by Dire, Alex
“Okay, I’ll go first.” Thatch gripped the rungs and climbed into the darkness below.
5
Richie heard Thatch splash to the tunnel one level below.
“Come on down," he shouted.
Richie froze for a moment. He could run. Thatch would have to climb back up to catch him. That would make time to put distance between them. His twitched his head to look both ways down the tunnel. Each path looked equally unpromising. Maybe if he went back he'd remember some of the twists and the ladders they had passed which led to the surface. So many turns. He'd be lost for sure. And the splashing. Thatch would hear. He'd catch up.
“You coming or what?” shouted Thatch.
The words swept Richie’s plans from his mind. He gripped the side ladder’s rails and stepped down. Perhaps caution was the right decision. They’d have to come up to the surface eventually.
Richie leapt down the last two rungs. His vampire eyes quickly adjusted to the complete dark. “Sorry. Catching my breath.”
“Hm. Nymphs.” Thatch walked on. “Come. It’s this way. I’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Out. Richie forced down his sigh of relief. He was glad he’d chosen not to run. If he had, he’d surely be dead by now. Every vampire he’d met seemed to be much stronger than him. Perhaps it was because he was so new to this life. His creator, Norman Bernard had eluded to as much.
Knowing he was heading back to the surface made Richie instantly impatient. Where would he end up? Could he escape or would he just be amongst more vampires? He just wanted to hide. Hide from vampires, from war, from it all.
Richie followed. The thought of leaving this mess of feces and rot behind fed him new strength. “Seems a strange path we’re taking.”
“Most direct route I know that doesn’t take us past Corps. V territory.” That was just fine with Ritchie. “That makes sense. Where will we be when we get back up?”
“Up?” said Thatch.
“Up to the surface.”
“Oh, we’re not going to the surface. I just saved you from there.”
Richie’s skin tingled and his throat swelled choking off his next words.
“Don't worry. I've got you covered. I'm bringing you back to HQ. I thought it was obvious. Councilor Harding will know what to do. He'll probably assign you to another partisan unit. Maybe keep you around for clerical work."
“Wh…Wh…” Deeper underground? Back into the war? No! Richie stumbled as his knees wobbled.
“Easy, there,” said Thatch. “You sure you don’t need a break?” He gripped Richie's arm, steadying him.
Richie looked into his eyes and shook his head.
“Okay then. We'll be there in twenty minutes. You must be eager to get back to the party. They'll be glad to get another partisan, even if you are a Nymph." Thatch released Richie and marched on. "They're desperate for everybody they can get. I swear this war will turn us all to corpses. Before you know, we'll be fighting in daylight for the whole world to see. Heh. Until we're all ash at least."
Fighting. Partisans. War. Run. No point. After long moments, the tingling in Richie's skin faded and his mind cleared. Richie wouldn't last in a war. He was no warrior. He was barely a vampire. He needed time. He needed to get away and leave it all behind. Let them fight this out. They could all kill each other for all Richie cared.
He glanced back over his shoulder. The ladder was back there. Around three turns. He remembered those turns. If he ran…Thatch would catch him and drive a stake through his heart. Either way, he'd be free…free in the tunnels or dead and rid of it all.
Richie imagined Thatch's eyes as he pushed the point of wood into Richie's chest. Crazed and depraved like those of his former gang when they preyed on the innocent. The eyes grew in his mind, consuming him. He let out a gasp but covered the sound with a cough.
He couldn't face Thatch. He couldn't watch those eyes kill him. Richie's hand grasped the handle of the Corps. V stake in his belt hidden beneath his jacket. He thought of the pain he'd feel pushing the point between two of his own ribs, through muscle and into his heart. It would only be a moment. Then he'd be free or in hell. One act of courage and he'd be done with war.
