by John Moralee
He yelled for help, screaming so loud his throat became raw. But the sound was muffled by the snow and the car. And if there was no one out there to hear he was wasting his time.
“Think,” he gasped, breath steaming.
First, he tried the electric windows, but the mechanism whined and the windows remained shut. He could try prying them open or breaking them with a kick - but he was afraid that if he did that and there was a lot of snow outside it would tumble into the car and engulf him. Still, anything was better than being trapped.
There was a Philips screwdriver in the glove compartment. He wedged it in the gap between the side window and the door’s frame, jerking it up and down with all his strength. The windows were not designed for manual opening, and the plan failed. He changed tactics - hacking at the glass with the sharp tip. It spider-webbed. Several strikes opened up a hole. The snow did not pour into the car; it was as solid as rock. He hacked at it. He recalled de-icing his refrigerator with an ice pick, which had taken hours just for a few inches of ice, but this was an entire wall of it. Tonnes of it. It was impossible. After twenty minutes, he was exhausted, but the wall was undamaged by his efforts. The snow taunted him by its very lack of reaction.
Ryan had loved snow as a child, loved the way he could scoop it up like feathers, cold as ice cream, to make snowballs and snowmen. There was a purity to snow no other weather could come close to. Snow was the soft clump, clump of boots in a deep drift. It was Christmas and extra days off school.
But this snow was death, pure and simple.
It was strange how things could turn on you.
All he could do was wait for it to thaw, to keep himself alive until the cavalry arrived. Yes. Don’t panic. Oddly, it was not too cold, not with the snow acting as an igloo. He could make it through the night, he promised himself. He could make it.
4 a.m.
So cold.
During the night the car’s battery died, leaving him with just the weak illumination of his watch and brief flashes of his lighter.
He could not stop shivering.
He’d pulled the covers off the seats and wrapped them around himself as blankets, but the frozen air chewed at his hands and face. A day of darkness and cold passed. And another. He could no longer feel his legs. He knew they were there, but when he rubbed them he could feel nothing. A bad sign, he knew. Hypothermia was next. It would creep up on him.
Ryan did not want to die. He wanted to go home. He wanted to live somewhere HOT where ice was something left in the drinks. He wanted to quit his miserable job and live the way he wanted to live because you only got one chance and you had to use it the best way you could. The snow had made him see clearly that his work problems were insignificant compared to the greater reality. But it looked as if his sudden wisdom would die with him.
If only he could escape the snow.
With his last reserve of energy, he decided to go for it.
“Help! Help! Let me out of here!” He slammed the roof and doors and windows, making as much noise as he could. It felt good just to get out his pent up frustration. In sheer anger, Ryan punched the windscreen.
The roof creaked with the weight of snow.
He looked up at it, ominously. He wondered if it was still snowing, still adding inch upon inch to the prison. If the roof collapsed under its weight, he would be crushed. Striking the windscreen had seemed to set off a movement, sounding like two glaciers colliding ...
He laughed nervously. It was melting! It was melt-
- ing.
The windscreen buckled. Shattered.
Snow entered the car, burying Ryan in its icy darkness. It filled his mouth and ears and nose. There was nothing worse than a mouthful of snow, because unlike water he could not swallow it or spit it out. It just blocked his throat, pressing, pressing, pressing.
He could not move. Could not breathe. Could not scream.
Red, Red Wine
Roberto Arnuchi stepped out of his villa into the golden evening sunlight with bloodied hands. He walked to the veranda’s edge and leant over, feeling the gentle wind caress what was left of his greying hair. Blood dripped between his fingers and down on the almost vertical vineyards like crimson rain. The blood spattered the green leaves and rolled off into the black soil beneath, to be greedily absorbed. Roman Catholic guilt hit Roberto in waves. He turned his eyes upwards to the descending sun, orange over the hills. “God, forgive me, for I know not what I do.”
Liar, he thought. You know exactly what you are doing. It’s too late to change sides.
