After Dark (The Vampire Next Door Book 2)

by Titus, Rose

  “Bigfoot maybe.”

  “Yeah, without the hair.”

  They sat, silently watched, and waited. Hours passed. Nothing but the sound of a drunk mumbling in his sleep under a pile of trash bags.

  “Wanna quit?” Leon grew frustrated.

  “We should ask some people, go to where they usually hang out, what they know. It could help.” Rick started the car. “You know where to find them, right?”

  “Yeah, there’s like this shanty town, little houses made of boxes and crates, cops keep breaking it up, but they come back and set up camp again.”

  Rick remained in the car while Leon walked about and did all the talking. Many of the street people already knew of him—of his kind, and were obviously apprehensive. No one was sure how they knew. Perhaps it was simple street talk, gossip. The recent serial killings did not help the situation. It only drew suspicion.

  He suddenly realized the people were staring. Did the bright street lights reflect in his eyes? And display his pale countenance? Probably so.

  And he watched them as well.

  Leon returned, got into the car. “That old lady over there, see her sitting in front of the cardboard box, she says she had a friend who was a junkie who disappeared last week. No one has heard anything about him since.”

  “Are we supposed to look for this junkie, or something?”

  “No. She wants to talk to you.”

  “What?!”

  “Yeah. Go on over.”

  “Leon.”

  “I’ll wait here. Don’t worry. It’s cool.”

  Rick got out of the Catalina, walked slowly past the row of used crates, scrap plywood, and cardboard turned into people’s homes. The people watched him move in dead silence. He reached the end of the row. “Hello?” He looked at her in the darkness. Her gray hair had not been cut or washed since he was afraid to guess when, nor had her face or hands been washed. Her clothes also appeared to have never been cleaned. Her shoes had holes that revealed bruised toes. “Hello? You wanted to see me?”

  “When are you gonna stop all this?”

  For a moment he did not understand. “We are not doing these terrible things. We have nothing to do with this tragedy.”

  “We know that,” she croaked. “It’s the government, using the police, to get rid of us, get us off the streets, out of sight, make the town nice for tourists again, clean the place up. We all know that. But you have to stop it. No one else can. We’re all helpless. You’re our only hope.”

  Rick spun around, hearing soft and cautious footsteps. Three middle aged men, ragged and tough from life on the street. The appeared to have him cornered. “What do you want?” he whispered coldly.

  “Please,” began the oldest one with the salt and pepper beard, “Don’t get mad with Evie. She only wants your help. Look, we know you people don’t really care about us, why should you, no one else does, so why should you? We’re just scared out here, all night long. If it’s not one of you, then please, can’t you help us?”

  “I do care,” he said quietly, “I just don’t know what to do.” He started back to the car. The men parted to let him through.

  “They’ll be comin’ after all of you next!” the old woman howled.

  “They already are, or haven’t you heard?” Rick continued to stalk back to the Pontiac. He got it beside Leon, started it, and drove away.

  Rick brought Leon home and then returned to his own place. He parked the Pontiac beside Laura’s car in the backyard and let himself in almost immediately before dawn. He drifted in slowly. The boys, Charlie and Jimmy, were asleep, on the couch and in the chair. Rufus was awake, still. He was as usual in front of the television.

  “You even stay up later than me, kid.”

  He startled at the sound of Rick’s voice, spun around to look at him warily in the darkness.

  “You ever sleep?”

  “Yeah,” the boy mumbled cautiously, “I do.” His voice shook on every brief syllable.

  “Never mind,” Rick sighed, and he wandered on to the kitchen to his refrigerator, almost desperately hungry after the long night. But he knew that eyes were watching him intensely from the living room. He heated it up and drank it anyway, then went for another, knowing he was being watched.

  “What’s it like?” the boy whispered.

  “It’s just food, Rufus. Nothing more. And you’re not on the menu tonight, so don’t worry about it, okay?”

