Darklands: a vampire's tale

by Donna Burgess

  chapter twenty-six

  Kasper drove Michael to the nearly deserted beaches of Charlestowne, only a couple of miles from the withered heart of the city, as the last of the sun’s light faded from the sky. The way the stars twinkled like shards of glass over the black water made Michael nostalgic for home. He replayed the past two days in his mind, but it always came back to what Kasper had told him.

  If she’s one of them, she’s as good as dead.

  There was no way he could allow himself to believe that. Since Susan had vanished, time had taken on the dull slowness of a nightmare where nothing went as it should, and there remained the nagging feeling that things would ultimately end in disappointment.

  The wife of one of his patients who had died of cancer once told Michael that when someone you loved died, you felt the pain of their passing in your heart. You knew it even from miles away. She insisted that she had felt it when her husband passed. Michael had not felt anything like that, yet; he was only damned scared and plenty pissed.

  Kasper turned off the main highway and onto the northern end of Atlantic Avenue. On the surface, this part of town was nothing more than the dead remains of a tacky, but once booming, resort. The pickup’s headlights carved the thickening darkness. Hotels and empty, broken buildings lined the pitted and potholed road.

  Kasper had the windows open a little because the windshield fogged up quickly, and the defroster didn’t work. The salty scent of the ocean and the cloying stench of garbage was a bad combination, and Michael’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. It was either the beginning of an ulcer, or the fact he hadn’t eaten all day. Whichever, he rolled the window closed to be rid of the stink.

  “Sorry. The smell—” he began.

  “Yeah, the stink of death,” Kasper answered. “As a doctor, you’re not used to it?”

  Michael shrugged. “It’s not something I want to be used to.”

  Kasper didn’t reply. There were a surprising number of people on the sidewalks. All kinds of people, dressed in all kinds of ways, were huddled and slumping beneath flickering streetlamps.

  It wouldn’t be difficult to locate Susan if she was with McCree. With his golden blond hair and his towering height, Devin McCree would be easy to spot.

  Kasper parked in the lot of a deserted hotel near the center of the boulevard.

  “We’ll separate for now,” he said.

  When he climbed from the truck, Michael felt dreadfully awkward with the sawed-off shotgun in his hand. He would rather have left it behind but remembered the insane creatures that had welcomed him to town two nights ago.

  In his stolen black coat, he probably looked like a poor imitation of Neo, but he hid the gun away beneath it, secured over his shoulder by a leather strap. He was ready now—as ready as he would ever be, anyway.

  Would he see Kasper again, or would he have any luck finding Susan? Maybe it was all just a wild goose chase, but Kasper insisted their kind liked to hang around the beaches. Michael took another deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He was going to hyperventilate if he didn’t calm down. He glanced at Kasper.

  Kasper didn’t bother concealing his weapon. Still, he was not brazen enough to walk the streets out of the cover of the shadows. The Deathwalkers knew him by now, he said. Apparently, there was a price on Kasper Jacobsen’s head, so maybe being with him was a poorer option than prowling the boulevard alone.

  “Meet me back here just before sunup. If you’re not here, I’ll assume . . .well . . .”

  “You’re extremely reassuring,” Michael said, laughing nervously.

  “I’m extremely realistic.” Kasper threw him a small salute and disappeared into the shadows of an alleyway, leaving Michael alone and unsure of where to head next.

  ***

  Michael showed Susan’s photo in the few taverns and food markets that were open, but nothing came of it. Some people laughed softly when he mentioned the name McCree. Devin was certainly known around here, but most were either unwilling to give up his location, or else really did not know.

  The streets were much worse than Michael had expected. Some grids still had electricity, while other blocks were as dark as caves. Scraggly pedestrians wandered here and there, sticking to the light whenever they could. Dirty faces without hope, looking for something Michael certainly couldn’t place. Eyes as vacant as a doll’s. Drug use was rampant, and nobody bothered with discretion. Under the darkened Ferris wheel, a frail, feminine boy pushed a needle into the blue rope of vein along his bone-thin arm. When Gerald had told him Charlestowne had become a ghost town, he wasn’t exaggerating.

