Nocturnal

by Mark Allen

  The vampire pulled the headset off the dead man’s head. He held the mic close to his mouth. “Leave Downing alone, now and forever, and I will let you live.”

  Stunned silence on the other end.

  In the distance, another pop! pop!

  “All units respond. I say again, all units respond.”

  “They can’t.”

  Silence. Then, “Who is this?”

  The vampire recognized the voice. “I gave you a chance at the docks to change your ways and lead an honorable life,” the vampire said. “Pity you did not take it.”

  Silence again, then, in earnest, “Who is this?”

  “I am Death,” the vampire replied. “The destroyer of worlds. And I have come for you.”

  The vampire dropped the headset to the ground. He turned and focused his attention on the assassin across the street. Working up his anger, his seething hatred of men such as these, he stepped back two paces, then pushed off to get a running start. He accelerated quickly and pushed off with his left foot just as he reached the leading edge of the roof.

  The vampire leapt in an upward motion, flying out into space. He felt no fear as his body reached the zenith of his arc. He felt suspended for a moment, fully forty feet above the pavement, in the middle of a jump from one building to the next, spanning four lanes of street, two sidewalks, fully sixty feet from point A to point B. Then his momentum coupled with gravity, now past the apex of the arc, and he began to descend as his body decelerated.

  Gravity, air friction, curvilinear motion, he thought. Gee, physics can be fun.

  He targeted his enemy as the rooftop rushed up underneath him. He landed hard on both feet, knees bent to take the shock and distribute it throughout his body. He tucked and rolled like a landing paratrooper.

  The man on the roof, had a large head, square jaw, and was clean-shaven like he had been taught in boot camp. Rippling musculature, close-cropped blonde hair and ruddy skin, he spun round in surprise upon the vampire’s thudding impact. He wielded a modified M4, with a shortened stock, night vision scope, and a silencer attached to the barrel. He registered someone suddenly in close proximity. He opened fire in semiautomatic mode, one round fired each time he pressed the trigger.

  The vampire neatly ducked and moved, bobbed and weaved, easily avoiding the bullets. He likened them to metal mosquitos. They buzzed nearby, a nuisance looking to bite. But he slapped them away.

  The big man paused, confused. He was a crack shot. Frustrated at missing, he watched as the figure in the gloom rolled away from the bullets and rose again to a standing position. The big man could not see his face as he stood in the shadows, but this idiot was just standing there, an immobile target. He raised his rifle to his shoulder.

  Big mistake.

  The vampire rushed forward, grinning. He heard the click as the big man switched to full auto. It mattered not. Before the big man could squeeze the trigger again, he was already dead.

  The mercenary felt a terrible raking sensation across his torso, a deep rending, then a spreading warm wetness near his hips. Had he just peed himself? He looked down at his front.

  Four large rents in the fabric of his shirt, below his body armor, just above his pubis. The spreading wetness was not just urine. Yes, his bladder had been punctured, but blood poured down his pants legs, spilling across the rooftop, pooling between his feet.

  He heard Rudy yelling into his earpiece for all units to respond, to report, to say something. Anything. None of this made sense. And it made no sense to him when the creature – for surely this was no man - ripped the M4 out of his hands.

  The vampire grabbed the big man’s face and wrenched his head to one side. The vampire then opened his mouth, bared his fangs and descended downward. Blood, thick and coppery, bubbled into his mouth.

  Thirsty and needing sustenance, the vampire drank his fill. His physical strength expanded. The dead man must have been a health nut, for his blood was chock full of vitamins. When he had drunk his fill, the vampire hoisted the limp meat-sack up, heaved it over his head, and flung the corpse off the roof. It plummeted to the ground below.

  Reggie moved past the first man he had just killed. He stopped just long enough to pick up the fallen man’s rifle, which was also equipped with a sound suppressor. He pressed the stock into his shoulder and aimed ahead as he moved. Safety off. Finger on the trigger.

  He saw the other mercenary, an older black man, first. He did not hesitate. He fired once, blowing the top of the man’s head away. His target dropped dead like a sack of potatoes.

  Reggie advanced on his target’s last position. He did not let his guard down until he confirmed the kill. Confirm the kill? Hell, the bastard’s head looked like a bloody fucking canoe.

  Across the street, down the block, Rudy grew truly alarmed. He keyed his mic as he got out of the Land Rover.

  “Melvin, Rudy. Come in.”

  “Send it,” came the tinny, crackling response.

  “Men down, men down. They’re here. We need backup.” Rudy locked and loaded.

  “Say again?” Melvin’s voice sounded incredulous.

  “Get here now. Come in hot.” He flipped his safety off.

  “Roger that.”

  Rudy pushed his back into the rough brick of the building at the entrance to the alley. He held his weapon close, barrel upwards, but suddenly it brought him no comfort. Somehow, someone had managed to silence five trained men.

  Just like someone had managed to slaughter seven people at the Sulu Sea the other night. He had not been spared because he had outwitted, or outfought, that unseen opponent. He had been granted a reprieve, by that guy up on the roof with Razor.