From the veranda, Roberto could see the verdant valley where the small town of De Spaggio nestled. De Spaggio had hardly changed in a thousand years, his mentor often said. Now its white flat-roofed houses and the stone basilica turned burnt sienna, shadows lengthening as the heat went out of the day. Soon De Spaggio would be in darkness.
Father Gregorius was in the basilica’s entrance, looking up at him. Even from this distance the young priest’s eyes were clearly visible, green as the growing grapes. Brighter than they should be. Unnaturally green. Having a priest close to Roberto’s home was convenient for confessions, and Father Gregorius was so understanding. There weren’t many priests like Father Gregorius. Thank God. Roberto squeezed his hands together, wringing out blood droplets. He wiped them on his butcher’s apron, the one he used for the feeding rituals. How many more must I kill?
The grapes this season looked better than ever. Roberto was the largest independent wine producer in the region, and certainly the best. His wines were famous for their richness and body throughout the civilised world. Their delicate, coppery bouquet was unique. When people asked him how he grew such fine grapes he would tell the truth - prayers and good soil. Ah, they would say, but surely your soil can’t be different from your neighbours’? He would shrug and leave them puzzling over his devilish smile, wondering what was his secret. Roberto wasn’t lying about the soil. Dead tourists made surprisingly good compost. Blood into wine. Wine into blood. The blood and the grape juice his peasant workers crushed in the huge vats had duality his green-eyed confessor would appreciate. After all, Father Gregorius had suggested the murders. The price you pay for dealing with the devil, Roberto thought grimly.
“Something troubling you, Roberto?” Father Gregorius’s sudden appearance by his side was no less shocking than the gargled cries of the American he had just killed. One second the priest had been at the basilica, but the next he had been here. No transition. A demonstration of his powers.
“No,” he mumbled.
The priest looked exactly the same age as he had thirty years ago, when he had arrived as replacement for Father Palmero. It was odd how nobody else had ever noticed that Gregorius had never aged - not even a day’s growth of beard - as if a veil had been drawn over their eyes to the obvious fact. Perhaps the innocent were blind to evil? Roberto loathed the man - loathed his arrogance. His hands tightening into fists. Oh, if only he had the courage to use them! But Roberto didn’t loath Gregorius as much as he feared him, so he spoke in a soft voice. “Can’t I stop now, Father? Please?”
“Appeals to God won’t save your soul,” Gregorius chided. “You lost that option a long time back. I remember you were eager to become one of my kind when you were poor, old man. You’d enjoy your task far more if you didn’t think about them as human, but as cattle to be slaughtered.”
“I suppose so,” Roberto said.
“I want to see the body.”
“Of course,” Roberto said. It was always this way. He had to show the bodies for Gregorius’s appreciation. He led the way into the cool house and descended the steps to the wine cellar. The dead American stared up at him from the middle of the concrete floor. He was still clutching the bottle of red wine he’d been examining when Roberto had crept up on him and stabbed him eighteen times. The American was a grossly overweight Texan; he had bled profusely as if he had been a newly discovered oil field pumping out red crude oil. He was lying on a thick plastic
sheet, which held the blood in an increasing pool. Father Gregorius reached over the body and dipped his fingers into the stomach wound, lifting the blood to his lips. Roberto turned away, sickened.
“A fine vintage,” Gregorius said. “Only five hundred and sixty to go.”
“But, Father, I’ll never manage it! It’s hard enough luring a few people here a year. Even some of them are missed. I’ll be dead long before I complete the task.”
“666 is the number I require,” Gregorius said. “You do want immortality, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Roberto said. “But it’s impossible.”
“Nonsense,” Gregorius said.
“I can’t go on killing!”
