The Drayton Chronicles
The evolution of a vampire
by
Tony Bertauski
The Drayton Chronicles is a collection of novellas
Drayton, the Taker Copyright © 2010 by Tony Bertauski
Bearing the Cross Copyright © 2010 by Tony Bertauski
Swift is the Current Copyright © 2010 by Tony Bertauski
Yellow Copyright © 2012 by Tony Bertauski
Numbers Copyright © 2013 by Tony Bertauski
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
This book is a work of fiction. The use of real people or real locations is used fictitiously. Any resemblance of characters to real persons is purely coincidental.
Cover Image courtesy of Victor Habbick at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Drayton once believed he was a vampire. He doesn’t know what he is. Or why he has lived for thousands of years. He takes not his victim’s blood but the silky essence of their soul during their last breath. Often mistaken for the Angel of Death, his victims sometimes ask for forgiveness. Sometimes he delivers. After all, he is not without sin.
These are his stories.
COLLECTION of NOVELLAS
Drayton, the Taker
Sometimes, Death delivers.
Bearing the Cross
Vengeance is not delivered with a sword.
Swift is the Current
Some bad seeds are worth saving.
Yellow
Forgiveness is a difficult journey.
Numbers
If you knew, would you tell?
Drayton, the Taker
Sometimes, Death delivers.
I
Punk-ass bitch.
Blake ignored his Thoughts. When you hear something like that a million times, it loses meaning. Or it sinks in so deep you don’t even notice it, like a clock ticking on the wall.
The Thoughts lived in Blake’s head from the very beginning. When he was five, he talked back to them. He’d be up in his attic room playing games with them, like Chutes and Ladders. They were friendly, told him he was smart. That he was a good boy. The Thoughts were Blake’s best friend. His parents figured it was just an imaginary friend. That it was normal. Healthy, they said.
But the Thoughts changed when Blake was eighteen, wanted him to do things he didn’t want to do. Wanted things he shouldn’t want to do. That’s when Blake started ignoring them, but he’d lived with them all his life. And they didn’t like being pushed aside. He tried to make them go away with booze and dope and sometimes that worked, but they always came back. Some say Blake Barnes just up and went crazy one day. If you asked Blake, he’d tell you he just couldn’t take it anymore.
Motherfucker.
Now he was on his back. Snow had drifted over him. He was beyond cold. Shivers had racked his body like electricity, but that was over now. They ended… he couldn’t remember how long ago they ended. How long had he even been lying in the snow? Two hours? Eight? Funny, he didn’t know that, either.
Blake had maxed out his credit cards buying climbing gear in Portland. The debt collectors could kiss his ice cold ass. He also bought a Range Rover. It had in-dash GPS, satellite radio, seat warmers and a dashboard that talked. Fucking classy. He drove up to Mt. Hood and left it at the Timberline Lodge with the keys in the ignition for some lucky bastard. Finders keepers.
The sky was gray when he left the automobile running in the parking lot. The top of Mt. Hood swirled with clouds driven by searing wind that could clean the chrome off a set of Craftsmans. He had started the climb without seeing a single person. Nobody in their right mind would climb in that weather. Unless they had the Thoughts living in their head.
About a thousand feet up, Blake passed two retreating climbers crusted with snow. They warned him. Called him crazy. Me? Crazy? One of them grabbed Blake. “It’s suicide, man. You got a death wish?” The climber tried to force him back with them until Blake connected with a right hook above the guy’s ear. Pain lanced the back of his hand. He broke a knuckle, but it was a sweet punch. Put that asshole on his back. Made the Thoughts giggle.
“Go on, kill yourself,” the guy said.
We will.
Five hundred more feet up the mountain, the blizzard was all around him. The wind had scrubbed his cheeks raw and flattened his lungs. He thought maybe he remembered the sulfuric smell of Devil’s Kitchen, maybe even made it to the base of Hogsback Ridge before time got hazy on him. Or maybe he fell down after he clocked that climber.