  As a physician, Michael was all about order. His life was schedules, lists, and structure, but all of that had been tossed aside now. There were no sirens, no lights, and no restrictions. Freedom could be a frightening thing. Even after what Kasper had told him, it was still difficult to imagine such a lawless state. What if this kind of virus spread beyond the invisible boundaries of this broken town? Perhaps, it already had. If he ever saw Kasper again, he would ask him what he had seen in other cities.

  Was Susan worth this? What he had seen in the past two days had left a stain on his memory he would never erase. But he had already come this far. He was in this now, for better or worse. He just hoped he found her before it was too late. Suddenly, he felt he was no longer racing to save her from Devin and the darkness, but Kasper, as well.

  chapter twenty-seven

  “Stay close to me.”

  Devin took Susan’s hand and led her through the empty amusement park.

  “For my protection or yours?” she asked

  “What do you think?”

  He squeezed her fingers gently and looked around, always on guard. She wondered who would want to mess with him in the first place. Michael popped into her head. He was as kind and gentle as a boy, and that was what had attracted her to him at first. And then, there was Devin. Beautiful, dangerous Devin. He was a wild thing, and now so was she. She welcomed it, the freedom she could not have imagined two weeks ago.

  Disheveled, discarded figures stood in the streams of pissy light on the streets, always in the light. Those who still had a trace of humanity were drawn to the light like moths. Fear touched their eyes; they had taken a path that they no longer wanted, but were unable to steer clear of. Some appeared crazed. All appeared empty.

  Eyes crawled over her, both men and women, but it wasn’t unpleasant. How did she look to them, dressed all in black, her hair clean, her body strong, and her expression unafraid? Devin pulled her closer, as if someone might try to steal her away from him.

  “Look at these people. Pathetic things. They come here to vanish. Maybe they’re sick of their jobs, their families. Looking for something better. They have no idea,” he said. He nodded toward a group of children. “Check them out.”

  They were obviously Deathwalkers. There was something in their beauty that separated them from the mortals. Was that how she looked?

  The ragtag gang sprinted past them, then up a ramp and into the pitch-dark House of Horrors, where a wicked clown grinned down at them with a blood-red mouth and coal-black eyes.

  “Don’t worry about them, Susan. The kids, they have no trouble adjusting to this life.”

  “But won’t they be children forever?” she asked.

  “Is that so terrible?”

  ***

  In a pool of tepid light, in front of a crumbling brick city building with wide, mold-stained columns, sat a dull-faced girl on a bench that was missing most of the slats on the seat.

  “She’s here every night,” Devin said. “Too wretched to bother with.”

  Bent over and weeping softly into the cup of her hands, the girl was a sorrowful thing. Dirty, tangled, no-color hair fell in clumps across her round shoulders, and when she raised her face to the air, her mascara ran like paint on her pale cheeks. She was heavy, and the seams of her thin jacket screamed. At her feet sat a blue laundry basket, the grid of plastic broken and busted on one si
de. What appeared to be dingy receiving blankets and towels were piled inside, but after a second, Susan noticed that the heap of fabric moved. A muffled whimper and a tiny pink starfish hand slipped from beneath the faded pink and blue blankets, then vanished again.

  Susan’s stomach thrummed with hunger, and she pressed her hand to her belly as if that would quiet it. She tasted the salty thickness on the back of her tongue. It coated the inside of her mouth and throat like warm silk. She tried to ignore it, but her stomach refused to obey.

  Devin placed a feathery kiss on her ear. “Only a moment longer,” he whispered.

  He knelt beside the crying wretch. “What’s wrong?” he asked in a gentle voice. He pushed the girl’s stiff hair from her face. “There. Don’t cry.”

  The girl was indeed as worthless as Devin had said. She stunk of sweat. It was evident that she had not bathed in at least a week. Her runny eyeliner was old and stained into the tiny lines around her eyes.

