Darklands: a vampire's tale

by Donna Burgess

  Susan tried to respond, but she was not sure if the words poured from her lips or circled inside the haze of her brain. “. . . but we loved with a love that was more than love . . . in a kingdom by the sea."

  ***

  “Jesus! What the hell did you do?” Peter screamed.

  Susan moved her lips and tried to answer him, but nothing happened. She drifted, semi-conscious. It seemed as if she was looking through a narrow tunnel. Devin stood, pulled on his trousers and moved toward her brother.

  “She’s fine, Peter,” he said. “She’s not hurt.”

  “She must be! There’s blood everywhere.” Peter sounded hysterical. It was obvious he was very drunk.

  Susan rolled onto her side and pushed herself up. The room swirled crazily around her. The voices, the movements sounded hollow. She had no strength. The muscles of her legs trembled and refused her commands.

  Blood everywhere?

  Peter and Devin appeared as smudged and impressionistic as images from a painting. Devin towered over the scant form of her brother, who was only as tall as she. Susan looked down at herself; her naked body was decorated in scarlet ribbons. She touched her throat where Devin’s beautiful mouth had left a stingy wound. Her fingers came away painted red.

  Her scream bubbled behind her quivering mouth and poured out like a flood of sound, uncontrolled.

  “Hush, now. You’re fine,” Devin told her. He put his hand out to her.

  Peter snatched a wooden baseball bat they kept in the corner for protection and wielded it over his shoulder. His face was a mixture of terror and determination.

  “Wait, son. I don’t want to hurt you.” Devin held his hands out, a seeming gesture of peace.

  “Fuck you,” Peter spit. The bat struck first across Devin’s hand, the crush of bones making a sickening sound, but not as hideous a sound as the dull thud of the bat crashing into his face with the second blow. Devin’s head flew back in a mist of blood. Before Devin could move to defend himself, Peter struck again and drove him to his knees. Devin’s handsome face became a mask of red wetness on one side. The other side was still perfect and untouched.

  Devin struggled back to his feet, teetering drunkenly.

  Peter slammed the bat down on their coffee table. The cheap wood collapsed, and the bat splintered. Peter shook the fragmented remains at Devin. A wooden stake.

  “You think you’re a vampire? Then, die like one!” He rushed at Devin with the bat gripped in both fists above his head. Although injured, the bigger man was too quick. He easily dodged Peter’s attack.

  Regaining some awareness, Susan stumbled closer to the two men. She was not dying—at least, not just yet. “Wait,” she said. “I’m okay, Peter. Stop.”

  Too late. Devin moved aside and shoved Peter from behind. It was just a simple, opened-handed push—and not very hard. Nevertheless, Peter was drunk and perhaps the man who called himself a “Deathwalker” did not know his own strength.

  In a breath, everything in Susan Archer’s life changed.

  Peter tripped and fell forward. At first, Susan was not sure if he was even injured. He was still on his knees, after all. But, as Devin’s expression melted from one of agitation to one of horror, Susan knew something horrible had happened. She moved to get a closer look at her brother.

  “Peter?”

  She knelt before him, her mind unable to register exactly what she saw. Somehow, he had fallen onto the splintered end of the bat. The jagged wood pierced the soft flesh under his chin. He still looked at her but no longer saw her. His faux-stitched mouth opened slightly, and inside, she saw the blood-streaked base of the bat. Then, she realized that the end of the bat had exited the top of his head.

  He tumbled over onto his side, still bent at the waist, a discarded doll.

  “Dear God,” muttered Devin. He sounded ill.

  He touched Susan’s shoulder. “Susan? I’m sorry. Do you hear me? I didn’t mean to hurt him. You have to believe me.” His words were slurred, wet-sounding, and difficult to understand. She thought his jaw had been broken.

  Susan stared at him, this stranger she, only hours ago, had offered herself to. She shuddered. So cold. Inky spots bloomed in front of her eyes.

  “Listen. You’re going into shock. Here, let me cover you up,” Devin said. He wiped at his bloody face with the sleeve of his shirt, and then snatched the quilt from the bed. Susan shivered again, her teeth clicking together. A shiny red pool flowered from her brother’s head.