It won’t be long now.
Freezing to death ain’t so bad, really. At first it sucked, sure, but after the body ate up all its energy, there was nothing left to shiver and everything went numb. It was kind of pleasant, really, like half a dozen pills. The Thoughts were still muttering because those motherfuckers never shut up, but even they were getting drowsy. Maybe they would go to sleep for once. That’s why Blake took the trip, after all. To shut their ass up.
A hang glider appeared in the snow. Blake had been comfortably numb for a long time, even thought his eyelashes had crusted over, but there it was, a goddamn hang glider. He found the strength to sit up. The wind was still blowing, but wasn’t so cold. In fact, it was sort of balmy. He climbed on quite nimbly, pushed off the side of the mountain like he’d hang glided all his life and soared out of the storm and away from Mt. Hood. Away from the Thoughts.
Below was a thick green forest and above puffy skies. White cotton tore off the clouds, snagged on the glider and stuck to his face. It tasted like cotton candy. Vanilla-flavored. He went in and out, poking holes in the sides of the clouds, harvesting light, fluffy goodies in his outstretched hands and shoving them down his gullet like he was seven years old again, walking through the fairgrounds.
Blake saw his house. It was nestled in the woods below, smoke leaking out the chimney. He bought the cabin ten years earlier for next to nothing because everything was cheap in the middle of nowhere. And that’s where Blake wanted to be, miles away from everyone and everything. Trees didn’t talk back. And if an animal got in your business you could stick a gun up its ass and blow the lunch out of its mouth. No law against that.
Blake mixed with people like ketchup and ice cream. Too bad he couldn’t outrun the Thoughts. In fact, they just got louder now that they had Blake all to themselves. Wanting this, wanting that, go here, do this, you fuck. You fat, disgusting, perverted fuck. They whispered when he hunted so as not to startle the deer. They shut up when he made the kill and dressed it right there. They hummed, like that fat Willie Wonka kid swimming in chocolate. Sometimes they told him to do things to the carcass, like cut the eyes out and piss in the skull. Blake refused. That was sick. But then they wouldn’t shut up. So, you know.
They listened to pain. Like when he put a hot iron on his leg, oh, they listened, all right. Once he hung himself from a doorknob and jerked off until he blacked out. They shut up for the rest of the night. He hung himself from the doorknob a dozen more times, but they got bored after while, so he pounded ten-penny nails through his hand, pulled a molar out with pliers and even peeled a fingernail off his little finger. But they always got bored. That’s when Blake came up with the Mt. Hood idea.
Blake was afraid seeing the cabin might wake the Thoughts up. He might be insane, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew he was hallucinating. But just to be safe, he steered away from the cabin. He just wanted to go to sleep, drift off in a nice and numb blackness, go back to that feeling when he was tiny, suckling on his momma’s satisfying tit. Everything was going to plan and he didn’t want the Thoughts fucking it up.
Blake turned the hang glider for Las Vegas. He hadn’t been to Vegas in years. In fact, the last
time he’d been to Vegas was… well, right before he moved to the cabin. He took all the money and played blackjack, craps, and slots. Stuffed his winnings in women’s panties. Sade was a plastic-titty stripper. He must’ve shoved a thousand dollars down her shorts that week. She didn’t really thank him, either, besides grind his lap until he shot a load in his pants. For shit sake, a thousand bucks should’ve at least got him a hand job. The Thoughts wanted Blake to teach the whore a lesson, something along the lines of pissing in her skull. That’s why Blake left for the country. Ketchup and ice cream.
The Vegas strip illuminated the sky. Blake brought the glider down, figured to make a landing and hit the first club running. He could hear the traffic, wondered if a shot of whiskey would buzz him up, even if it was imaginary. Hell, he could do all the coke he wanted. He could teach Sade a lesson, too. You know, chop her goddamn head off. Nothing illegal about pretending to do that.