  “Are you them?” The cigarettes and liquor on her breath wafted up, and Susan breathed through her mouth to avoid the odor. Devin pulled a discrete, disgusted face, and Susan almost burst out laughing.

  Instead, she bit it back and watched quietly, until he glanced up at her and nodded. This was her kill.

  Susan reached out and took the girl’s bloated hand. “Them who?”

  “The ones who live forever.”

  “Maybe,” Susan answered.

  “Look at me,” the girl said. “Just look at me!” She pawed at her runny nose with the back of her hand and wiped it on the leg of her ratty jeans, then shoved the basket with the toe of her torn sneaker, nearly flipping it over. “And look at him!”

  Susan put her arm around the girl’s slumping shoulders. “I am looking at you. But you look at me.” Susan smiled just enough to flash her neat, perfect little fangs.

  The girl turned and gazed longingly at Susan. “Make me like you. Make me beautiful like you.” Then, she shot a pleading glance to Devin. “Both of you. So perfect.”

  The twinge in Susan’s gut had grown into a nagging little pain, but calm washed over her. This would be easy, just as it had been that morning outside the church. This was a task, a job, and it had to be done quickly and efficiently. Just as Devin said, this was survival.

  “I sit out here night after night, dragging this little burden with me,” she whispered. “Waiting.”

  Devin sat down on the bench beside her, and the old wood groaned with his weight. “Why would you want to live forever, anyway?” he asked. “Someone like you, would you not prefer to just die and be done with it?”

  He touched her brittle, bottle-blonde hair again and then looked at his fingers before wiping them on his leg.

  “Maybe things could be better. If I could stay here. In the darkness.”

  Susan straightened up and looked past the girl to Devin. Devin smiled and shook his head slowly.

  “You want the baby? Have him; I don’t care anyway.”

  “And in return, you want us to do what?” Susan asked. She was playing the game now, and it was fun to see the frustration, the desperation, cross the girl’s piggy face.

  “Change me. Change me into something . . . better.”

  Devin leaned over and removed the blanket from the baby. It was a pretty boy baby, skin darker than his mother’s, eyes bright despite the look of hunger on his face. His cheeks were not as round as they should have been. His little hands were bluish with cold.

  “Aren’t you feeding him?” Devin asked, frowning.

  “When I can. I can’t breastfeed, not when I’m using.”

  Devin plucked the child from the basket, rearranged the blankets around him and cradled him gently. “How noble of you,” he muttered.

  The pig-faced girl ignored him and went on, “I thought I would be something more than this. . .”

  “We all carve our own path,” Devin answered.

  “Do we, Devin?” Susan whispered. She glanced at him a moment, suddenly agitated, thinking of how Devin had made her into what she now was. How she had had little say in the matter, just as she had had so little say in the matter of Peter’s death.

  Quickly, she dismissed the thought. She was beginning to tremble. Jesus, how much longer? She was addicted, just like a druggie hooked on heroin, like this girl they looked at with such disdain.

  Devin stood, still cradling the baby against his chest. He looked at Susan. “Now, do what she wants you to do.”

  Susan hesitated.

  Can I do this? Can I actually do this thing alone?

  Her stomach muscles seized again, almost doubling her over. She extended her hand to the miserable girl. “Come. Let’s go into the shadows.”

  The girl’s hand was icy-cold, but clammy and as fat and soft as a baby’s tummy. It felt disgusting, distasteful, and for a moment, Susan wanted to squeeze the pudgy fingers together until they snapped. In the shadows of the old hotel, they stopped.

  “Come here,” Susan said, taking the girl’s rounded chin in her fingers and tilting her head back. “What’s your name?”

  “Cindy. My mom named me after the girl from the Brady Bunch.”

  Susan laughed. “Well, my mom named me for a character in a children’s book.”

  Cindy’s thick lips drew into a frown. “Is this gonna hurt?” Before Susan answered, the girl added, “It is, isn’t it?”

  Susan flicked her tongue across her lips. “Only for a moment.”