  And he put the heavy large cups into the small dishwasher, drifted back to his darkened room. She was there, he could see her in the darkness, flat on his bed, throat exposed. Sometimes it wasn’t just food. He looked down at her, gazed down at the delicate flesh of her throat and hungered deeply. He looked away.

  She had gotten up while he was out, moved into his bed, and the three boys, three immoral feral children, were down the hall, in the living room. And he had to set an example for them all.

  He went to the closet and reached for an extra blanket, slept the day on the hard floor.

  Another damned homicide.

  Martin sipped his coffee and watched McMurphy. He was smiling again. Smiling brightly like the sun overhead coming through the window. Every time another worthless junkie dropped dead in town, McMurphy would be so happy. But this time, McMurphy was quiet too. He simply smiled to himself. All day long.

  Martin just hated to see people happy when he was hung over. And he also did not like that strange lady teaching at his little girl’s school. At least his daughter wasn’t in her class. Could she have any part in all this? Did she know who, or what, was doing all the killing? Maybe she did. Maybe she was covering for the real killer?

  That afternoon when Laura returned, the boys were watching rock videos, except for Rufus, who slept soundly on the couch. The two boys sat on the floor, surrounded by emptied food containers, coke cans, and ice cream cartons. The music was loud and harsh. She gazed at the video image. A large overweight man in a tight black leather dress with fishnet stockings and heavy combat boots was screaming into the microphone, pounding on his electric guitar.

  “Why, what on earth is all that?”

  “It’s this new band called I Crap On Your Mother’s Grave. Aren’t they cool? Like, I’ve been following this group’s career since I was, like, real young.” Jimmy watched the screen in admiration.

  “Cool?”

  “Yeah. They’re so cool. See this guy? His name is Femme Morbide. He ate a jar of live cockroaches on stage last month. He’s like, real talented. You can really admire someone like that. You know? He’s got so much artistic and musical ability.”

  “Oh, I see,” Laura didn’t quite understand. Perhaps she didn’t really want to. “We had an attempted kidnapping today at school.”

  “Awesome!” Charlie spun around to see her while Jimmy continued to simply watch. And Rufus still appeared to be quite dead on the couch despite all the noise. “Like, did anyone get killed?” Charlie asked.

  “No, thank goodness. Just a lot of commotion and excitement, that’s all. Nothing too serious, I’m glad to say.”

  “Like, what happened?” Charlie was still interested.

  “Some terrible person tried to take away a poor little girl, but she screamed, and ran away from him. We called the police, but no one was apprehended for it.”

  “Did he like, molest her and stuff?” Charlie tried to keep her in the conversation that she really did not want to have. Jimmy still watched his favorite rock star, gazing blankly into the screen.

  “I don’t know, really.” She did not witness it. She only heard of it, and was highly disturbed by it. She was confused by Charlie’s enthusiasm.

  “Hey, here’s the good part,” Jimmy nudged Charlie to get his attention. “Here’s where he throws up all over the audience.”

  But Laura had stopped listening. She looked curiously at Rufus. He seemed to sleep all day, almost like Rick. And he was so delicately pale, so thin. If she didn’t know better she might almost think that he was...
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  Where was Rick? Still on the hard cold floor. He had sacrificed his comfort for her once again, and he would not order the boys off the furniture.

  She slowly opened the door to his room a few inches to see him in the darkness with the small amount of light that drifted in. She lingered a few moments and wondered if the light was hurting him. She shut the door quietly, and wished for nightfall to swiftly come. She wanted to hear more stories of ancient times. She wanted to hear his voice. She wanted his company.

  Rufus awakened slowly as she prepared supper for the boys. He wandered into the kitchen, smelled the food, looked at it, and mumbled. “I’m not hungry.” He drifted back into the living room and sat in front of the television.

  “Rufus?” she asked, “Don’t you want anything?” She had finally learned to cook, and was eager to be useful, to feel accomplished. She was also relieved that she finally managed to convince the boys to sit at the table.

