Shining in Crimson: Empire of Blood Book One (A Dystopian Vampire Novel)

by Robert S. Wilson

  * * *

  Hank had been trying to stop his restless body for quite some time by thinking of Diana. He wondered, inflicting himself purposely with this anguish, if he were to die, would he be with her. He had bounced around all his life between faith and skepticism, back and forth. But now, it seemed as though he had a chance, albeit a small one, to find out for once and for all. He told himself he could dive full on into that chance and just lay back down as he had before. But, his body would hear none of his reasoning any longer. It continued on as though he were a puppet on a string into the screaming silence of the desert.

  After a while longer of walking, he realized that his choice might have been made for him as he saw the very edge of the eastern horizon begin to fade into a dim light blue. While on ahead, he saw still only empty desert as far as he could see. It seemed to him that his body should give him back control, but it did not. It would limp on, with or without him. He knew that now. He accepted this. His legs had long been cramping, and he would have liked his last moments to have been at least somewhat comfortable. With the dim glow of predawn came the disappearance of the stars. One after another, they winked out before him until, after a while, they had all been swallowed by the enveloping gray-blue sky that was engulfing the horizon. He looked into the murky waters of the heavens, mesmerized by what they held in store for him. He had finally stopped walking and stood mouth agape as he stared up numbly into space, as though he were in a trance.

  He could see specks of black soaring through the sky that he knew had to be birds. He watched them for awhile, saying his last goodbye to the world. As they came closer, the sheer beauty of their movements made him weep for all of the nature he would leave behind, all the moments like this that he would never again experience. He pictured what it would be like to see these things with Toby just one last time.

  The bird that caught his eye first arched as it dove playfully around the others, and then rose back toward the upper atmosphere, spinning slowly in its ascent. A thunderous blast resonated from ahead of him like an explosion and he found himself jumping in pure terror. His retinas focused in the direction of the sound and he could see a great dust cloud coming up from the desert.

  A change shook through him. The numbness had dissolved in a fraction of a second and was replaced with the dread of dying. Whether it was his body's natural instinct to preserve itself or he truly had a change of heart, he didn't linger to discern for himself. He looked all around him, seeing nothing but desert everywhere he looked. There seemed to be nowhere to hide from the sun. He did the only thing he could think to do. He dove into the sand and started digging as fast as he could, using the whole length of his arms to shovel sand aside.

  He scooped left and then right, resembling an Olympic swimmer with his movements. As he dug nearly three feet of sand from the surface light spreading all around him. He dared a glance back at the horizon to see the sun had not quite risen yet, but would surely at any moment. He stumbled back around to dig as fast as he could. His arms shook violently as he lifted up the heavy sand and flung it away. The more sand he flung, the heavier his arms became. They were like limp noodles hanging from his shoulders.

  In utter desperation, he threw himself backward and used his legs to push the hole deeper. For a few moments, he made some progress this way but his legs had already been weakened from the hours of walking. His right leg spasmed in the most painful muscle cramp he ever experienced in his entire life. As he lay on his side trying to beat his leg in order to loosen the cramp, he felt the warmth of the sun on his back. Only it wasn't its usual morning warmth, it was burning his flesh.

  He tried to push himself into the tiny hole that he had dug. Even with crouching, he could only fit in up to his waist. The sun was rising, and he could feel it spreading up his body. He was about to re-situate himself headfirst into the hole when he glimpsed what was now a full fiery sun blazing over the edge of the horizon. His face began to burn and then his sight went black. All he felt was the burning and he couldn't help but wonder why it had to last so long. In his mind he said his last goodbye to Toby, and called out to his long-lost wife to come to him and see him through to the other side. When nothing changed, no voice came to his aid, no light illuminated no tunnel, he knew that he had been right to doubt all those years.

  There really was nothing. Nothing at all beyond the frailty of existence that he had known. Nothing past the point of no return. Nothing but the love, pain, misery, torture, fleeting memories of the pale blue Earth. His body fell backward into the sand as he gave up the fight for his life. Dust knocked up into the air from the collision his body made with the ground. The dust collected around him and he started coughing as it filled up his lungs. In mid-cough spasm, he saw flashes of light. But there was nothing magical about this light. After a longer coughing fit, the light went from glimpses to a slowly progressing image. As the image came into focus, a wave of confusion flushed over him. He was seeing the desert again. He was seeing it in the light of the sun. His flesh still felt as though it were roasting, but it was beginning to seem bearable. He looked down at his exposed hand. He could see some slight noticeable blistering, but it wasn't getting worse. After standing up on his feet and checking all of his limbs for functionality and limberness, he screamed out in joy. He was alive, after all. He didn't understand it, but then again he still didn't understand how he had lived through the night either. It was a known fact that vampires could not survive the exposure to the sun. He started wondering what was really happening to him if he were not truly a vampire. He quickly reached in his mouth with his sand-covered right hand and at first had to fight to stop the gagging and spitting of sand that his mouth reacted with. Then after he was able to wipe enough sand off, he tried again. The two fangs were there still, but smaller. And if they had shrunk this much, he hoped, maybe they would shrink even more. He jumped up in the air in gratitude to whatever luck had gave him this magnificent second chance. Then he took a deep breath and exhaled, smiling a smile of true happiness for the first time in many years.