  “You killed him?” she whispered. She stepped backward, rubbing her eyes hard with her fists. “None of this is really happening.”

  Devin approached, holding up the quilt, but she backed away, into the bedroom area. After a frantic search, she found her knapsack on the floor just under the edge of the bed. Her eyes never leaving Devin, she knelt and groped around inside the large bag until her fingers wrapped around her small Swiss Army knife her grandfather had given her. With trembling hands, she took it from the bag and opened it.

  “Wait, Susan. Please.” Devin blinked fast to clear the blood from his eye.

  Brandishing the knife, she lunged at him. “Now, you are going to get the hell out of here!” she shouted. “Get away from him!”

  Instead of moving away, Devin stepped closer. “Listen to me.”

  “Get back!” Susan waved the little blade.

  Devin sprang and grabbed her wrist.

  Susan thrust the knife forward, and it sank to the hilt into Devin’s McCree’s stomach, just below his sternum. She ripped the blade downward, as if she were drawing open a zipper. Devin gasped and doubled over. He stayed that way for a moment and then straightened up, blood flowing from his middle.

  “Susan,” he said, looking down at himself. With a deep, pain-filled sigh, he slipped the knife from his belly and slung it away.

  He approached her again, the blood pouring out of him, his groin and his legs wet with it. He left perfect, red footprints on the wooded floor.

  “I only wanted you to . . .” His voice wavered.

  Susan pressed herself against the far wall and steeled herself for whatever he was going to do. She closed her eyes and balled her hands into fists.

  Devin grasped her shoulders. “Shh, Susan. Please.” He sounded as desperate and frightened as she felt. Screaming, Susan thrust her hands forward, her hooked fingers sinking deep into the gash in his gut. Her slick fist wrapped around something in there—muscle, flesh, organ—she didn’t know, but she yanked as hard as she could. Devin’s soft cry built into a howl of pain like nothing she had ever heard. He went to his knees; Susan’s fist still deep inside him. Too stunned to extricate her hand, Susan was pulled down with him.

  Devin’s blood-sticky hands grasped her arm, and he shoved her away from him as though she were nothing but a rag doll. She flew backward into the wall, splintering the ornate trim at the base and ceiling, creating a spider’s web of cracks up and down the heavy plaster.

  In an instant, Devin’s hands were on her, pulling her up. His fingers pressed her throat, checking for a pulse. “S-Susan? I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant any of this.”

  Susan faded from consciousness with Devin’s agony-filled face hovering like a ghost over hers.

  ***

  Someone banged on the door.

  Susan Archer awoke. Blinking hard, she shielded her eyes with her open hand against the sun that intruded into the apartment. When she tried to raise her head, agony seized her, and her eyes flooded with tears, blurring her vision. Sobbing softly, she rolled onto her side. She looked down at herself and saw that something sticky and cold coated most of her naked body. Blood, so dark it was almost black, had congealed all over her skin, the floor, the walls, and the bed. A scream bubbled behind her trembling lips, and she pushed her fist against her mouth to stifle it.

  What was left of the apartment’s only window was a jagged grin of glass that allowed the autumn chill to sneak in like an unwelcome guest. The crimson velvet curtain
billowed out like a malicious tongue wagging over Chalmers Street.

  Across the room lay Peter, dead in a heap with a splintered baseball bat protruding from the top of his skull.

  Her precious brother was gone.

  chapter one

  Susan’s shuffling around pulled Michael Matthews from the first decent sleep he had enjoyed in a week. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and then rubbed his hands through his hair. Elvis, the bushy Maine Coon cat and Susan’s familiar, stirred and peered at him, somewhat annoyed, before nestling back down to sleep.

  Susan walked by wearing only a pair of panties.

  “About time, sleepyhead,” she said. She leaned over and kissed him, her naked breasts brushing his chest and then gone again. She removed a running bra from the dresser and tugged it over her head. The newly-healed incision on her belly, just at the crest of her hip, was like a frown against the smooth, pale skin. Michael wasn’t sure he would ever grow used to seeing that scar, even though he was the one who had made the incision and placed the sutures.

