The Relict (Book 1): Drawing Blood

by Finney, Richard

  “I recently hinted at the circumstances concerning the turning of your brother, Julian, but I did not offer any details…”

  “Since time is never an issue, I assure you, sir, that I was not impatient. You were distracted, if I recall,” said Ian.

  Winston chose that moment to stop their travel, and all around them the world came back into focus.

  “I am not distracted now,” said Winston. “Indeed I am focused in a way that I have not been in a very long time.”

  “Sir, are you… all right?”

  Winston grabbed Ian and yanked him closer, “Tell me the truth. Do I not look… alive.”

  “Yes…sir, you do indeed look alive.”

  They both smiled, and the grip on Ian’s arm turned gentle.

  “I have never shared our experiences with anyone else. Nor do I choose to share the experiences I have had with Julian. Only he can choose to share those experiences with you. But I want to tell you something because it is time you knew…”

  He paused, as if he heard something in the distance, but whatever drew Winston’s attention did not change his demeanor as he continued to speak to Ian.

  “There is another that shares my blood. Our blood. I turned her… and Julian at the same time. But it was only because of her that I embarked on the reckless act of turning Julian.”

  Winston tightened his grip on his arm and pulled Ian to him. He kissed the side of Ian’s neck, his lips resting on the original scar, before he whispered, “there are two final fates waiting for all of us. Only those with an imagination are able to choose…”

  He released his arm, and Ian staggered backwards. Perhaps if he reclaimed some space between them he could think clearly about the words that had passed between them.

  “Sir, I apologize,” he finally said after a long silence. “But what you have said… your words… they are overwhelming me…”

  Winston nodded his head. “It is to be expected. The words I have spoken to you will resonate only when you understand them first. However, Ian, that will take more than just… time.”

  There was a voice from afar. And it was then Ian understood why Winston had paused earlier. He had always said, “those that walk with my blood, I can hear walking a mile away.”

  “Winston… Ian… why are you standing there? I thought I was very clear where we were to meet…”

  The voice engulfed Ian in a way that Julian probably wished he could wield over everyone, especially his kind. Despite the impending presence of his blood brother, he whispered to Winston, “Sir, what is happening?”

  But Winston answered his question with a question: “Our kind. How are we defined?”

  His question was the beginning of a mantra spoken traditionally as a dialogue between two vampires.

  “Our kind are not defined by death,” answered Ian.

  Winston recited the next line, “But our existence is dependent on the living.”

  “What must we do to justify taking the blood of the living so we may exist?” asked Ian.

  “We must give back to the living at least what we take in return…,” said Winston, but Ian noticed his mentor’s eyes had lost focus midway through his answer and he was staring off into space.

  Ian was troubled, but he continued, reciting the last line of the dialogue.

  “… or we are a kind that should have embraced extinction when it was offered.”

  “What are you two doing!” shouted Julian, as he walked up to them. “The sun will be rising soon and I don’t feel like racing back to the compound. C’mon, I called you out here for a reason. I’ve got something to show you both…”

  Winston did not hesitate. He began following Julian as he walked toward a mountain that had a halo of orange smoke drifting just above it.

  When he realized Ian had not kept up with them, Winston turned and motioned to him. “Come along, my son; the three of us are so seldom all together.”

  Chapter Twenty Three

  The prisoners stood in line for the morning head count.

  Each roll call had two CCC guards assigned the duty of coming up with a matching head count.

  “I got 165. What about you?”

  “I think I got 165….”

  “Jesus, Fonty, did you or did you not get 165?”

  “You know I'm not even supposed to be out here. Polasky has a hangover and asked me to cover his shift.”

  “Yeah, well, Polasky with a hangover can still count better than you.”

  Brandon, the compound shift supervisor, stepped up to the two guards, Helske and Fontaine, to get their head count numbers.

  “Guys, give me the count.”

  “165,” answered Helske.

  “Yeah, I also got 165,” affirmed Fontaine.

  “165? Are you guys sure?”

  Both guards nodded.

  “Fuck me. Spector is going to freak,” Brandon mumbled to himself.

  He then stepped away from his underlings to address the prisoners.

  “Okay, I need your attention. Which one of you juice boxes is missing?”

  When there wasn’t an immediate reply from the assembly, Brandon shouted out, “Whoever helps me, I will make sure to return the gesture…”

  “Yo' momma.”

  The words were loud enough for the three goons to hear, but too low for any of them to finger one particular prisoner.

  “Who the hell said that?” shouted Brandon as he scrambled up and down the lines.

  “Sir… I think Murphy is missing,” said Barrett.

  Brandon immediately ran up to him. “And why do you think that?”

  “Because he is usually standing with us, but now he’s not. Sir.”

  The prisoners who heard Barrett’s answer smiled.

  “Sir, I heard Murphy speaking about how he missed his momma.”

  The shift supervisor brushed by Barrett to get in Juarez’s face, because the way Juarez enunciated the word “momma” left little doubt who had shouted out the insult earlier.