Richie raised his arm placing the tip of the stake against his chest. It was sharp. The wood had been hardened by some chemical process, he guessed. He nudged it between the buttons of his shirt. His mind flashed back to digging through the chest of that captured vampire, digging his way to the man's heart. Richie was a monster. No. It wasn't his fault. He had no choice. They'd made him do it. Made him kill.
He stared at the back of Thatch's head. Thatch was bringing him into this war, forcing Richie to kill again. Always blown around like a leaf. Always at the mercy of one mob or another. Not at this moment, though. Now it was just Richie and Thatch. These were the best odds Richie would likely get for who knew how long? Thatch was stronger, but his back was turned. Richie's eyes painted a target on his back, right where his heart was. He turned the knife, pointing its tip forward. He hastened his pace ever so slightly to close the distance between the two vampires. His fist squeezed the handle of the stake tighter. It felt smooth and cold in his grip. Richie's heart raced out of control. His breathing quickened to match.
He would hear! Richie struggled to control the sound of his own breath. He marked a spot on Thatch's back. A quick hard stab and it would be over if his aim was true. He couldn't miss. He wouldn't.
“You okay back there?" Thatch stopped and turned his head to the side.
Richie held his breath, frozen.
Thatch stiffened. “You—”
He sees me! Richie lurched forward, putting his whole weight behind the point. Thatch tried to turn. Too late. The stake pierced the partisan's gray jacket and into flesh.
Thatch roared and twisted as he fell. Richie flung around with him, refusing to release the stake. They slammed to the muck on their sides.
“I’ll Kill you! I’ll Kill you!” shouted Thatch. He pulled his own stake from its sheath. His movement was jerky and random. The effect of the wood in his body.
Thatch twisted on the ground, trying to face his attacker. Richie felt his stake pulling away, stuck in his opponents back. He quickly yanked the thing out.
Thatch roared as the wood left his body, and he rolled onto his back in the muck.
It was the sound of anguish as wood scraped against tissue. He'd heard it with each plunge of his stake in that poor man's chest.
Thatch would recover quickly if he didn't finish him off. He was wounded, but without the stake in him, he’d be more than a match for Richie.
Richie stabbed out with his stake, seeking any flesh he could find before Thatch could regain his strength. The stake pierced the side of his neck and stuck out the front. Blood fountained from Thatch’s throat covering Richie with warm fluid.
Thatch tried to yell, but just gurgled and sprayed blood from his ruined throat.
Richie scrambled to his knees and raised the stake above his head. He felt the blood pumping through his veins. He widened his eyes as a lust came over him. Thatch winced and turned his face away. The display of fear drove Richie on. He fell onto Thatch, shoving the stake through his chest. The sternum cracked under the force as his weapon pierced bone, muscle and finally that vital organ of a vampire, his heart.
Thatch's eyes opened wide and his mouth released a scream. The sound scraped at Richie's ear drums.
Richie withdrew the stake and stabbed down again. Then again. He kept stabbing and digging until Thatch’s chest was a mess of gristle and raw tissue.
He stopped. The noise of his own breath reverberated off the walls. His stake had splintered to a small shard. He dropped it and held his blood covered hands before his eyes.
Standing back up, he breathed quick breaths for long minutes. The lust faded. The darkness closed in around him. He gazed down at Thatch. The sight of the mutilated vampire made his stomach lurch. The blood from the pellets gurgled up in the back of his throat
. He covered his mouth but vomit sprayed between his fingers. He coughed and gagged. It was over now. It was over.
He scanned both ways down the tunnel. Surely he could remember the few turns back to the ladder. Then up. Up to the surface. Wait for nightfall and he was free.
Richie took a step back toward where they’d come from. Hesitating, he returned and kneeled over Thatch’s body. Richie would run from this. Hide from this. From war. From killing. The dead vampire still clutched his stake. Richie pried it from his fist, stood and shoved it into his belt. He wouldn’t be captured again.
Richie ran off into the darkness of the sewer. Although he'd never see the light of day again, somehow he felt the need to leave this place where it was always night.