  “You’re running this morning?” he asked.

  “I need to get back to normal sometime.” She pulled on a pair of skimpy exercise shorts, then pulled her hair back into a thick ponytail, slipping a small terrycloth band over it to hold it in place.

  He loved how she could do that without ever looking into a mirror. It was one of those little tricks only beautiful women could pull off.

  “I think it’s a little soon.” He got out of bed and went to her. He wanted to tell her not to go. Not yet. It just wasn’t safe. Officer Susan Archer was not a popular woman among certain people in Hamilton just now.

  She picked up her iPod and allowed him to hold her. Michael had the impression she wasn’t really into the affection he offered so freely, but he held her until she relaxed into his embrace. She stroked his hair.

  “I’m not going to become a recluse over a bunch of inbred rednecks,” she said. “And, I’m not going to dwell on the shit that has happened to us, Michael. We’ll be fine.”

  Tears threatened. He blinked hard and sighed, refusing to let them come. Surely, he could hold himself together. After all, Susan had.

  ***

  Susan was glad to be out, away from the house, away from Michael’s cloying presence. Sure, he was sweet, and he was only doing what he felt necessary because he loved her, but she needed a break. She had gotten her fill of the kicked-dog looks and the annoying questions, like “Do you need anything?” What she needed was space, but she could not bring herself to tell Michael that.

  Now, she just wanted the autumn sunshine beating down on the top of her head and her face as her feet struck the dirt and to have the music loud and fast in her ears and her mind as blank as she could get it. Her breathing was deep and rhythmic, almost hypnotic, but still, she couldn’t find the pace she was used to. The added weight of her Glock in her shoulder holster interfered with the motion of her left arm. She hated carrying her piece everywhere she went. She was exhausted, but she wanted to push herself. She wanted things to get back to normal, whatever normal was in her world. She could smell rain and saltwater, but closer to the docks, the stink of fish would become sickening. When she was pregnant, she had quickly learned to avoid that area after a bout of dry heaves she thought she would never shake.

  Memories were tough to shake, also. Sleep had not come easily since that day in front of the All Saints Church of Hamilton. Her mind refused to shut down and allow her a few peaceful hours necessary for a good rest. The sound of crying and images of blood laced her dreams.

  Susan had fired her service revolver a total of three times, not counting the range, before she had used it to kill Owen Lee. Lee had been holding a gun to the temple of a two-year-old hostage outside a tiny country church that had just let out after Sunday morning service. Apparently, he had fled there, hoping to give the patrolmen the slip after being pulled over with nearly 20 kilos of marijuana.

  That was six weeks ago, but much of what had happened was like a dream, the faces dull and smeary, the sounds alternately shrill and muted. There had been three squads there, but for some reason, he had fired at Susan first. Someone later mentioned that Lee had always carried a vendetta against women, but what did that matter? The bullet had entered Susan’s abdomen at an odd angle, penetrating beneath the protective shield of herarmor, and that was that.

  The baby, her tiny protector, had taken most of the impact.

  Susan had blown Lee’s face off before she collapsed to the pavement. Since then, the man’s family had been sending threats, thus the reason for the gun. The threats of an ignorant clan of white trash frightened her about as much as the Easter bunny. She only hoped Michael wasn’t around if anything happened. He didn’t deserve to get caught up in her mess.

  Besides, Lee had gotten what he deserved as far as Susan was concerned, and she felt nothing for him or his family. In a breath, he had taken her child, her future. Maybe he had even taken her heart.

  The little boy’s confused face, splattered with Lee’s blood, buzzed around her mind like an annoying insect. She swatted it away repeatedly and pretended not to feel. But, she wondered if she had done the kid a favor, after all. Michael assured her the boy was too small to remember, but she was positive there was no hope for him, now. Thanks to her. Scars like that never healed. She should know that better than almost anyone.

  She thumbed the volume higher on the iPod and quickened her pace, almost as punishment.

  Run, run, until you collapse. Until what little bit of heart you have left explodes.

