, trees, barns, houses, mailboxes and most bushes. And especially, fences.
Jack paused next to the leaning, red wooden fence. It was only three or four lengths down, just a few posts and spanning lengths. It had surely been here for a long, long time. Jack searched his memory. Nope, he could not recall seeing the fence.
Something new! He studied the fence, took it in, every knot, bend and twist in the grain. Luckily, his eyes were good at night, better than most mortals during the day. He studied the fence longer than he really needed to, but he was just so... fascinated by it. Where had it come from, if it hadn’t been there before?
Of course, the obvious answer was that he had missed it, or, less likely, that he had forgotten it. He didn’t know which was the answer, but here it was, plain as night, a short, old, r
ed fence that had surely seen better days.
Jack Hollywood loved every square inch of it.
He continued on, wondering now if there was anything else he had missed, but no. There was the house he was familiar with, and the orca mailboxes that always made him laugh, and as he rounded a long bend in the road, with an open field to his left, he suddenly frowned. How was it that he couldn’t remember where this road led? This confused him some more. Hell, this whole road was suddenly confusing him.
He liked being confused, though. He liked the mystery of this road. He continued on, spotting signs and potholes and moss and trees that were oh-so-familiar to him. On he went. And on.
After many minutes of seeing the same old, same old, Jack had just decided to look into moving to San Francisco, California, when he saw something very unexpected. Very, very, very unexpected.
So unexpected that had to pull over and breathe.
And this was coming from a creature who did not need to breathe.
It was an opening of some sort within the trees. He inched the vehicle closer to the opening. His usually dormant heart began beating. It did that when he was excited. Generally, it only did that when he was feasting. But a new road was certainly cause for celebration. There, he saw it now. A tree had fallen over. Luckily, it had fallen over in such a way as to not block the road. The tree had been particularly bushy. Had it blocked the road? He searched his memory databank, but couldn’t recall seeing the tree here before. Then again, could he really expect himself to remember all trees, along all roads? Up until now, the answer had been yes. But today was proving to be a most unusual day. A day of firsts.
He crept closer still, expecting to see a chain with a “No Trespassing” sign spanning the length of what was appearing to look more and more like a road. In fact, yes, the road was even paved with asphalt. This was looking better and better and better...
Jack Hollywood had a few rules when it came to looking for new roads: no dirt roads and no trespassing. Jack did not break the law, unless he counted consuming humans as breaking the law, which he didn’t. He also didn’t count dirt roads as real roads, although he sometimes made exceptions if a paved road led into a dirt road that was a very clearly defined road. This was, of course, a judgment call, but one that hadn’t been very difficult to make in the past. But the asphalt here removed any doubt. This was a road, and it was paved, and there was nary a “No Trespassing” sign to be seen.
Now Jack Hollywood let himself go. He let himself feel the excitement. Oh, and it was a glorious feeling indeed. Somehow, the bushy tree had hidden this road, and now it was revealed and it was open to him. Granted, it wasn’t much of a road, and for all he knew, it would lead to an abandoned farmhouse. Either way, a road was a road was a road, and he was in heaven.
He was well outside the city limits, nearly at the limit of where he allowed himself to travel. The narrow road was crowded with trees... and potential. Smiling foolishly and ghoulishly, he turned onto the road, even as branches slapped at his Range Rover.
***
Perhaps most exciting was the fact that this road did not seem like a private road.
Private roads did not count in Jack’s rule book. Private roads usually led to houses. If he found himself on a private road, he rarely turned back and saw it through to the end, but he rarely sought out private roads. Jack considered those paths as just long driveways, really. And driveways didn’t count either.
Private roads usually said “Private” somewhere, or there was an address attached to the address. Something to indicate that the road would dead end in a garage.
But this road... it just kept going, and going, and Jack saw more and more bushes and trees, most of which he logged away in his considerable databank.
The thing about Jack was that he did not seek his victims in private homes, or in businesses, or public events, or anywhere where people should be. No, he only sought them on roads, where they shouldn’t be. Roads were where he hunted. Roads were where he found his victims. Roads were his, not theirs. Now, they were the ones trespassing.
Jack was feeling hungry. He usually feasted about this time anyway, but at the moment, he was feeling particularly famished. Finding new roads always made him hungry. Indeed, pairing a new road with a feast, like one paired a fine pinot noir and salmon, would make this night complete. He kept his eyes peeled for night walkers, as he called them.
But for now, he took in all he could of this new, winding road, presently crowded with bushes and trees, ferns and evergreens, boulders and a curious lack of signage. Not even mile makers.
Curiouser and curiouser, he thought.
