Evolve: Vampire Stories of the New Undead

by Unknown

  “Dr. Lake?” says Dr. Gontard. “Please stop.”

  The door behind him opens and two Redcoats stand just outside it, blocking his exit.

  The gig is up. But the spotlight is still on. What would he say to a Minister caught in a lie? No comment, no comment, no comment. He doubts that will work here.

  “It’s not Dr. Lake, is it?” Dr. Gontard says. “Convenient that you come on the day we find a universal donor. That the universal donor has a mysterious disease no one else has heard of, and that you are able to, equally conveniently, provide us with a definition, a history of the disease. No, I think not. He called you Jake.”

  “He said Dr. Lake, but he’s sedated and is slurring,” Jacob says.

  “Jake, where am I? Who’s talkin’?” Harlin asks.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Moybridge,” Jacob turns to him. “We’ll have you fixed up and back in your room soon. Don’t worry.”

  He places a hand on Harlin’s arm. Not great timing, Harlin.

  “Ah!” Dr. Gontard says, smiling, as if he holds all the cards now. His voice has an uplift, a lilt. “You’re listed as next of kin. Jake Moybridge, husband. Well, that makes sense.”

  No comment. No Comment. No comment. These are the rules of politics and media.

  “My name is Dr. Lake and I have come from St. Mary’s in Omaha, Nebraska.”

  “Mr. Moybridge... .Jake, there’s no need to play any roles now. It’s valiant, trying to save the life of your husband. We’re doctors. We hold to the same values. We want to save lives. Your husband is a universal donor.” He pauses, looking around at the Redcoats.

  “Dr. Gontard, we can argue over my identity all you want, but this patient is a health risk to this hospital and I must insist that this be our priority.”

  Dr. Gontard smiles. “By all means.” He waves to the men in the doorway. They step to either side of the gurney.

  “No!” Jacob says instinctively. He pulls one of the doctors away, hitting him across the face with the back of his arm.

  “See,” Dr. Gontard says through the speakers. “The actions of a husband, not a doctor.” He waves again and the two Redcoats back away to the door.

  “Mr. Moybridge, you are standing at the edge of the greatest opportunity you will probably ever have to make a difference in this world. Your husband has impeccable blood — a kind of blood that will save our lives, even as we save yours. We are filters. We take out disease and give you back better blood. But there are so many of you, so many people with BBD, that we filter too much. We finally succumb to it ourselves. And who is here to save us? No one. We are discovering our own limits.”

  He turns to his right and begins to walk the length of the circular area, as if he’s in a lecture hall and Jacob his only student.

  “But Harlin Moybridge has a chance to change that. His blood — with its purity and exceptionally rapid regenerative quality — will give us the ability to transfuse without consequence. We’ll save more lives, and be under less risk ourselves. Thousands of people, Jake, will benefit from Harlin’s blood.”

  “You want to do a transfusion of his blood?” Jacob asks.

  The doctor stops walking. “Jake, we need all of Harlin’s blood. We can’t give any back. It’s not a transfusion as much as a donation that we need. A donation for humankind. Harlin’s blood, combined with our skills, may mean that we can duplicate his blood type and strength for all the doctors.”

  “Did you ask Harlin?”

  Silence.

  “No,” Jacob steps more into the light. “You listed him as dead. You didn’t consult his husband. Where are the patient’s rights, Dr. Gontard? You didn’t want to bother with someone saying no. How many people have you done this to already?”

  Dr. Gontard snaps, “Don’t look at us with disgust, Mr. Moybridge. Surely you can empathize. We were just like you once — a minority no one cared about. We were forced to feed in the dark, forced to put who we were into a back alley. We cleaned up your poor, your diseased, your refuse from your streets. And now we hold respectable positions. We save lives. We don’t often take a life on purpose anymore — but we could. We could still feed off of you, you know. Be the shadowy scary ‘vampires’ of legend. But we don’t, because society gave us a chance. And we rose to the occasion. The world needs us. And we need your husband. And when you are that badly needed, what is one sacrifice for millions?”

  “Then sacrifice yourselves if it’s that important to you,” Jacob says.

