Darklands: a vampire's tale

by Donna Burgess

  He moved into the sunken living room and nearly broke his neck when he missed the step down. He stumbled and dropped the flashlight, which frightened away another hefty rat.

  “Shit!” His voice echoed dully. The startled rat squeaked a reply from the deep shadows.

  He retrieved the flashlight and spotlighted the furniture, which was also green and yellow. There was a large stone fireplace with a high hearth. Throw pillows were scattered along the rim of the step down, creating Japanese-style seating. Along one wall sat a big console television, just like the one Michael remembered watching growing up. If the electricity had been working, he could almost imagine switching it on and finding an episode of “The Six Million Dollar Man” in all his leisure-suited glory. Thick shag carpeting cushioned his steps.

  Moving cautiously, he stepped into the narrow hallway. He heard more scurrying and squeaking of rodents, followed by something heavier. Heart pounding, Michael raised the nose of his gun slightly and trained the light ahead. Wouldn’t I just shit, if I found somebody here? The smell of decay was heavier in the hallway, but time had erased its potency. Graffiti decorated the door at the far end, and there was another barrier of yellow tape. Crime scene tape, he was now able to determine. Inwardly questioning why, he moved ahead. It was almost like a train wreck—he didn’t want to look, but something inside drove him onward.

  On the door, someone had written the legend, “Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me.” He recognized the quote immediately from college lit, remembering how he had waded through the poems of Emily Dickenson for a semester, unable to make heads or tails of most of it. It had been the only course in which he had scored less than a “B.”

  He passed three other doors, all opened a fraction. After a quick inspection with a swipe of the flashlight, he discovered none were as interesting as the room with the crime tape.

  Michael used the end of his riot gun to catch the police tape and tear it down. He twisted the knob. Locked. He stepped back and kicked in the door, sending it crashing back against the wall.

  It was obviously the kids’ room. It had two beds, and the room was divided into halves for a boy and a girl. One side was all stuffed bears and Barbie and Ken with a bed covered by a spread with bold flowers. The other side was footballs and baseballs and G.I. Joes with the bed and drapes decorated NFL dark green and bright red.

  But something was wrong. Although the odor of death had dissipated somewhat over the decades, it was still there, concentrated in this room. Something awful had happened here. Shining the light around, Michael saw splatters arching upward from the top of each bed, where small sleeping heads had lain, like a rainbow on the wall. Horror uncoiled in his stomach. The intervening years did nothing to lessen the impact of knowing that children had obviously died here. Bullets had splintered the girl’s cream-colored headboard. Deeply embedded in the old wood was a tooth, milky white against the dark splatters of dried gore.

  Shuddering, Michael backed out of the room and pulled the door closed. He leaned against the wall in the hallway for a moment and took a deep breath. The trauma physician in him created the scenario in his mind, in all its vivid, Technicolor glory. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as if that would help clear the image from his head. No success.

  It wasn’t much of a choice, staying in this house of ghosts or going back out into the freezing rain with the crazed Deathwalkers and an even crazier vampire hunter.

  Sighing, he moved back to the kitchen and retrieved his pack, then went to the living room.

  He found a wooden stool that was nearly crumbling sawdust with age. He smashed it with his boot and stacked the pieces in the hearth. He struck a match, and the fire easily stoked to life against the old wood.

  Michael shrugged out of his coat and sat down as close as he could get to the fire. Still, his breath hung in front of his mouth like vapor from ice. His gun across his lap, he rummaged through his pack for a yellow Gatorade—he was old school with the Gatorade—and a pair of granola bars.

  Finally, warmer and with his hunger somewhat abated, he lay down on the carpet and covered himself with his coat, but he kept his gun in his hand. He fell immediately into an exhausted sleep as the world continued to storm outside.

  ***

  Michael woke sometime after noon, his muscles stiff and achy from sleeping on the floor. Sleep was slow to relinquish its grip. Shivering, he sat rubbing his eyes a moment, disoriented. The fire he had created from a broken rocking chair had died during the night; he would need to find more wood to burn, and quickly. He hated the cold. At least it was daylight, and quite sunny, judging from how gloriously the light poured through the windows.