  * * *

  Even though he hadn't slammed on the brakes, Lotinger felt the Roadster flip forward when it smashed into the green truck. His head crashed into the ceiling of the ‘vette and then flung back into his seat just as fast from the hold of his seat belt. From outside the windows of the car, the Earth was a blur spinning in some direction, but exactly what direction that was, Chuck couldn't tell. Faded black pavement zoomed closer in the side window as the Roadster battered itself into the road and lay still. After a moment of delirium, a quick analysis of his situation told Lotinger that his left arm was broken, his head had suffered a definite blow, and likely both of his ankles were sprained. Biting his lip through the pain, he reached with his right hand under his broken arm and unlatched his seatbelt with excruciating, deliberate movements. Then he pulled his right arm free from his mangled left arm and reached for the rearview mirror. It was just out of his reach at first. But as he stretched upward, his arm aching, his middle finger was able to get a slight hold on the black plastic casing. Eventually he was able to pull it little by little until he could get the rest of his fingers over it and began to pull himself tediously upward.

  His right arm swelled with screaming pain as he lifted himself up from the door of the Roadster. When he was able to put his first foot down, he was ready for the pain that shot into his ankle. In fact it was nothing compared to the arm, making it almost easy to stand on. But easy as it was, it was not very sturdy. He found his balance severely altered once he stood on both of his feet. Between lifting with his foot on the gear shift and pulling himself up with his one good arm by the side mirror, he was able to pull himself out of the car. By then, the sun was out completely and the full light of it blinded him for a moment as he lay hanging half out of and hunched over the passenger door of the horizontally sitting Corvette.

  After a few moments, when his sight returned, he continued pulling himself the rest of the way out of the ‘ve
tte. He remembered the small tracking device he had been using to pursue his current prey. He knew instantly it was in neither of his pockets, the last place he had remembered it being was in the passenger seat. He looked back down into the ‘vette and saw nothing resembling the tiny gadget. He tried to fight back his fury that he might not be able to find it and might not be able to complete his mission. The thought of disappointing his master flooded him with pure hatred for himself. It was, after all, completely his fault, and he deserved to be punished for it. After envisioning all the horrible ways he deserved to be slaughtered, he finally was able to focus on looking for the device. He dropped down from the bottom side of the car landing on his feet, but springing forward from the impact and banging his head on the car's all but shiny muffler.

  He rubbed his head lamely and began scanning around the car for the device. He found that when he swung too quickly, his left arm tried to shoot outward and jarred his entire existence. So, he held onto it gently with his good hand when he needed to swing himself around in a hurry. He searched the ground of the entire perimeter around the car and the scene of the accident with no luck. He focused farther outward from the accident, letting his eyes adjust to the change in focus when he noticed a speck in his peripheral on the hood of the truck, just under where he was looking. He let his eyes slide over the speck and focus, but he couldn't make it out very well. He moved closer and no sooner had he confirmed it was the device than it started to vibrate wildly. He picked it up and quickly navigated through its menu to see what it was trying to tell him. He grinned wide when he found what he was looking for. The device was telling him with its vibrations and blinking lights that his target was within a mile radius now.

  He put the device in his pocket, grabbed his bad arm, turned around, and dashed for the trunk of the Roadster. He no longer had the keys to the car anymore as he headed toward it. He was hoping against hope that the trunk would have opened from the jolt of the accident. When he got to it, it was tight as a drum and he began slamming his non-mangled side into it with no results. He looked around for some sort of way to break it open. He sure as hell wasn't going to give up now. He got inside the cab of the truck and started looking around for any kind of tool he could use. There was nothing there, so he opened the compartments attached to the bed of the truck. The first two, he was unable to budge the cover, but the third opened freely for him. Inside, shinier than the shiniest of metal weapons, sat a long tire iron of gleaming silver. Chuck could see his own gruesome, stretched-out reflection in its base. He grabbed it with his one good hand and spun it around between his fingers. It twirled like a baton, sliding swiftly between his fingers as though it were a ball bearing already greased. Great pleasure filled him as the tire iron spun in his hand, and he began to whistle cheerfully. When he finally opened up the trunk, he ended up having to put his right leg into it along with his one good arm, but it gave sure enough. He pulled a single long, thick, black case out of the trunk and slung it by its strap over his shoulder. Then he pulled out the device and began following its directions until he was as close as the Emperor would allow him to get. Then he found himself a nice sized dune to set up behind.