  Dr. Gontard places his hands against the glass. His fingers elongate becoming needles again. “Who is looking out for us, Mr. Moybridge? Can you honestly say that you would sacrifice the lives of other people to save your husband? Can you make that choice?”

  Jacob drops his head, feels like his feet are taking root, but it’s just because he’s pressing them into the floor. “First of all,” he says, “you and I have nothing in common. Gays as a group do not kill people, nor feed off anyone. You were a minority that had a skill, and you volunteered that skill. Your choice. You benefited from that skill and from your choice. Second, Harlin Moybridge has a choice to become or not become your saviour. You have to obey the same law that gave you benefit and power. You can’t say you’re saving lives when you decide who gets to be saved. Hospitals are obligated to heal everyone. It’s part of the Hippocratic Oath to ‘Do no harm’ — even if harming might save millions.”

  “One interpretation of a law,” says Dr. Gontard. “You want to ask Harlin Moybridge? Let’s ask him.” Dr. Gontard calls out, “Harlin Moybridge!”

  Jacob’s voice rises. “He’s half asleep. He’s sedated. You can’t ask him to give up his life for whatever reason if he can’t understand the question.”

  “Harlin Moybridge, would you like to save the world?”

  “Harlin, don’t listen to him,” Jacob tells Harlin. His fear, his real fear is that Harlin would love to save the world. It is the kind of question he has been waiting for his entire life. He loves swooping in with a heroic, helpful hand. Sacrifice is something he would do if he had the shot. To be the Messiah... what if he says yes?

  “What’s he saying? Saving people?” Harlin asks.

  Jacob looks up at Dr. Gontard, walks towards him. “You can’t believe that his answer is binding in any court of law. He’s drugged!”

  “Harlin, you have perfect blood,” says the doctor.

  Harlin smiles, slurs his words. “I know. I got a helluva pedigree.”

  “Harlin, we need you to help us.”

  “What? What do you need? Just ask. Jake, tell him he can have what he wants.”

  Jacob turns to the crowd of Redcoats, pleads with them. “How is this right? You can’t be doing this. I’ll expose you to every news media outlet. I know everyone in the media, everyone.” Okay, he’s just threatened people with needles on the ends of their fingers. He tries to calm down. “You’re still the vampires you were if you’re taking innocent lives.”

  “Harlin,” Dr. Gontard continues, “we need your blood.”

  “You want my blood, don’t ya? It’s good, damn good blood.” Harlin is smiling. Eating up the attention.

  “We need that damn good blood, Harlin. We need you to donate your blood for sick people everywhere. Your blood will save millions of people, Harlin. Do you want to save millions of people?”

  Harlin grins, looks at Jacob. “Millions of people?”

  “Yes, millions of people. But we need all that blood. You have to give us your life, Harlin, for the lives of millions.”

  Jacob grabs hold of Harlin’s bare shoulders. “Harlin, they want to kill you.”

  “Harlin,” the doctor says. “We want you to volunteer.”

  Jacob starts to cry. He can’t help it. He’s powerless. Harlin reaches out and touches Jacob’s face, traces his right eye. He cups his chin in the palm of his hand and stares into Jacob’s eyes.

  Then he turns his head to address Dr. Gontard. “All these sick people you’re talking ‘bout...” He looks around at
the Redcoats standing above. He sounds almost awake, but slightly drunk.

  The Redcoats silently wait to hear what he will say. Jacob waits, scared that if Harlin gives his permission, Jacob will have no power to do anything about it.

  Harlin frowns. “Why should I give up my blood for them? People don’t take care of themselves today.” He throws an arm into the air. “Lazy assholes. Let ‘em get their own selves better. Sheesh! How many times you gonna drain one of us to save one of them? Get your own damn blood! I made mine myself, took good care of it, stayed healthy — and now I gotta die to save millions? You’re full of shit, that’s what you are. And I mean that, from the bottom of my bloody, damn-good bloody heart. You bastards!”

  He lolls his head back. “Sheesh. What do they think I am now — a bloody blood bank?”