The End
Richie's story continues in Night School Book 1: Vampire Awakening. Read on for a preview.
“Your only enemy is the sun. You can’t kill it. You can’t seduce it. It offers fire. It demands death.”
-Vampire Republic Military Motto
Prologue
One hundred eighty days to go. Norman buttoned the top of his collar and cinched his tie. He’d already been awake for hours when his alarm had gone off at 6:30 PM. Norman scanned the room for his satchel. Cracks of fading light outlined the shades on the two windows of his small condo. The kitchen, living room, and dining room were really just different corners of the same space.
By 7:30 he emerged from the front door of his six story building to a world of fading pink and growing shadows. Night at last. He put on a thick, thrift store peacoat too heavy for this time of year and too large for his frame. He jiggled his shoulders as he walked to make it sit right.
Up ahead, light flooded the street from the storefront of Fiore’s bakery. Norman smiled, wondering what quip Fiore would have for him today. Fiore’s old world style made Norman nostalgic like no place else in the city.
Norman pushed the bakery door open, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply the smells of sweet pastries and yeasty rising dough.
He had missed this little ritual over the summer. Fiore, however, was not there. A young man stood behind the counter wiping away powdered sugar and drips of coffee. His thick hair jutted out in random disheveled tufts from his head. Splotches of purple and red jellies stained his white apron. The man looked up and smiled.
“Evening,” Norman said, almost as a question.
The young man nodded.
“Where’s Fiore?”
The young man stopped swirling his rag for a moment. “I’m Fiore.”
“You look good for seventy-eight.”
“My dad died in July. I’ve been trying to keep the bakery going.”
Norman’s smile flattened. “Oh. I’m so sorry. He was a fixture in this community and a great baker.”
“That he was. I’m using all his recipe’s, but it’s just not the same. What can I get you?”
Norman shifted to customer mode to address young Fiore
“I’ll have a jelly donut, and…a cruller.” He paused.
Young Fiore turned to the display case behind him. “Will that be all?”
Norman hesitated. Of course the new Fiore wouldn’t be familiar with his evening routine. “Oh no. There’s more. I’ll have six croissants, four cinnamon twists, a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, and…how many baguettes do you have left?”
Fiore glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve got five, but they’ve been out all day.”
“I’ll take them. Also, six bottles of water,” finished Norman.
“That’s quite a dinner.”
“It’s breakfast, actually. I’m on my way to work.”
“Night shift?”
“Sort of. I’m a teacher. I work at MLK down the street.”
Fiore seemed more confused, “Little late for class, isn’t it?”
“Night school,” replied Norman.
Fiore gave a slow nod that said, Ohhhhh… ‘those’ kids. It was a pretty standard response when Norman mentioned his job. ‘Those’ kids were the ones who failed out of regular school, plus all the alternative and other special schools the city had for the toughest kids. Night school was the last stop. A few grabbed the lifeline and got their high school diploma. Many graduated to prison. But not Norman’s kids.
Fiore pushed the large bag of food across the counter. “You feeding all of them?” Then he turned to fill a disposable coffee cup.
Norman slid his wallet out of his pocket, “No. Not really.”
“You must be very hungry, then.”
Norman almost smiled. “You could say that.”
Fiore turned around and put a coffee next to Norman’s bags of breakfast goods. “Here you go,” he offered. “My sister’s a teacher. She mainlines this stuff. On the house.”
“Oh…no thank…uh…thanks a lot.”
Norman left two dollars in the tip jar and stepped through the bakery door. He breathed in the vibrant rhythms of night. Very hungry indeed, he thought as he exhaled, and opened his eyes.
His vision narrowed as his focus zoomed in on an alley between two closed shops a few blocks down the street. Without looking, he dropped the un-sipped coffee into a nearby garbage. He lengthened his stride as he neared the alley.