  A sharp sliver of ice-cold fear, unannounced and unwelcome, stabbed down his spine. It settled in the pit of his stomach. His dinner threatened to explode out of him.

  For some reason, he thought of T-Ball’s mangled remains. It had looked like a pile of slop; unrecognizable as the remains of a sentient (or in T-Ball’s case, partially sentient) being that had actually lived.

  Something was terribly wrong here. For the first time in a long time, Rudy did not think was going to make it.

  Something fluttered up above, just at the top of his peripheral vision. A bird, perhaps. At night? He looked up. He saw a black blob, hurtling off the rooftop across the street, from atop Downing’s apartment. The fluttering he had sensed were not wings, but were arms and legs pumping as someone – some thing! – leapt off the roof and hurtled towards him. As it flew closer, it materialized: long black coat flapping behind him, gray skin with a yellowish tint, severe cheekbones, long face, pointed chin, cruel mouth.

  Rudy’s mind came to stop. This could not be happening.

  The thing landed with a thud on the concrete just a couple of feet away from Rudy. Shocked into stillness, Rudy watched as the thing in front of him, crouched down from absorbing the impact of the fifty-foot jump from the rooftop and across the four lanes of the street, rose up and stood before him. The demon brought a hand up in one smooth motion and ripped the heavy sunglasses off his face, revealing the cold, unblinking glassy black orbs he usually kept hidden.

  Rudy moved. He tried to bring his weapon to bear. Too late.

  The creature snarled, revealing sharp predatory fangs. He grabbed the barrel and wrenched the weapon out of Rudy’s hands before Rudy could squeeze the trigger.

  The last thing Rudy saw before the lights went out was a mildly misshapen hand with long slender fingers ending in sharp nails extending towards his face and throat.

  Journal entry, 02 March

  I had not spoken to anyone about Danae in almost a century.

  Experiences both bitter and sweet shape us, mold us into who we become. Our own memories, unique perceptions, and lessons learned season us for life’s inevitable ups and downs. Over time, memory fades, and the more jagged edges dull, become less cutting. Bring a particular trauma back up, and it all floods back. An ugly wound, long thought healed, reopens with all the
pain, and rawness of the first time.

  Danae lived out the natural cycle of her life, and has long since passed away. But she still lives on young and fresh, strong and beautiful in my most cherished memories.

  But there was my ill-fated attempt to reestablish contact with her. I waited a few weeks because I first had to take care of a thorn in my side named Thomas. Once I knew the police were writing his murder off as just another gangland killing, it was safe to move about.

  I entered Bumpy’s through the back door a little after one in the morning. My new vampire hearing had detected her voice while I was still halfway down the same alley where I had died. Wearing a long coat, black broad brimmed hat, and having the collar turned up, most of my vampire features were obscured, and were further hidden by the low light, cigarette smoke, and the general inebriation of the patrons.

  Danae had one more set and would finish up around a quarter of two. Then she would slip behind the bar, and take the narrow back stairs up to her room where she would change before bed. I was waiting for her when she entered the room, closing the door behind her.

  I sat on a bare wooden chair, leaning forward, looking at the flooring. When she first walked in, all she could see was someone in dark clothes, long coat flowing over the chair seat, broad brimmed black hat hiding a face.

  She demanded to know who I was, and what I was doing in her room. In my own swirling emotions, I found I could not speak. She mistook my silence to mean something it did not. She reached into folds of her skirt and pulled out a knife with a gleaming four-inch blade to protect herself.

  I spoke one word: “Danae”.

  Of course, she recognized my voice. She started to run across the room. But an outstretched arm and the word, “Don’t!” stopped her in her tracks. She immediately became wary, then fearful as I explained to her what had happened, that I had been shot, that I had died, and that I had been given a second chance. I had been reborn, but forever changed.

  She told me she loved me. Whatever trouble I was in, we would face it together. We could still go to France, leave right now tonight. She could be ready in ten minutes.

  I took off my hat, lifted my head, and stood up.

  And in that one instant, that one pivotal moment in my existence, all my worst fears in both life and in death came true.

  Her face froze. Her breathing stopped, caught in her throat. I heard her heart skip a beat, sort of a cardiac shudder. Then it began pounding hard and fast like a jackhammer. I saw her face change to anger.

  I could hear the blood rushing through her veins. It excited me, but not in a good way. I immediately realized how difficult a life with her would be, only having nighttime hours together, putting myself in a constant state of check, denying my new nature, knowing I would hear the blood in her veins, smell it, and covet it.

  I attempted to calm her down. I explained to her what had happened in the alley that night, the choice I had made, and what I was now.

  Much to my surprise, she believed me, believed my story. In fact, Danae knew and understood exactly, precisely what I was. African folklore that had been handed down to her from her grandparents, who had been born slaves on a plantation in Mississippi, had included ghost stories containing all manner of supernatural beings, including vampires.

  And that was when I detected a second heartbeat. Smaller, faster, coming from her lower belly. And while I was certainly no doctor, even I knew what that meant. I was shocked and elated.