“You are such a melodramatic human. You would have been a good Mafioso, if you’d directed yourself into crime, if you had the nerves. When I was an initiate I thought nothing of killing hundreds at a time. One time, I invited the peasants to a huge feast inside a large hall. They thought it was an act of kindness. Once they were trapped inside I slaughtered them all. Truly, it was a moment to behold.” His voice lowered, conspiratorially. “Roberto, you just have to be more daring. Why don’t you hold a celebration? Invite a few hundred people and have them drink your wine? If the wine was drugged, you could kill them while they slept. They wouldn’t even feel the pain - which would appeal to your wandering conscience.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Well, think about it. As you keep saying, you’re not getting any younger.” Gregorius laughed and vanished as if he had never been in the room.
Roberto had long suspected Gregorius was Vlad Dracula, but until the story about killing hundreds he had not been positive he was the one the vampire legends had been based upon. Gregorius had been careful not to reveal anything conclusive about his origins, but Roberto had always wondered. Ever since he’d made the deal with Gregorius, he’d researched vampirism, going as far as Romania for information. Gregorius had told him a different story from Bram Stoker and his followers. The compulsion for drinking human blood was a lie. Those gifted with superhuman powers had no need for food. Also, sunlight was their sustenance, not their bane. Light powered their cells, like chloroplasts fed plants energy. Vampire DNA was different. It wasn’t a double helix, but a triple helix. The third helix added new functions to the basic human code. A vampire’s genetic superiority gave a form of sentience to each cell. Chop off a limb and it would grow back. Displacement through time was another effect - they could control the motion of each atom so they could slide from one place to another at relativistic speeds, appearing to an observer to move instantaneously. Such control over every part of their whole being meant a vampire could change appearance, if they wished. They were gods walking on Earth.
But the one thing they would not do was share their gift without a test of loyalty. They liked new companions, but they needed people they could trust. Therefore they had the test of faith. Sacrifices had to be made. After all, a man who killed 666 people could never risk informing the human race of the society feeding off them.
To prove he or she had the mental strength, an initiate had to kill 666 humans, with their own hands. It was to show their contempt for mortals. To spit in the face of humanity. Then, having done the task, they would be bitten by the vampire. The hypergenes would flow into their blood and encode into their DNA, evolving them to the next level. Or stepping sideways.
According to Gregorius, there were only a dozen vampires in existence - so privileged was the position. Roberto hoped the others were not like Gregorius. He had promised himself that when he became a vampire, he would try to pay for the crimes he had committed. He would make any good person a vampire - with no deals. It was the one part of his life he kept secret from Gregorius. As soon as Roberto was a vampire, he would destroy Gregorius, atom by atom. Believing he was a good man, deep down, was the one thing that justified his actions to himself. But to kill another five hundred people? The number was vast, a gaping chasm between achieving his goal and dying in the attempt. How many humans had Gregorius offered immortality? How many had failed? These questions had never been answered. Maybe Gregorius was lying? Maybe Gregorius was unique and the gift could not be passed on? But maybe it was the truth. He had to know. He had to become immortal - or die in the trying.
As Roberto wrapped the dead American in the biodegradable plastic ready for a midnight burial, he considered Gregorius’s advice. Killing them all at once would be easier than what he was doing now.
He shivered because the idea appealed.
“You’re not getting any younger,” Roberto said, dragging the body towards the steps. “You’re not getting younger, at all.”
*
“Yes, a dinner party.” Roberto stared at the phone, fingers crossed. “How many? Just you and a few hundred of my closest friends ... Good, good, I’ll see you there.” He hung up the phone, sweating. “There. It’s done.”
“Well done,” Gregorius said. The priest materialised in Roberto’s study, coming out of the darkness. He moved with silent grace. Like a wraith. “It’s the right decision, I promise you.”
“The right decision,” Roberto repeated.
Gregorius’s green eyes sparkled.
*
The wine was set out on the tables an hour before the guests were due to arrive. Roberto planned to drop minute quantities of chloral hydrate into each glass minutes before opening the dining room’s doors. Then, after everyone was seated, he’d propose a toast. His glass would be normal, of course. They’d drink the drugged wine. They’d wait for the aperitif. It would not come. He’d make his excuses - saying he was going to hurry the kitchen staff - and leave the room, discreetly locking the only exit. After a few minutes the sedative would work and ...