  He reached into his pack and found a can of diet soda and a package of cheese crackers. He grimaced as he ate them. He would go out and find some decent food soon. Even Kasper’s overcooked microwaved pasta was beginning to seem appealing.

  He chewed the crackers slowly, flavorless, orange squares of cardboard and washed them down with a big gulp of the soda. Where the hell was Susan? Could he just leave her here to die an ugly, gruesome death at the hands of a maniac? Hell, no. Susan was all he had. He had no family to speak of, only his patients and friends back in Hamilton. He felt bad about leaving his patients—as any decent doctor would—but he wasn’t the only physician in town. As for his friends, what did it really matter? They were just a bunch of talking heads to drink with on a Friday night. He doubted anyone cared that he was gone.

  Cynical much? He had asked Susan that once, when they were lying in bed together one night and reading the Yahoo headlines on his laptop. A story about the abuse of a puppy somewhere in Florida sent her on a tirade over the decline of humanity.

  Why did she matter so much, anyway? Was it the companionship? The sex? Having her on his arm, in his bed, in his house? Did it make him appear more of a man? They would have gotten married. She would have been his forever. But the past had come back and snatched her away from him. He wanted to see Devin McCree dead nearly as much as he wanted to get Susan back.

  Tonight, he would move inside the shadows, watching for her, just as he had done for the past fifteen nights straight. He would carry his gun, and it would be loaded and ready to take anyone’s head off that stood in his way.

  Susan had changed, but he had changed, also. Incredible circumstances called for incredible measures, as they said. A cliché, but it was very true.

  He had nearly six hours until dark. First he would have a look around; this place could become his home for the foreseeable future.

  ***

  With the light falling through the windows, Michael was able to see the old house better. It was still pretty much the way he had assumed it was when he had viewed it through the small, yellow circle of his flashlight beam last night. Seventies suburban. God, would it have killed them to have a wind chime or maybe a few seashells thrown in with the décor? The house did overlook a gorgeous slice of Atlantic coastline, after all.

  Killed was probably an unfortunate choice of words.

  He still expected Carol Brady to appear next to him any moment.

  The place was amazingly clean considering that it had been abandoned for perhaps thirty years. Not much dust or cobwebs. Of course, there was the occasional spider or stray rat turd in the corner of a room or along the runner in the hall.

  Michael didn’t go back to the children’s room. The feeling of death in there was just too overwhelming. The master bedroom was spotless, the bed made, novels of Harold Robbins and Joseph Wambaugh bookmarked and neatly stacked on the nightstand beneath the reading lamp. Inside the closet were men’s and women’s clothing. Hardly top of the line, but the woman’s side appeared to have been rummaged through fairly recently. The man’s clothes were for a hefty fellow—forty-two waist, long inseam. They were much too large, but Michael wouldn’t be caught dead in a Banlon shirt and green, gabardine golf slacks, anyway.

  The master bath was clean enough, and Michael managed to get
some icy water to run through the faucet in the vanity. It flowed rust-brown for nearly five minutes before finally running clear. He found a dusty, but clean towel in the linen closet. He removed his shirt and washed up. He brushed his teeth using a stolen toothbrush and travel-sized tube of Colgate. Shivering again, he stared into the mirror. He needed a shave and a haircut. There were bruised half-moons underneath his eyes, and he had visibly lost weight. The planes of his cheekbones and his jawline stood out sharply. His ribs appeared like the bars of a cage.

  He tugged his shirt back over his head and went back into the bedroom. Now that the sun was hitting the big double windows opposite the king-sized bed, he realized that there was an indention on the comforter and pillow, as if someone had recently lain there. Had he intruded on someone, something? For a moment, he considered sleeping there tonight, under the covers on the big, reasonably comfortable bed. No neck aches or stiffness.

  No. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was pushing it enough to be under this roof.

  He rummaged through the drawer of the nightstand. This made him feel like an intruder, spying on the personal, secret items of these long-gone people. He had to assume that the police had rifled through everything here, three decades earlier. Anything of value had likely been taken years ago.