  Jacob smiles, barely suppresses it and looks up at the doctors. “Satisfied?”

  The doctors murmur. Someone speaks up. “Mr. Moybridge is right. Perhaps we should ask Harlin Moybridge when he comes out of the sedative. I think if he understood the question—”

  Jacob laughs a little to himself. They don’t know Harlin. And he realizes that, for a moment, he didn’t know Harlin. He looks at his husband, who is rubbing his eyes, complaining about the strong light in the room. Jacob loves him for being a damn curmudgeon at the right moments.

  Jacob glances at the Redcoats standing above at the windows, at the way the doctors are looking at them, at how their fingers elongate, how they sharpen into needles. It seems you can take the vampire out of the alley, but give him a bright room and he’ll turn it into a back alley. Now vampires will kill people for the good of the world! If the world knows, will it sanction this?

  Jacob reaches for Harlin’s hand and holds onto its warmth. Harlin squeezes his hand, using the leverage to sit up then stand.

  Redcoats pour into the room through the door, surrounding them; a red river.

  “There’s only a hundred of ‘em,” Harlin says. “We can take ‘em, buddy!”

  The Sun Also Shines On the Wicked

  By Kevin Nunn

  I arrived later than expected, about two-ish. When Stefan let me in, he appeared different, but not in a way I could immediately put my finger on.

  “I came as soon as it was convenient.”

  Stefan looked me up and down as if taking a moment to remember why I was here, his light eyes flicking here and there before he snapped his long fingers. “Kenneth; of course! There is no need to rush; all won’t be completely ready until seven or so.”

  “Seven!” I declared, allowing my surprise and irritation to show a little at this ridiculous idea. “I need to be home by then, as you well know.”

  He stepped aside, waving an elegant hand as if this was a triviality, and I stepped past him. “I have a spare chamber, you can stay there.”

  “Ridiculous! What is important enough to take such a risk?”

  “The sun, of course,” he declared matter-of-factly.

  “Stefan, you are mad.” I declared grumpily. Of course he was mad. Most of us were; it was a risk with our condition.

  “I sincerely hope so,” he said, striding to an elegant antique cask and drawing me a thick red drink. “Madness is clarity, without the shackles of context.”

  I accepted the goblet. It was excellent. “For this…” I raised the glass, “I forgive you. You have excellent stock.”

  He waved his hand dismissively and, now that he was closer to the lamp, I noticed the difference more clearly than I had upon arrival.

  “Stefan! Your hand…!”

  He smiled, and drew himself another glass of ruby liquid, but played up my observation, holding the glass high before his face with his hand between us.

  “Your skin … it’s darkened. You have a, oh what’s the word … a tan; that’s it, a tan!”

  He smirked, “Really? And how would I procure one of those?” He asked and took a drink. He licked the thick juice from his lips, not wasting a drop.

  “I believe that the common method is to expose yourself to the sun, but what I’m curious about is how you did it. It’s not just make-up, is it? That would be very disappointing.”

  “No, although I have to admit that I did experiment with something called ‘liquid tanning’, but it is, unfortunately, merely a chemical application. In the end it served no purpose to my line of experimentation.” He placed his empty glass on the table. “Follow me, I shall show you the apparatus.”

  He opened large double doors, thick old wood, quite uncommon these days, and led me into his laboratory.

  “You do not wish to find yourself in this room in the morning,” he stated plainly, pointing up. “You would find a rather unpleasant surprise.”

  There, above him, was an accoutrement that one would not find in the abodes of any in our circle of friends; a glass panel in the ceiling.

  “A window? No, wait, what is the vernacular?—”

  “You really should adjust to these new times,” Stefan declared. “It is called a ‘skylight’.”

  “But in the morning the sun will shine through it, entirely unimpeded!”

  “Rather the point”

  I had nothing to say to that. The idea was unsettling and I just stood for a few minutes, half empty glass in my hand forgotten as I gazed at the stars peeking out from behind the clouds in the sky. I returned to myself and drained my glass. It was quite normal for me to stare up at the stars, lost in reverie, remembering clearer stars from less complicated days, and darker nights.