  He laid the case down on its side and opened the latches along its front. Inside the case were fitted pockets with pieces of his long range sniper's rifle and its many attachments for various different convenient uses. He sat down in the sand, crossed his legs, and started piecing the rifle together with his one hand, using his lap and legs for leverage. Once the rifle was complete, he attached the scope. Looking through it, he scanned the area where the navigation device claimed that Hank Evans was currently located. Sure enough, there he was. It only took a second to focus in on him. He was flailing about like a fish in the sand. Chuck Lotinger growled. He certainly wasn't going to get a good shot if the man wouldn't sit still. He watched the strange motions the man made as he rocked back and forth and kicked wildly at the sand.

  "What the hell is he doing?" he asked the desert as if it had a logical answer for him. The man's kicking slowed and eventually he plopped to the ground. This was even worse. Now, he was lying so close to the ground that Chuck could barely see him. A renewed hope came to mind. Maybe Evans would just lie there, and Chuck would have to go and do the job by hand. Maybe that would be a good enough excuse for the Emperor. And just as quickly as this idea excited him to his very core with possibility, the man sat up. Then he jumped to his feet and began to spin around and shout. Lotinger had heard of people succumbing to the mirages of the desert before. Usually after dehydrating in the sun for hours, the mind could do all kinds of things to try and come to terms with its inevitable situation. But then, after a long moment of hysterics, the man stood completely still and took a deep breath. And as he exhaled with a huge smile on his face, Chuck Lotinger took the moment, lest it not return, fired a single shot into Hank's heart, and watched as the man's body crumpled to the ground.

  Chapter 22

  Toby's Last Stand

  Mr. Sandburn took it upon himself to personally escort Toby to dinner that evening. Toby was unable to keep his eyes off the TV screen as he followed Mr. Sandburn to the table in the far back of the cafeteria. With a senior staff member present, the rest of the boys behaved like saints. But Toby barely noticed. He was too busy nervously awaiting the list of Penitents, as they had been called for years now. He was torn between feeling morbidly hopeless and desperately optimistic. And though Mr. Sandburn had spoken previously as though he had compassion for what Toby was going through, he didn't seem to care what Toby was about to experience. Either that, or he had forgotten, which wasn't much better in Toby's mind. The news focused on the continuing drop in crime throughout the nation, the record high employment rate, and most of all, all the good things the Imperial Church and its leader, Emperor Caesar, had been accomplishing for the great American Empire. Toby couldn't help but think that anyone with half a brain had to be able to see through the obvious layer of propaganda. But he had watched many people, children and adults alike, sit drone-like as the TV told them how to think about their mighty Empire and its God. Even some of the smartest people he had met in his life bought into the belief that their role as a citizen was to help keep America holy and pure from what the Emperor called the iniquity of liberty.

  "Coming up after the break, what you've been waiting for all week. The list of Penitents is in, which, as always, brings about the perfect time to praise our great Emperor for the safety that we all share, and to remember what happens to those who do evil deeds and live sinfully within the walls of the holiest nation on Earth," the news anchor said sternly. The break consisted of a ten-minute-long sermon performed by the Emperor himself, on the virtues of attending the weekly Imperial Church services and drinking the weekly communion, which the Empire claimed would not only run your cup over in the happiness department, but would also help to spread patriotism and holiness throughout the land. The sermon ended in prayer and Toby was forced to bow his head with all of the other boys and staff members. When it was over, the news anchor returned to the sound of triumphant orchestral music to read off the names and the offenses of the Penitents who had died the night prior.

  "Jared Rodriguez, 19, who committed the robbery of a Gainesville, Florida grocery store. Roger Compton, 36, who committed the murder of a Columbus, Ohio man," and the list went on as Toby heard nothing but meaningless words, waiting for the cue that his father's name would bring. But suddenly, as if he had awoken from a trance, Mr. Sandburn stood up from his seat and strode toward the TV hanging from the upper wall. Toby sat paralyzed, unsure of whether he really wanted to stop him or not. But James Henderson wasn't quite so unsure. He moved quickly up to Sandburn, attempting to take his attention from what he was doing. Toby couldn't hear what the boy was saying, but he could tell from James's expression that he was laying it on thick as an innocent query of the utmost importance. Sandburn lingered for only a moment and motioned for James to talk as he walked with him towards the television set. Th
en without hesitation he turned off the TV as the name "Alex" and a last name that Toby thought started with a "C" was being listed. As Sandburn was focused on what he was doing, James gave one glaring look at Toby.

  It didn't seem a stretch at this point to think that it was probably James who had left him his death threat that afternoon. He thought about how he should feel about that. He certainly didn't have the strength to fight, but he still had enough hope that he did not want to just lay down and die. Even though he wanted to know the truth so badly, he was sure that if he had heard the rest of those names, his father's would have been listed, and that little glimmer of hope would be completely gone. He wanted to hold onto it, no matter how impossible it seemed. When Mr. Sandburn returned to sit beside him again, he apologized to Toby for forgetting about the program and offered to pray with him for his father's soul. In any other situation Toby might have been angry with the man, but he had to give Mr. Sandburn credit for turning off the television, and whether purposely or not, helping to retain what little hope Toby had left.