... and he’d reach his total in one event. No more need to kill humans ever again.
*
Cars started arriving just after seven. Valets parked them while Roberto greeted his guests at the main entrance as if nothing was amiss, inviting them to watch the sunset from outside in his gardens. De Spaggio’s finest musicians played local music to lull them into relaxing. There were wine collectors, entrepreneurs, connoisseurs and reviewers among the crowd. He counted them off his list, one by one. With the last light of the day, he ticked off the final guest.
There was no sign of Gregorius. He was surprised the priest wasn’t there to gloat.
Roberto slipped away to the dining room. Walking along the tables, he dropped measured quantities of the drug into each glass. The chloral hydrate dissolved completely in the red wine. It was an unstable compound, so he knew he had to hurry the guests. Feeling disconnected from his body, he returned outside and called everyone to the dining room. Again, he counted them off. Then he dismissed the valets. There was no kitchen staff to dismiss. No meal was cooking. But he went into the dining room and stood at the far end, continuing the charade. Inside, his stomach twisted. “Ladies and gentlemen, this year’s wine is my best yet - even if I say so myself. I hope you will toast its success.” Lifting his wine glass, he paused before drinking. “To good health and long life!”
“To good health and long life!” they said, and drank.
As Roberto sipped the wine, he watched the people do likewise. It was a good wine, he was pleased to note. He didn’t see anyone not drink it, which was an immense relief. He wondered how much they’d have to swallow for it to have the desired effect. He didn’t want to return to the room and find people conscious. He sat and talked for a couple of minutes. He noticed the woman he was talking to was showing signs of tiredness, slurring her words. She blamed it on the long journey and he agreed. He left the room as fast as he could without causing suspicion. He locked the doors with an iron bar. The doors were six inches of solid oak set in a stone wall. A battering ram could not break them down, he hoped.
“To good health and long life? Yours or theirs?”
Roberto spun around. Gregorius was standing in the hall, staring over Roberto’s shoulder at th
e locked doors. His purple tongue wet his lips and ran along his teeth.
“You were listening?” Roberto asked.
“I wouldn’t miss this,” the priest said. “This will be your day, Roberto. The day you evolve.”
Roberto could hear muffled voices in the dining room. Screams. The clattering of glasses. Someone hammered on the door, begging to be let out. He was tempted to open it. Gregorius shook his head. He stayed motionless. The noises gradually faded and stopped. The priest unbolted the doors and swung them wide.
The dining room looked as if burglars had upturned everything. Unconscious people were slumped at the tables, on the floor, at the door. Gregorius handed him a large knife.
“Do it,” he said.
The knife was cold in Roberto’s hands. If he used it he could never return to his old life, the life he loved, but if he did the world was his for the taking. But it was wrong. They were innocent people.
“I can’t.”
“You must.”
“These people have done nothing wrong!”
“So what?”
“It’s wrong. Can’t you see? Don’t you have any humanity?”
“No.” Gregorius stepped closer. The hairs bristled on Roberto’s arms as the priest studied him, eyes narrowing to black, shiny pupils. He took the knife back, shaking his head. “You’re so weak, Roberto. Watch.”
And the priest became a blur. He cut a swathe through the unconscious people, gouts of blood erupting in several directions as he cut and sliced and disembowelled and dismembered. Between blinks of his eyes, Roberto saw the wanton butchery continue ad nauseum. Such a senseless waste. The priest wallowed in the massacre, relishing the act. The air was a red mist he danced through it bloody and proud. Arms and teeth and knife whirred. Arteries opened and released scarlet spurts in jets and rivers. An eyeball, plucked out and sliced down the cornea, oozed vitreous fluid as it rolled through the doorway. A critic was skinned as he fell, landing as a skeleton. Gregorius toyed with one victim, spinning the woman around and around until she was spinning so fast her skin and muscles sheared off like clay on a centrifuge.