  “Why don’t you say, ‘Yo’ momma,’ again, Juarez,” said Brandon.

  “No… I couldn’t possibly top the way you just said it, sir,” answered Juarez.

  Everyone around the guard and prisoner snickered.

  “Okay, Juarez, what exactly did Murphy have to say?” asked Brandon.

  “Hard to make out exactly, sir. He was doing most of his crying in the shower and it was hard to hear, you know, with the water going, and the soap in your ear.”

  Fontaine turned to Helske and Fontaine.

  “Find him. Now. And bring his sorry ass back for a whipping.”

  The two guards had been searching in the barracks building for over twenty minutes, when Helske let out a yell.

  Fontaine followed the voice down the hallway near the showers area. He discovered his shift partner standing just outside the supply closet with Murphy’s body hanging from the ceiling.

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, Fonty, he’s just sleeping in,” answered Helske.

  “Hey, it's a fair question,” protested Helske. “Who the fuck knows anymore?”

  Brandon was pacing back and forth behind the assembly. He glanced at his watch, and almost swallowed his tongue when he saw the time. He couldn’t put it off any longer, he needed to wake Spector and give him the bad news.

  Then there was the sound of tapping on glass, and Brandon rushed over anxiously to see what Helske was motioning for him to see.

  “Fuck me. Had to happen on my shift!” Brandon mumbled to himself. “Get him down from there,” Brandon shouted through the window at Helske.

  Fontaine was the one up on the chair, trying to lift the body through the loop. Helske was standing a few feet away hoping his partner wouldn’t need his help.

  “Sorry, this guy is kind of a load. I’m going to need a little intervention here.”

  Helske sighed, wrapped his arms around the body’s legs and lifted him up.

  The alligator clip, attached to the wires, closed a
round the metal rod, setting off a series of sparks, which then surged into a full-blown fireworks show in the closet.

  The two goons violently shook as thousands of volts of electricity shot through their bodies.

  Spector and Brandon entered the building and immediately saw smoke drifting down the shower hallway. They rushed to the supply closet and discovered that both of the early shift guards had joined the suicide victim, not only in death, but also in appearance, as all three corpses looked like meat left overnight on a flaming BBQ.

  ***

  Helske's body was set down on the ground next to Fontaine.

  Both bodies were just a few feet away; neither had yet been bagged because Spector wanted his entire security team to see the full glory of what had happened to them.

  Matt couldn’t believe it, but Spector was totally playing into his plan. He was almost afraid that some of the other prisoners, already suspicious, would now believe he had struck a deal with the head of CCC security.

  “Look at them. This could be any of you,” yelled Spector at his guards. “I will tell you one thing, it won’t be me.”

  He grabbed the hair of one of his goons with such force that the guard lost his footing. Spector dragged him the rest of the way and stuck his nose into Fontaine’s burnt corpse as if he were training a misbehaving dog that had just shit on the living-room carpet.

  “Smell that? That’s what stupidity smells like!”

  The prisoners were intentionally milling about close to where the bodies had been laid, near the cadaver van.

  Matt had rehearsed with the others two different distraction scenarios he had been taught by veteran Army Rangers on his first tour. But Spector was making all of those preparations redundant.

  The goon who’d had his nose rubbed into the crispy corpse of his recently departed colleague was finally released by Spector, and he crawled back to the rest of the assembled guards.

  But Spector wasn’t finished with his demonstration. With a menacing sneer, he withdrew a hunting knife from his belt and marched toward his team.

  The first to break from the security assembly was the one Spector made a point to pursue. After chasing the guard down, Spector subdued him, then raked his blade across the skin of the goon’s arm.

  While this was happening, both Helske and Fontaine were put in body bags by a pair of CCC guards. Dietz zipped the three body bags, then motioned for the guards to load them onto the cadaver van. After all three bags were loaded in the back, the guards moved to join the security assembly, but Spector’s angry voice stopped them in their tracks… just a few feet from the cadaver van

  Matt, Tyra, and Juarez had no choice but to continue to wait to board the vehicle.

  A heavy hand landed on Matt’s shoulder, causing him to wince. He was still healing from the beating he took from Spector.

  “Oh, did that hurt. I’m really sorry about that,” said Barrett. “I guess I keep on forgetting what you've sacrificed for all of us.” He then bent down so he could whisper in Matt’s ear. “Want to know the truth...? I still think you're going to jackrabbit on us once you get beyond the main fence.”

  He tilted his head away from Barrett’s warm breath on his skin. “I got your point the first time. You were wrong then. And you’re wrong now,” said Matt.

  “I hope so,” said Barrett, using his big paw to squeeze Matt’s shoulder. “It'll save me from spending the rest of my life hunting you down...”

  The second guard to break from the assembly was chased down next and dragged by the collar of his black jumpsuit across the compound. Spector then planted the goon right next to the guard he had sliced with his knife.