  “Stefan, what do you hope to prove, exactly? You are not suicidal — I know you better than that.”

  “Am I not?” he mused. “Did we not go to death all too easily the first time?”

  “Speak for yourself. Like so many of us, I had no choice.”

  “Like so many of us, you chose to continue nonetheless.”

  “Don’t be smug. I am not suicidal either, and I know myself a good deal better than I know you.”

  “When did you last see the sun?” Stefan inquired.

  “Yesterday. I was unsettled and watched some television,” I replied with pique. “It does not have appeared to have changed much, so I hardly imagine we’ve missed anything.”

  “Have we not?” Stefan mused, his gaze drawn to, then through the skylight.

  I strode to the cask. “You owe me another glass, I think.” I turned the spigot to let it pour. “For your overdramatic presentation, if nothing else. Next we’ll be striding around baring our fangs and hissing gratuitously.”

  He at least had the good manners to chuckle at that. “Let’s hope it has not come to that. We’ll all be wearing pirate shirts should it end that way. Pour me another as well. We’ll see to it that the cask is empty by the time the sun rises.”

  I obliged. “So tell me, then, when you last saw the fiery orb,” I said.

  “The last I saw the sun, I lay in the grass of my homeland, arms twined around my beloved. I thought the day, the sun, special then, but have come to revere it even more since.”

  “Very poetic. I imagine she is long dead, so I don’t think you’ll be needing the sun again. Leave the past were it belongs.”

  “I have. A century does wonders to mend a broken heart.”

  “And your cask does wonders to fill an empty one.” I drained the goblet again, savouring the rich flavour. “Your supply is quite robust.”

  Stefan smiled. “It is rich in vitamin D.”

  “Spare me the mumbo jumbo of these modern days. Neither of us cares for vitamins.”

  “I used to think that too…” Stefan grinned at me like the proverbial Cheshire cat. “All I mean to say is that it is rich in sunlight.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You are a dog with a bone. Very well, I will sit and endure your lunacy for friendship’s sake, but try not to drag it out too long.” I made myself comfortable on a nearby couch, hoping that he would not spout foolish theories all night long.

  “Very well. Observe!” He strode to the corner and pu
lled a drop cloth off of a large contraption of wood with wheels at the bottom. It resembled a pergola, much as one would expect to see in a garden with vines curling up the edges and grapes hanging down. But instead of leaves and fruit, it bore an arrangement of narrow dangling mirrors in triangular shapes, many six foot strips of them fused together. These triangles were further arranged in slightly overlapping layers, somewhat like Venetian blinds. They covered the length and width of the top, and hung four deep, a web of wires thin as spider webs holding everything in place but allowing each long mirror to sway gently from the sudden removal of the cloth. “Good heavens! Rube Goldberg would be proud.”

  “Form follows function.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. An actual explanation would be preferred.”

  “When was the last time you purchased a mirror,” Stefan asked with a smirk.

  “Some years ago. A designer felt that it suited the front hall. I kept it; I have a fondness for irony in design elements.”

  “I use mine to reflect the sun. It certainly brightens up the room. Your designer might have mentioned that particular usage—”

  “I believe it was meant to reflect some flowers, however, the lack of natural light tends to limit their longevity.”

  Stefan smiled. “I keep my blooms under the skylight; they remain quite robust. It’s interesting, but did you know that all things on earth owe their life to the energy of the sun?”

  “Depending upon your definition of life, no, not everything does.”

  “You are wrong my friend. All plants and animals would die without the sun.”

  “Well then, how clever of us to die first and give up the sun second.”

  Stefan rolled the strange contraption beneath the skylight, blocking it from view. He walked around the structure pushing down levers with his foot, locking the wheels in place before stopping at one of the support pillars. As he spun the ratchet, the mirrors beneath wound down the silver-web cables like spiders descending from the heavens. The mirrors opened, a tumbling waterfall, and all the various corners of the large room jumbled in the panes showing a confused mish-mash of walls and corners as if Escher had gone mad. Almost everything in the room, save only its occupants, could be found at least partially in the images.