The Vegas lights flickered. He’d have to hurry if he was going to get into Sade. No telling how long the hallucination would last. He never believed there was life after death, so he needed to do it before his body froze solid. The glider spun, aimed at the hood of a BMW pulling in front of the Bellagio. He’d impale the car, maybe the driver, too.
But he didn’t spear the car. Didn’t even land on the strip. The pavement turned to black water and the police sirens sounded like insects. City lights dimmed and the sun was setting on the far end of a marsh. Blake crashed in a wetland.
No.
Not only did the dream get off track, he landed in the Lowcountry, the last fucking place on Earth Blake wanted to be. That was the whole goddamn reason he went to Oregon. He took an oath never to set foot in South Carolina again. He was born there but for shit sake he wasn’t going to die there, even in a dream. He tried to get the glider running again, but the pluff mud pulled at his feet. Blake went face first into the mud, sucking him down into the smelly wet ground. Fuck it, he wasn’t going to die in a shitty hallucination.
His eyelashes crunched as he opened his eyes back on the mountain. Snow had completely covered his face. He wasn’t numb anymore. He was smoking ass hot, in the last throes of hypothermia as the blood vessels constricted. He pissed all over himself, too.
Why the hell did he have to end up in the Lowcountry? That hallucination was going just fine and ended like his whole life had gone. Just shitty. Blake couldn’t catch a break. He was born with the Thoughts and he’d die with them. For once he just wanted to feel happy, but he couldn’t even do that right. The Thoughts were right, he deserved to die like a pig. And he deserved to die more painfully. The Thoughts wanted him to shoot his balls off or stick his head in the fireplace. Freezing to death was too easy. But it wasn’t too late.
Blake pulled himself up. His piss-frozen pants crunched. Blake fumbled at his coat, trying to undo it but his fingers were like wooden pegs. He wanted to feel Death’s hand around his throat, wanted to feel Death rip the last breath from him like a bullet or pull his guts out with cold hands. He deserved that for the shit he’d done.
The Thoughts woke up, adrenaline dumping into his flattened veins. That’s the spirit!
A black hand touched Blake’s stiff fingers.
Blake’s eyes filled with water. He blinked several times. Was he hallucinating, again? Yeah, he must be still laying in the snow, dreaming he stood up trying to take his clothes off. He blinked again. It didn’t feel like a dream, though. Maybe he was wrong about the afterlife. Maybe he was already dead.
He was going to fall but the black hand held him steady. A boy stood in front of him, dressed like it was July. His black shirt fluttered violently in the wind.
“Am I dreaming?” Blake asked.
The boy shook his head. His lips moved, but Blake couldn’t hear him. His skin was thick, but not wrinkled. Maybe he wasn’t a boy, but something about his eyes, his clear blue eyes, looked innocent. Blake was lying in the snow, for real this time. The boy hovered over him, his nostrils flaring. The boy’s touch was somehow colder than the air.
“Are you an angel?” Blake asked.
The boy spoke into his ear. “Of sorts.”
An angel. Of course, he was the Angel of Death. Blake hadn’t thought it would be so literal, an actual boy coming for him, but then again this was his first time dying. Somehow he pictured Death wearing a black cloak riding a fire-spitting black horse. Big fangs. The stink of death preceding him like a rotting corpse. Turned out Death was a boy with a respectful disposition. Who would’ve guessed?
The boy took Blake’s hand away and unbuckled the top of his coat. The wind rushed inside, down his neck and over his chest. He couldn’t feel much, though. Numbness returned. The boy massaged Blake’s chest. It began to hurt.
“Don’t save me.”
The boy continued to rub.
“I don’t want to live.” Blake grabbed his arm, tears swelled in his eyes. “I don’t deserve it.”