Jack Hollywood loved seeing new views. This was already, Jack decided, his favorite night in quite a long time. And as he drove, he soaked in the trees and hanging vines, and kept an eye out for even newer views, and, of course, potential victims. Granted, the victims didn’t have to be human. Jack would settle for a deer or two if he had to. And it might have to be soon; after all, all this excitement was making him very, very hungry.
Now, as Jack rounded a long bend, taking in the rocks along the side of the road and the cracked pavement, it happened. The road opened up, presenting a view unlike any other and Jack hit the brakes. It was, he was certain, one of the prettiest and most majestic views he’d ever seen. Sweeping, rolling hillsides studded with massive boulders and long, swaying grass. Beyond, he could see the saw-toothed skyline of the distant Cascades, now black against the black sky, but alive to his undead eyes. Jack Hollywood had been around a long, long time. In fact, he’d seen his share of great views. But this was surely, at least, the best in quite a while. So beautiful, so peaceful, so alive.
And as he took in the landscape, stopped as he was at the side of the road, he saw something that hit him like a sucker punch in the gut.
Another side road.
With more glee than he’d felt in maybe a decade or two, Jack aimed his Range Rover down this second new road, and could barely believe his luck. Two new roads in one night! This hadn’t happened in years, surely.
And, lo! Was that a deer he was seeing, standing idly in the field, as if waiting to be feasted on? Feasted on by him, of course.
It was, and Jack was already stopping the Range Rover, was already flying out the door...
***
The deer had only just begun its flight when Jack Hollywood was upon it.
Within seconds, its neck was broken and Jack had torn a nice opening in its throat. A dead deer was far easier than dealing with kicking hooves. Jack considered the carcass as a gift to other critters in the forest. A carcass drained of all blood, of course.
Satiated, Jack headed back to his Range Rover and was eager to continue down the road, eager to see new sights. Of course, the only thing that would have been better was if the deer had been a human. Jack preferred to kill humans, although sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just made them forget that they had been attacked. He could do that. He could get into their minds and confuse them. But that was a lot of hard work. And really, he didn’t want to be inside their minds anyway. He only wanted their blood.
Almost all of Jack’s victims were hitchhikers, or runaways, or people with the great misfortune of having their cars break down—really, anyone on the side of the road for any reason was a potential victim for Jack.
He often wondered if he would ever be caught. He wondered if there was anyone actively looking for him even now. He didn’t think so, but suspected they were closing in on him. He had never had anyone on his tail before. He wondered what it would be like to be the hunted. He decided he didn’t want to know. He would leave before they got too close.
Then again, Jack always saw himself as providing a service to mankind. Culling the weak, so to speak. Removing the wayward and lost. Mostly, keeping the population in check. Himself and others like him. Vampires around the world doing their part to keep the damn humans from overpopulating the planet.
With that thought he continued down the road,
and as he continued down the road, he could not have been more tickled and pleased to see, yes, a third side road! He immediately hung a right and continued down this new road, soaking in the sights, memorizing the details.
In fact, this third road was already proving to be so majestic that Jack Hollywood could barely stand it. That was why he parked his Range Rover at a particularly wide-open vista and just took in the scenery. Soaking it in to his very core.
When he’d had his fill of beauty, Jack continued on and could scarcely believe his good luck when he saw a fourth side road. A fourth! All in one glorious night!
And as he headed down this new road with its new twists and turns, Jack contemplated his life over the past few months. In particular, when he had escaped certain death. There was that mysterious fire in his study. Jack had awakened to find it spreading from his fireplace, across the floor and heading to his bookshelves with its hundreds of dry books. Jack had immediately blasted the flames with a fire extinguisher. His quickness was second to none. But the fire itself had been a mystery. His last fire in the fireplace had been, easily, days earlier. Had a still-smoldering spark leaped from his fireplace? He didn’t know. But had he not awakened, he suspected he would have perished in the flames, one of the few things that could kill him.
And what about the falling tree branch in the shape of a crucifix? That had happened just last week, when Jack was pruning his tulips one night. A cold blast of wind had rendered a branch free, and that branch that had landed just where he had stood moments earlier, a branch in the near-perfect shape of a crucifix. The ragged edge had pierced the earth and there it remained to this day, for Jack could not touch it. Had it pierced his heart, he would have surely perished.
The unusual fire and the crucifix-shape branch incident had led him to wonder if there were, perhaps, unseen forces trying to get rid of him. But why would anyone want to get rid of him? Was he not doing the Earth some good? Was he not easing the burden of this planet? Surely he was beneficial. Surely, of the 10,000 people he’d killed, he had helped the Earth in some measure, had helped remove a considerable amount of carbon footprints? What about the trash alone? Ten thousand less people leaving trash on this earth. Yes, he was of service, surely. And he took pride in that.