  A jar of night cream. A small photo album, with more pictures of little Joey and Jeana at various stages of their short lives. A shopping list in looping, elegant handwriting—1 doz. Eggs, Kotex, Blue Bonnet Margarine . . . At the top of the page was the legend “Don’t Forget, Dummy,” in bold, comic-style letters.

  Michael moved to the dresser, a big, nine-drawer affair of mahogany wood. He tugged open the stubborn drawers. Fruit of the Looms, socks of all different colors and lengths. Panties that looked to belong to a woman of at least forty-five, of motherly stature. In the middle, top drawer, he finally saw the faces that belonged to the briefs and panties. It was a wholesome family portrait with the insignia “Olan Mills” stamped in flaking gold in the bottom right corner. It was faded to the point that the would-be bold yellows and oranges were as dull and cloudy as seeing them through dirty water.

  The man had indeed been very large. He posed unsmiling, his dark eyes serious, but not unhappy. Next to him sat a woman with short, curled auburn hair. She was pretty with a pert nose and wide-set eyes, but indeed motherly. The children had their mother’s features.

  Moving the photo aside, Michael found a small book. He thumbed through the pages, beginning at the back. It was blank until he reached about half-way. He scanned through the tight writing; it was in the same hand as the shopping list in the nightstand drawer.

  A journal.

  Not really knowing why, he kept it. Perhaps he would need something to read later.

  chapter thirty

  Michael was gone, and he had taken the gun with him. Of course, it was indeed best for both of them. Kasper sympathized for him—he really did. He knew what it was to lose a woman and did not want to kill him because of it. Maybe his drunken tirade had scared the doctor enough for him to scurry back to whatever little pissant burg he had come from.

  No. Not likely. The man was afraid, but he was also determined.

  Things with him were not finished. Michael loved the woman, and that was something easy to see, not a random notion picked up from delving into the doctor’s head. He would protect her, even if it killed him. In the process, he would likely succumb to the woman’s seduction, even if she was only using him for blood. They would meet again. And it would be ugly.

  But now, Kasper’s task was to remove a vermin called Alexander from the world. Kasper had heard that his kind were known as rogues. It was a title he quite enjoyed, and it fit him well. He fed on others of his kind, rather than humans.

  This night, he feigned innocence and told Alexander he didn’t know how he had gotten there. He needed money. He didn’t know how to hunt. He had been changed, and then abandoned. Just like a child, he said, to which Alexander replied ‘poor, poor thing’ and licked his lips like the big bad wolf.

  Kasper removed his coat and the gun together, careful to keep the gun concealed. He placed it on the floor within easy reach and then sat on the ratty hotel bedspread, pretending nervousness.

  Alexander opened a bottle of Amstel and passed it to him.

  Drawing this vampire’s interest had been easier than Kasper had anticipated. Only a shy nod, and within the hour, they were in this dank, smelly hotel room.

  Tonight, Kasper went by the name Quincy, the ally of Professor Van Helsing in Bram Stoker’s novel. Often, he chose from the names of those characters as his alias. Jonathan, as in Harker, or Abraham as in Van Helsing, the vampire hunter himself. Nobody read anymore. Not the younger ones, anyway. They would never catch on. Perhaps, if he claimed to go by “Buffy,” it might give at least one of the fools a sporting chance. Acting came into play quite often. Plus, Kasper could blend in with the others, since none of them, aside from that bastard Devin, knew what he looked like.

  Alexander was a tall, thin fellow. He had short hair streaked with burgundy, and his face was smooth, though he was not as young as Kasper had originally thought when he had spotted him in the tavern earlier. He was pretty and androgynous in the same feral way that most of the younger blood-drinkers seemed to be. He sat down on the bed beside Kasper.

  “Poor, poor Quincy,” he said again.

  Kasper’s skin crawled at his touch. He should have just killed him as soon as they were inside the door. But there was always the chance, no matter how small, that one of these morons might know where to find Devin.

  “Who did this to you?”

  Kasper took a drink of beer, working to keep from pulling away from the man’s hot, foul breath. “His name was Devin. Maybe you know him?”