  “I don’t know what I want,” he moaned.

  “He never eats much,” said Jimmy. “He just always complains.”

  “Yeah.” Charlie spoke while he chewed. “We’re skinny ’cause we tested positive, he’s skinny ’cause he don’t eat much.”

  It was odd, she agreed.

  “What’s odd? The hours I keep?” Rick emerged from the darkened hallway that led to his small room. She turned and looked at him; he did not appear to be bothered by spending the day flat on the hard floor. His hair was uncombed, slightly out of place, and he still wore the black faded jeans and dull white T-shirt that he wore last night.

  “Rufus is odd!” Jimmy howled out with his usual loud voice.

  “Shut up,” Rufus moaned from the living room, not quite looking away from the television.

  “He won’t eat,” Laura said. “The boys say he never eats much at all.”

  Rick watched Rufus as he stared lifelessly into the television. The light from the screen illuminated his fair skin, glowed into his eyes. And then Rick finally saw it. Could it be? He looked away. He could not say anything. Perhaps his friends would ostracize him if they knew? They stayed with Rick for protection and food and shelter. Rufus could offer them none of these things.

  Rick went to his refrigerator, went through the motions of preparing his own food. Rufus stared at the process from a careful distance.

  Rick was alone in the gallery. The tourists that occasionally came in to browse did not matter. If they came in at all, they usually left him alone with his thoughts.

  Laura was good for the boys. They needed a mother. And she could see another side of the world through their eyes, the darker side. His world was dark, but not like theirs. Rufus. Would he come to him on his own? Maybe not.

  And Laura herself? Should he even think of it at all?

  He turned when he heard soft footsteps descending the stairs to enter the gallery. He was relieved that it wasn’t any of the boys. “You came to admire the art?”

  “Maybe,” she whispered. “I don’t know,” and she came closer to the desk that he casually leaned against.

  “I was wondering about Rufus,” he began.

  “I think that it’s too bright in here.”

  “Yes, it is, but it’s only for customers, if and when they come in.” He reached to adjust the dimmer switch that controlled the brightness. Instantly the room fell into a soft cool darkness. “That’s better. It does put a strain on me. Now, about Rufus.”

  She didn’t listen. Instead she drifted closer.

  “You didn’t really come in to look at the paintings, did you?” She was seized, pulled towards him. “What do you want, Laura? Do you want me to pretend to be like everyone else, so we can both end up miserable?”

  “No,” she whispered. “I only want you.” She tilted her head back, gazed at the darkened ceiling and closed her eyes as he bent to her throat.

  Slowly, peacefully, she awakened to his soft caress. His hand ran through her hair, stroked the small wound on her throat. She felt his warmth, discovered that he had warmth, that he wasn’t dead cold. Her eyes opened, she sat up. She was in his bed, he had carried her up after she had drifted down into blissful soft darkness.

  The television was on down the hall in the living room. Did they know? Did they care?

  “They are asleep, except for Rufus,” he whispered as he held her in his arms. “And they never listen to him. They will see that you are all right.”

  “Will I be?” she wondered.

  “Of course.”

  She felt fine. No. Better than fine. Lightheaded, placidly lethargic. “What will you do now?”

  “Keep you forever in my arms. What else can I do?”

  Finally she slept. And he rose from her side, reluctantly, and drifted quietly out of the room. He had to. He could not feed from her anymore.

  He could hear movement close by. In the kitchen, footsteps, shuffling, unsure footsteps.

  There he was, opening the refrigerator, staring into it, its light illuminating his pale face and the entire room. “Oh go ahead, take it. I’ve got plenty and can always get more.”

  “Huh?” the boy spun around in sudden fear.

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry. I know. I can tell.”

  “What d’you want from me?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. But tell me, you’re awake all night, and can’t stand the light of day. Is that not so?”

  “How d’you know?”