  She pushed Cindy’s hair back to expose her sweaty neck. “Still, now.” Her nerves vibrated beneath her skin, and her heart drummed painfully inside her chest. She took the girl’s blubbering face in her hands, her fingers denting the supple flesh.

  “Wait,” the girl said, her words muffled and slurred. But Susan did not wait. It was too late for that. Her fingers dug into Cindy’s fat cheeks.

  “Wait,” the girl whined again. She tried to shake her head out of Susan’s grasp, but Susan yanked the heavy, clumsy body against her chest, and with a deep, trembling breath, she sank her teeth into the sticky flesh of the girl’s throat. This time it was easy, and the blood started to run as if she had turned on a faucet.

  It fountained warm and sticky into Susan’s waiting mouth. Susan closed her eyes, savoring the taste, the silken caress, like a lover’s wanton kiss.

  The girl struggled again, her hands shoving against Susan’s chest. Her fingers snatched wildly, for a moment grazing the wound the Rasta Man had left. Susan gasped, but didn’t pull away. Instead, her death grip tightened and grew more determined; her fingers carved holes into Cindy’s fat face until she felt the girl’s wet, uneven teeth against her fingertips, and blood ran like ribbons of paint across her palms and down her arms.

  Susan fed, vaguely aware of the sound, wet, sucking, and greedy.

  “Oh, God, help me,” Cindy wept, her words garbled through Susan’s vice grip.

  Susan stopped for a moment and pressed her lips to the girl’s grungy ear. “Help you? Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

  Cindy shrieked.

  Giggling, Susan relinquished her hold and stepped back. “Now what? Do you think I’ll just let you go?”

  “Y-yes.” Cindy whimpered. She looked down at herself, at the dark stain spreading over the breast of her grey sweatshirt. “Oh, shit. Look at me.”

  “Run,” Susan screamed at the girl. “Run for your life.”

  The girl sprinted away into the shadows, but her size made her lumbering. She stumbled, and her breaths were heavy. Susan waited, knowing she wouldn’t lose the fat girl. She followed her easily. The blood that flowed from the girl’s gashed throat created a path of scent.

  Susan glanced back at Devin, who had sat back down on the broken bench, still cradling the baby in the tattered blankets. She scanned the canyon of shadow between the old hotels for Cindy. In the thick, oily darkness, she quickly picked out the girl’s herky-jerky movements. She was perhaps two hundred yards away, weeping and panting along, her breaths pluming out like white bal
loons, already too exhausted to run anymore.

  “Run,” Susan called. She giggled again, but staggered sideways, her head suddenly spinning. Something tainted the bitch’s blood, but the effects were not altogether disagreeable. Besides, the brief taste of blood had only intensified Susan’s hunger, and she was now ready for more. “Run, because I’m coming!”

  Susan took off, her legs pumping effortlessly; she ran so fast she felt as though she was flying. And maybe she was. Her coat trailed out behind her like wings, or maybe Dracula’s cape. She sprinted and bounded more than a dozen feet up the rough and weathered bricks of the Marksman Hotel and came down like a cat, ten yards ahead of the terrified girl.

  In the back of her mind lay the needling thought. What have I become? Do I need to be so cruel? Silent now, she waited and watched, her vampire eyes seeing what Cindy’s eyes could not. The girl plodded on, groping at the bricks to find her way. As quiet as a ghost, Susan walked alongside of her.

  Finally, “I’m here.”

  Cindy froze, and through the darkness, Susan watched her throat work nervously. Each swallow brought a new surge of warm, sticky blood to the surface of the wound on her neck.

  “You promised it wouldn’t hurt.”

  Susan threaded her fingers into the girl’s dry, broken hair. “It gets worse before it gets better.”

  Susan pulled Cindy’s head back and pressed her lips to the sticky, wet opening at the girl’s throat. She fed, relishing the drugs in the girl’s system. As a police officer, Susan had never touched the stuff, but that was the old Susan. And how horrible was she now, anyway? She was still cleaning up the streets.