  The waterfront slipped by, fishing boats docked, big, gray pelicans resting at the tops of the masts, smaller, more graceful starlings skimming the gold-stained surface of the bay.

  Life moved in a circle, she had always heard. Maybe it was true. In the weeks and months immediately following her brother’s death twenty years ago, Susan had spent most of her waking hours playing the night over and over again in her mind. Sleep had offered no escape; Peter’s blood filled her dreams. She had lived in a perpetual hell of Halloween night, her brother’s last night alive. The doctors had shoved pills at her—pills to forget, pills to sleep without dreams, pills to dull the moments of horrible clarity. She refused pills now, no longer able to rely on the soft, blurry quality they gave everything. Even the softest memories were haunted.

  Besides, she deserved the hard edges. If life moved in a circle, perhaps she was finally paying for getting Peter killed.

  ***

  From the master bedroom window, Michael had a grand view of the bay a quarter of a mile east, where shrimp boats were docked, tied and ready for unloading, their nets raised on either side like tattered wings. He could watch Susan run, but it made him feel a little perverted—like a voyeur. He knew she wanted to be left alone for a while.

  Instead, he peered down on the little house where he had been raised. Squatty and tiny, it had been a poor family's home. Now, it was rented by a young couple, who were unmarried and had a new baby. They looked like throwbacks from 1969, but they kept the place in tiptop shape. The lawn was green and manicured, and the girl had planted beds of pansies that seemed to stay in perpetual bloom.

  Michael’s childhood was a good one in that place, despite the intermittent poverty. A good, boring childhood. father had been a shrimp boat captain. He had stayed away for days at a time, causing Michael to learn to dislike the ocean at a young age. Michael blamed the water. He associated the briny odor with his missing-in-action dad. In reality, it was not the ocean, but the call of a whiskey bottle that caused his dad to vanish when it was time to go to his baseball games and birthday parties, even his high school graduation.

  “I’ll only embarrass you, boy,” his old man had told him when he had gathered the nerve to ask why. He thought about that awhile and decided it was probably true. He never mentioned it again.

  Michael knew his mother only from old photos and his dreams. She had decided she wanted no part of a fisherman’s life and packed h
er bags when Michael was still in diapers. He had gotten a postcard from her once, when he graduated from med school. It had made his father sad all the way to the bone. Sad and afraid to give love. His dad had made no apology for his lack of affection, and in the end, Michael did not blame him. The old man had loved him well enough through the college fund he had put away. He died in his sleep one night just before Michael graduated from medical school. An easy death, someone had said at the wake. Michael had seen enough death since and knew there was no such thing.

  Maybe he should move. Perhaps he could convince Susan to leave with him. Maybe he could convince her to run away from the nightmares that both of them carried like stones around their necks. They could start over again—new people in new places. No secrets, no hurtful pasts.

  He shrugged and turned away from the window. He would never leave Reading. He would grow old here, overlooking his boyhood home and the bay every day until he died. But now, it was looking more and more as if he would be doing it alone. He was losing Susan, and the more he wanted to give her, the more she seemed to pull away.

  chapter two

  An hour later, Susan arrived at the police station. She had taken a “forced” leave to recover from the bullet wound, but the whole thing reeked of suspension. Nevertheless, she felt more comfortable behind her desk, and at home, now that she was back on her feet.

  The police station was empty, save for Chief Cotton. Cigarette stink lingered, a bit more tolerable now than when Philip, their other investigator, was there, chain-smoking away and talking his macho bullshit. She was glad he was out; she was in no mood for his lip this morning. She had been with the police department for fifteen years, and a detective specializing in domestic cases for more than nine; but Phil, only five years in, treated her as a perpetual rookie. Victimized women and children—that was where her heart was. Maybe somewhere in the back of her mind, she believed that saving some helpless woman or child might make up for losing Peter. But the losses just kept coming, and she was no closer to redemption now than she had been years ago, when she had made her way back home from Charlestowne, with only her mother and father and a secret surrounding her last night with her brother. Both her parents went to their graves using her as a poor substitute for their only son.