  I was going to be a father.

  But Danae made it clear I was not welcome here, that she never wanted to see me again. She further made it clear she would raise our child on her own. I was no longer the man she had loved. That man had died in the alleyway that night. The creature standing before her would never be welcome in her home, her life, or the lives of her children.

  Crumbling inside, I told her that I understood; that because I loved her, I would respect her wishes by keeping my distance. But she was family, my family, and so was our child. I would watch from afar, but not interfere unless I felt compelled to do so by extreme circumstances. Life and death, that sort of thing.

  She said she would not want my help, even under those circumstances.

  I planted my feet. Squared my shoulders. Looked her in the eye and informed her she would have my vigilance and my protection whether she wanted it or not. And I would watch over our descendants through the years.

  I swore my undying love to her. Then I adjusted my hat, buttoned my coat up to the throat, then slipped out the window and onto the fire escape.

  True to my word, I never went back to that room with the tiny window looking down onto that alley where I died. I wanted to go back every night for years. Sometimes, respecting the wishes of others is the hardest thing you can ever do. And sometimes the only way to show someone you love them is remain absent from their lives.

  I only broke my word once.

  It was the early seventies. She had moved out west to be with family as she got older. Coincidentally, I was already out here. I had felt the psychic link immediately, and for years fought the urge to go see her. But the night came when I had to.

  She was quite elderly by then, well into her eighties, almost ninety. Time had ravaged her body. She was hospitalized, her body failing. But her eyes still saw clearly; her mind still sharp as ever.

  Two or three hours prior to dawn, I crept through an unlocked door on the ground floor of the hospital and up a back stairwell that opened onto the hallway.

  I moved like a wraith along the silent hallway, clinging to the wall, using the shadows. Up ahead sat the nurses’ station, in its requisite pool of light. The nurse sat in a rather uncomfortable-looking chair, writing in a patient’s chart. I stretched forth my arm, fingers extended, palm towards her. In my head, I concentrated and said one soft word, “Sleep”.

  The nurse exhaled, a quiet sigh. Her eyes closed and she slumped forward in her chair, her head coming to rest on the chart she had been dutifully updating. The nurse would awaken in about one hour, disoriented but otherwise unharmed.

  Blocking out all distraction, I followed Danae’s weakening heartbeat. I crept into her room. She lay on her back, asleep, bed tilted into a semi-sitting position. Her eyes were closed, her head turned towards me. A single light shone above her, a weak amber glow so as to not disturb her slumber.

  Even from several feet away, I could smell the decay, the stench of the cancer that had spread throughout her body, literally rotting her from the inside out.

  My anguish knew no bounds.

  Even though the woman in front of me was wrinkled of skin, grey of hair, and fragile of body, her features remained familiar. All I saw was the same woman I had fallen love with so long ago.

  Her eyes opened. She knew someone was in the room, thought was the nurse. I whispered her name from the darkness. Recognition registered in her eyes, and I stepped forward.

  I smiled, pulled a small chair forward, and sat down. She asked me, How I had found her; why I had come? I told her I knew she was sick, that I had come to see her once more. I could not bear the thought of us never having a chance to say goodbye.

  She whispered she had thought of me often, wondered if I had survived. She said she had appreciated the fact I had kept my word, and had stayed away. And from her heart, she apologized for how she had acted that night in the speakeasy. She said she knew she wounded me terribly.

  I took her hand in mine. Weak fingers curled around my cool palm. Death was imminent. I told her she had nothing to apologize for. I understood her horror at what I had become. In retrospect, I felt she had chosen wisely. She took comfort in that. She had been burdened with doubt all those years.

  I asked her if perhaps she would like to forgo death. I could give her a choice most people did not get. She could die; cancer would take her soon. But if I bit her, she would wake up new again, a vampire like me. She would be forever young, like she had been, so many years ago.

  She declined. She had lived a ful
l life. She preferred to pass on rather than become something unnatural. Then she added, “No offense”.

  I told her I had been called much worse over the years. And “unnatural” was indeed as accurate a description as any. I asked if she was certain. She was.

  I nodded my head, tilted down to kiss her hand. She reached out to me. I stood from the chair and bent across the bed, hugging her, embracing my woman, my love, my lost potential, my reason for living. She squeezed back, and it was like the decades fell away. I was a young man again, alive, with a beating heart and warm skin, feeling all the love I had for this woman who made me want to be a good man, a better man. Get out of my life of crime, go straight, get a job, and be a real man – a good and faithful husband, a loving and devoted father.

  All those things I never had, never experienced. All those things I lost because I chose to become a gangster, a cruel criminal, a bad and brutal man.

  Her strength faded quickly. I eased her back onto the sheets. I did not realize I had picked her up off the bed in my arms. Her body seemed so frail, arms and legs like twigs. Looking up, she pointed to my face. I touched my cheek, looked at my finger.

  Tears.

  Up until then, I did not know a vampire could cry.

  She told me I needed to go. She she did not have much time left, and she knew dawn approached. I kissed her lips one last time, told her how much I loved her.