  “There you go. Now start sucking…”

  “Sir?!”

  “You heard me, start sucking his blood!”

  When they hesitated, Spector grabbed for his knife, but that’s all he needed to do, because the second goon suddenly leaped forward. He fastened his lips on the bleeding arm of his fellow guard and started sucking like his life depended on it.

  The way Spector hovered over the pair watching, perhaps it did.

  The whole spectacle had the two guards, standing near the cadaver van, terrified they would trigger Spector’s wrath. They sprinted over to join the rest of the assembled guards, even though the van’s doors were still wide open.

  It was the opening the prisoners needed, and they formed a wall of seemingly interested observers while Matt, Tyra, and Juarez hopped into the van.

  Matt specifically went for Murphy’s body bag. The last thing he wanted was for Tyra to be riding next to him.

  Juarez unzipped Helske’s body bag, and the sight of the goon’s twisted, grisly body caused him to flinch.

  “Oh, my god, that smells horrible. What the hell did this guy eat before he died?! I’m not doing this…”

  Tyra had already unzipped her body bag when she realized Juarez was serious.

  “We don’t have time to argue!”

  “No one said anything about spooning with a dead guy,” whispered Juarez.

  “You either get in the fucking bag now,” said Tyra, “or, I promise you, you’ll be getting a bag all to yourself when I get back.”

  Juarez looked over at Matt.

  “I’ll trade you for Murphy.”

  Matt’s response was to zip up Murphy’s body bag around him.

  Dr. Dietz shut the van doors, and the engine of the cadaver van started up.

  Juarez did a quick air cross, then took a deep breath before climbing inside.

  Spector was wrapping up his demonstration to his team of guards.

  “If the prisoners start killing themselves, it will only be a matter of time before our overlords start looking for replacements for their blood supply.…”

  The goon had stopped sucking on the other guard’s arm wound. Spector noticed, rushed up, and delivered a hard kick in the ass.

  “You keep on sucking his blood until I tell you to stop…”

  After the guard began sucking again, Spector resumed his speech.

  “I’m not confident any of you truly understand our potential future. That’s why I took the time to show you.”

  Spector moved to the guard sucking on the arm, and raised his head by grabbing onto the guard’s mullet. There was blood smeared all over his mouth like a toddler who had been eating his first strawberry-jam breakfast.

  “This won’t be me. If you don’t want it to be you, then you’ll get your shit together, now!”

  “Sir, did you call me over?” asked Doctor Dietz.

  “Yes, one of my guards has sustained an injury that I need you to attend to…”

  Dietz looked back just as the cadaver van started to pull out of the compound.

  “Of course sir, I’ll address this at once…”

  “No, take your time,” said Spector. “The way these fuckheads are doing their jobs, they’re all going to be dead anyway.”

  Spector then stormed off.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  <incoming>messagevcnet>>

  Greetings Fellow Shadows,

  I wish I was writing to you with more upbeat news, but I am seated on the VC only at the grace of those of you who believe in my will, and continue to support me through these troubling times.

  An unfortunate turn of events has forced me to announce that negotiations between the so-called “red wing” and “black wing” factions have broken off.

  At this moment, I would characterize the possibility that the two wings will resume talks and reach a compromise as more than doubtful.

  Indeed, I will characterize the situation by repeating a word that someone on one of the wing factions used during a heated argument in the middle of negotiations…

  The word is “floating.”

  I must admit I felt very offended, at hearing the word spoken aloud, not only because of the context, but also because the speaker who uttered the word did so as if he was perfectly entitled to not only use the w
ord to support his argument, but that he should feel comfortable in allowing the word to leave his lips in such a casual manner.

  Simply put, there are those amongst our kind who believe that because we all share a similar existence, we all have had a similar experience. And that is simply not true.

  At the expense of offending those who need not defend their knowledge of what the word actually means, I will lay down a few details of background for those who cannot claim such experience.

  There was a time when travel between the different regions meant weeks of isolation on board a ship, which often forced the hand of a shadow who wanted to simply survive.

  Killing one crew member of the ship could be hidden. The draining of two crew members might have gone unnoticed if it was cleverly handled, but the loss of blood from three members of a ship’s crew would, without exception (I’m drawing on the personal experience of four transatlantic, oceanic journeys), trigger a full-scale witch hunt from rudder to anchor.

  Anyone who even looked like they had red in their cheeks would be keelhauled or receive twenty lashes before being set adrift.

  “Floating” is the word those of us with personal experience came to use to signify the beastly survival tactics one must employ when forced to utilize the blood from the other “passengers” of the ship, who would not be missed.

  None of those experiences are looked back with any pride. But it is we “floaters,” living off of the blood of rats, who have enabled many of you to be reading this at all. Forgive me for coming off as “old school,” but unless you’ve actually had rat hair stuck between your teeth, I do not believe you are qualified to use the word in any context, no matter how much you claim your policies will alleviate suffering amongst our kind.