His target grew larger and larger in his vision. His senses heightened. He could smell the odors of sweat and urine drifting from the alley. He heard a clock-radio alarm go off in the fourth story above him. A tiny lump in his crooked sock pushed into the bottom of his foot. But only one smell mattered. The rest of his senses provided the rhythm section to the music of the moment.
Norman stopped at the mouth of the alley. The polyphony muted. He peered between the buildings. It was darker than the night. In the nothing, he sensed the homeless man slumped next to a dumpster. He glanced each way down the street. A few people shuffled here and there ignoring the world around them.
Norman strode in and approached the crumpled form slumped against the dumpster. Loud snores emerged from the man’s flaring nostrils. Norman stared at him from the opposite wall of the alley. He was plainly passed out.
Norman knelt next to him placing the bags of food among the man’s chaotic jumble of possessions. “You need this more than I ever will,” he whispered. He then removed his heavy coat and draped it over the man tenderly, almost tucking him in.
“I thank you in advance.” Norman crumpled his eyebrows and pursed his lips. His mouth snapped open revealing long, sharp incisors. A hiss escaped his throat. It grew louder until Norm thrust his lips against the homeless man’s exposed neck.
Norman’s eyes rolled back as his teeth slid through the man’s skin and the walls of his carotid artery. He didn’t need to suck. The man’s heart pumped away, doing the work for him. A primal satisfaction overcame him as warm blood flowed over his tongue. Always go for the arteries. Far less work than the veins. He gulped and felt the rush of instant energy.
After just a few moments, Norman withdrew. The potent coagulant in his hollow fangs was already closing the arteries. He stood, removing a small bottle of blue liquid from his pocket. Twisting the cap off, he swigged, gurgled and spat out behind him. “Ahhh.”
He left the man with plenty of blood to heal and survive, plus donuts.
Norman emerged from the alley, straightened his clothes, and resumed his walk down the street. His students would arrive soon. Can’t be late for the first day.
Chapter 1: First Day
Norman squeaked the word “Welcome” across the white board with a blue marker. He stepped back to inspect his penmanship.
The students would feel anything but welcome. They’d been kicked out of enough schools to know that the person at the front of the class, in the office, at the other end of a call with their parents was not there to welcome them. The primary lesson those schools had taught them was that teachers, principals and mid-level administrators were their enemies.
Norman placed a bright orange card on each desk for students to fill out so the office knew who to cal
l in case of an emergency. For most of Norman’s students, though, the emergency was their lives. But the person who showed up to help was not a cop, or an EMT, or a firefighter. It was a teacher, armed with copies of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare and an overhead projector with a burnt out bulb. No matter. Norman didn’t need the projector or any of the technology fancier schools had. He had other advantages.
The antiquated school bell tried very hard to ring but succeeded only in making a single ding and then a buzz. Nice try. A river of students flooded into the building, dividing into rivulets along the way and trickling into classrooms.
Each doorway was monitored by a smiling teacher. They were young. Idealistic. They’d learn.
The students slogged forward in a nearly silent march. Many had oversized headphones on or white wires dangling from their ears. Some wore hoods. Most stared at the ground. Norman wondered if they were hiding from each other or the teachers or all of it.
Down the hall, Norman saw the shiny top of a bald head weaving a path toward him. Headmaster Shapiro wedged his way between students, calling “Welcome” every few seconds. A boy with a basketball tucked under his arm lifted his head to the headmaster as if to respond. Shapiro snapped his gaze away, avoiding eye contact, but never dropping his smile.
Please not me, thought Norman as Shapiro edged closer.
Shapiro locked eyes with Norman. “Ah Mr. Bernard. There you are!”
“Shit,” said Norman through his teeth.
A young girl passing into his room stopped and looked up. “Hmmm?” Her wavy dark hair swept back from her eyes.
“Oh, um. Sorry. Sit, please. Sit at your numbered seat,” said Norman. He lifted his clip board. “Your name?”
“Felicia Gomes,” said the girl. Her accent leaned Puerto Rican. Norman had gotten good at accents over the years.