  “I know. I didn’t at first, but now I do. And there’s nothing to worry about. You’re lucky. By some coincidence you landed in the right place. Because we can take care of you. On your own, on the streets, you’d starve, you’d die.”

  “You mean I can die?”

  “Yes, slowly, by starvation, and by the other unpleasant traditional methods they use to dispose of us.” Rick stood at the entrance to the kitchen facing Rufus. He hoped he could get through to him.

  “Like, why is all this stuff happening to me?”

  “Did you know your real father, Rufus?”

  “Naw. My mother doesn’t even know who he is.”

  “I see,” he sighed. “Well, maybe someday we can find him for you. Would you like to find your father? Most likely, Rufus, he was one of us.” Rick went to the refrigerator. Rufus stepped back as he came forward. He reached in, took out a bottle. “Want some? Yes?” The boy was coldly silent. “No?” No answer. “Never mind then. Look, whatever you do, don’t starve yourself. It’s the worst thing you could do.”

  “What’ll happen to them?”

  “Them?”

  “My friends.”

  He thought a moment. “There is no way to save them from the disease, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, I mean, what will you do?”

  “You should already know I would never harm them. They’re as safe as they can be, for now.”

  “There was blood on your mouth.”

  “Oh. That.” Is this how the parents of teenagers feel? he wondered, as he put it in the microwave. “I suppose, growing up in their world, you would never imagine—”

  “Who was it?” the boy demanded. “Are they dead?”

  “Rufus, slow down. You will have a lot to learn.”

  “What?” he whispered.

  “No one is dead. Now stop jumping to conclusions.”

  “I don’t want this!”

  “Not now you don’t, but in time, Rufus, you will understand. Give yourself time. And, don’t ever starve yourself.”

  Martin stayed home that day. He simply called in and let them know the situation. It couldn’t have been any of Them. It was in broad daylight. And now he watched as his little girl sat there, on the floor, in front of the television, gazing vacantly into the endless colorful and loud stream of cartoons. It didn’t seem to affect her. Though she had nightmares all night long, she did not speak of it in the morning. It was as if it never really happened. She acted as if it was just one of the bad dreams that she had awakened from. Who would do this sort of thing? Attempt to steal his
little girl? In all his years as a cop, he had seen so many horrible things. He never imagined anything could happen to his own precious little girl.

  Tirrell was by himself again, on the swing, swaying back and forth slowly, looking down at the sand on the ground. The other children ran about screaming and laughing, playing, fighting.

  He was alone, like her. She went to sit beside him, but did not move. “Tirrell, did you see what happened yesterday?”

  “Yeah.” He still gazed down at the ground.

  Laura continued to ask, “Did you see the man—”

  “The white truck. It was the white truck.”

  “We all know the truck was white, Tirrell.”

  “Street kids from grandma’s neighborhood say that when the white truck goes down your street, someone will die. That’s what they say.”

  “Why, what do you mean, Tirrell?”

  He rose from the swing and quickly ran away.

  Tirrell’s mother told him to put the newspaper away and to do his homework right now and not to talk back damn it.

  “But it’s another one!” he protested.

  “Never mind that trash. Do your math.”

  “But Mom.”

  “Don’t you but mom me. Give me that.” She took away the nightly edition and read the headlines. The newest murder victim was sixteen years old. A street kid. Jesus God.

  “Mom, when can we go home?”

  Keisha didn’t answer. She had driven back to the house, again, just to see it, to see her dream destroyed.

  “Mom.”

  “Tirrell! Never mind. We are gonna get an apartment around here. Lina said a good one was gonna be empty real soon.”

  “They’re weird,” and he pretended to look at his math book.

  “Tirrell!”

  “They are. They’re locked up in their rooms all day long. See? They don’t trust us ’cause we’re black.”

  Keisha took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That’s not the reason, Tirrell. Now, just shut up, okay? And do your homework or you’ll be useless and end up like your father. Listen, Lina said that Alex will let us keep a dog in the apartment. How’s that? You wanted a dog. Right? Tirrell?”