The boy didn’t blink. Blake somehow knew he was not trying to save him. He was beyond saving. The boy was helping him die. Of course, he was. He was Death. The boy continued rubbing as if it were a ritual. The Thoughts in Blake’s head faded. Goodbye, fuckhead. He saw the Lowcountry marsh again. The sun had nearly set on the horizon, only a sliver of the orange disc left. Blake felt the sticky mud wrap around his ankles. He saw the messes he left in South Carolina. The people he hurt. The things he’d done.
Blake’s lips hardly moved. “Do me a favor.”
The boy looked annoyed.
“Find my family. Tell them… tell them I’m sorry.”
The boy hesitated, continued rubbing. He heard. Blake knew the angel heard. Blake imagined the Lowcountry wetlands as if to draw him a map. He imagined the house he left behind ten years ago, where his family still lived. The boy flinched like the thought stung.
The boy nodded, imperceptibly. He nodded because he understood.
Blake’s breaths were numbered. The boy’s hands got colder. It felt like he was breathing through his chest, now. Like his breath was going directly into the boy’s palms. His chest continued to expand like he was still breathing, but it was getting slower. Shallower. He couldn’t feel his heart anymore. But at least the Thoughts were gone. For once in his life, gone for good. Blake was right to bring them to this mountain. For once, he got something right.
Blake Barnes passed from life on Mt. Hood. His last breath leaked from him. His body was below him. The boy hovered over it, his hands pressed on his sternum like he was about to administer CPR. The wind had no effect on Blake, passing through him on another plane. Up, he went, the body far below. The mountain faded and Blake was going wherever dead people go, but not before he heard one last thing. It could’ve been one last Thought come to haunt him, but it sounded more like the boy pressing close to Blake’s body.
“Thank you,” the boy said.
And just before the mountain and the snow and the world faded, the boy took from Blake what he came for.
II
Annie was starting the midnight shift at the Waffle House. It was her second shift that day. She wiped her hands and grabbed the coffee pot to make the rounds. Ernie Crites, a fat man that spent the last year wearing out the stool near the cash register, smiled at her with eggs stuck in his bristled mustache. Ernie started a conversation while she topped his coffee mug. Something about bowling. Ernie was a good tipper, so she listened. She was nodding, but she was looking to the end of the counter where a kid stared into his cup. Ernie noticed. He tried to change the subject, talked about what Annie was doing when she got off her shift.
Annie walked off, mid-Ern-sentence, and filled the kid’s cup. “Need anything else?”
The kid snapped out of his thoughts, noticing Annie with steam rising out of the coffee pot. She hadn’t seen him around. He exuded charm like a fragrance. Annie leaned against the counter, wondering if he was older than she thought. His skin was dark, like it had been exposed to endless sun. She could feel the warmth radiating from him.
Annie jerked backed, shook her head. It felt like she was doused with ice water.
“You sleeping on the job?” Ernie the fat man said, bouncing as he laughed.
Annie frowned. The young man stared back into his cup. She picked up the coffee. Steam was no longer rising from the pot. She put it back on the hot plate. Who screwed with the air conditioner?
The kid finished his coffee and slid the cup across the counter, placed a crisp bill on top and started for the door. Ernie spun on his stool and stuck his foot out. The kid politely stopped. Ernie mumbled something to him. The kid didn’t respond. Ernie stood, pulling his belt up under his belly, snorting a layer of phlegm back in his throat. He was going to sort out some business with this shit. Maybe because he was black, maybe because he blew off Annie. Or maybe just because.
Annie was fishing forks out of a basket but noticed Ernie grab the kid. Annie had never accepted a ride from him, but that didn’t stop him from trying. And if she didn’t get over there, there’d be a fight. They’d thrown Ernie out of the Waffle House for protecting Annie’s honor once before. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have to eat his midnight eggs down at the Huddle House.
But Ernie stopped working his belt back and forth. In fact, he froze like he forgot what he was going to say and went back to his plate. The kid walked off, opened the door for a customer and left.
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