  Alexander smiled. “Yes. I know of Devin McCree.”

  “Maybe you know where to find him?”

  Alexander took the beer from Kasper’s hand and put it aside. “I’m not telling you anything just now. A trade maybe?”

  “Maybe,” he whispered, the shy-act difficult to maintain. Besides, this one was insufferable. He sighed. “Then, you know?”

  “Relax, Quincy. We’ll see.” He pushed Kasper back onto the bed and moved on top of him. The repulsive sheets stunk of cum, sweat and old blood. Kasper tried to hold his breath. Alexander’s hands strayed over his body, slowly, greedily, and one rested lightly at Kasper’s groin, stroking him through his jeans. Sweat poured down Kasper’s face. His head pounded.

  The Deathwalker kissed Kasper’s throat. His hand moved ceaselessly, more firmly now, as though he would like to inflict pain rather than pleasure.

  Abruptly, he rolled off of Kasper and stood up.

  “You know, Quincy, this isn’t gonna be any fun if you don’t fucking relax a little.”

  He bent forward and slipped his fingers under the waistband of Kasper’s jeans. He pulled Kasper to his feet. Then, Alexander dropped to his knees. “Now, maybe this will help.”

  Wrapping his wiry arms around Kasper’s waist, he held him tightly. His fingers fluttered across Kasper’s buttocks, and he buried his face into Kasper’s crotch.

  Kasper reached down and took Alexander’s face in his hands. “Come here, first,” he whispered.

  Alexander stood, and their eyes met for a long moment. This time, he was the one who appeared nervous. Something flashed in his eyes, a seed of fear maybe. Kasper had taken control of the situation. He leaned closer and ran his tongue up the side of Alexander’s beard-scruffy throat. He took the man’s fine hair in his fingers, yanked his head back and bit into the warm, pale flesh. Hot blood jetted into his mouth. His eyes closed in ecstasy. After a moment, he pushed Alexander back onto the filth-stiffened sheets.

  The man groaned. “Jesus! That’s more like it.”

  Kasper climbed on top of him and sucked at the wound greedily, grinding himself against Alexander’s sharp, thin body.

  After a few moments, Alexander rasped, “Please,
Quincy. Stop. I’m going to pass out.”

  Kasper drew back, his face a lather of crimson. He smiled a wicked, gore-red smile and sat up. “Enough?”

  “Enough. Now, let me have you.” Alexander propped himself up on his elbows. Drowsy from blood loss, he watched Kasper through heavy-lidded eyes.

  Kasper wiped at his stained mouth and took a deep breath. As with each time he fed, nausea followed. Stomach cramping, he fought the urge to vomit and squeezed his eyes closed. He hated this. Was it in his head? Was he allergic? That would be one hell of a thing, a vampire allergic to blood.

  “Not until you tell me of Devin,” Kasper said, stalling until he regained his composure.

  Alexander fell back onto the bed. “Devin? I know nothing of Devin. I haven’t seen him in years. He might be dead, for all I know.”

  Rage boiled in Kasper’s brain. He clenched his fist. “You said—

  “I said what I said to get you here. Would you have come otherwise?”

  Control, Kasper. He smiled and shrugged, the innocent boy again. “I suppose not.”

  “Then, come here.”

  “All right,” Kasper said. “But just a moment. I want to show you something.” He knelt and reached for his coat.

  He removed the shotgun and stood. “Now keep your eyes closed, my dear. I have a surprise for you.”

  “Should I open my jeans?”

  “If you like.”

  Alexander smiled lazily, his eyes still closed. Slowly, he unbuttoned his jeans and then eased down the fly.

  Kasper placed the shortened muzzle of the shotgun just beneath Alexander’s smooth chin, but the chill of the steel alerted the vampire and his paper-thin eyelids flew open. His blue eyes met Kasper’s, but only for a breath.

  Kasper squeezed the trigger, as he had so many nights before, for so many years. Bodies and years—he had lost count of both. Vaguely, he imagined the bodies piled into ragged stacks, limbs askew, thick blood and clots of white and gray gore littering the floor all around. The years he saw as calendars, tattered with pages missing.