by Clark Hays
Seemed like the tunnel went on forever. Now and again I’d stop to light a match but it only revealed more of the same old stone, so mostly I just stumbled along in the dark with one hand against the cold surface, slowly making my way deeper through the twists and turns of the catacomb. Along the way were little nooks and crannies I eventually realized were for burying folks in. I lit another of my dwindling supply of matches and held it up to reveal a crumbling archway with a little brass plaque badly tarnished by age that bore names of the dead. There were bigger rooms too, like those little houses from graveyards with bench-like shelves around the walls where I reckoned coffins were supposed to sit, and occasionally saw some stone ones with lids sealed tight.
Before long, I was down to one match and so we continued in the dark, hoping we were making progress and not just walking in circles. I was counting on Rex’s nose, which I could hear working, and followed the click of his claws on the stone floor. It was like sleepwalking in a way and soon there was nothing more than the rise and fall of footsteps, the certainty of motion and the gritty feel of progress as the wall slipped away under my palms.
Lulled by the sameness, when my hand slipped off into empty space I almost fell over. Rex gave a bark of sorts as I stumbled into a small room. I started feeling around and found a ledge of crumbling wood running the length of the wall and felt my way around until I was at the back wall, patting along like I was making biscuits and hoping not to find some rotten old coffin. Instead, my searching fingers came upon hair. It curled around my finger like wire and twined around my wrist. “Goddamn it,” I shouted, dropping the gun altogether and, scooting backward on my ass until hit the wall with my back and dust and decay dumped down my collar.
I’m not scared of much, but I’ve always had a thing about bodies. It ain’t logical. Dead is dead — at least that’s what I used to think — but they give me the creeps just the same. They say the hair keeps growing after death and I feared I’d just put my hand into a big pile of it. I imagined some old damn monk covered in hair with dead fingernails a foot long rotting inside and out into nothing but teeth and dust.
In spite of myself, I had to know. I flicked that last match to life, preparing for the worst. It was more worse than anything I could have prepared for. It was Lizzie, dead and cold, and curled up on the ledge like a baby.
A scream ripped loose from me involuntarily, a scream heavy with pent-up hopes now dashed to bits. It was a scream both loud and long, and the catacombs took it and echoed it and that old church shook and rattled all the way up to heaven itself. It was a scream that served notice to God Himself that I was through with Him. That I could never forgive Him for the sight of Lizzie lying dead before me in the dim light of my last match.
I had enough sense to cast about for something flammable so as not to be lost altogether in the darkness. There was a long piece of splintery wood on the casket behind and I ripped it loose and set the tip ablaze. By the light of that bit of wood, I could see a flaky old candle set into an iron cup just outside the door and I lit it up and placed it by her beautiful head, kneeling down to cradle her in my arms. Rex was beside himself with grief, whining as I took her cold and stiff in my arms.
I swore and gritted my teeth because this ain’t the way it’s supposed to end. The cowboy always saves the girl before the credits roll. The cowboy always wins, even if only to ride off alone into the sunset. But here I was sitting in the middle of the last sunset with a whole movie full of mistakes playing in my head. The cowboy is supposed to win and I had just lost everything.
Hard to say how much time I spent down on my knees that way. Could’ve been hours or seconds or days. A whole lifetime of hurt gave way and I knew my life was over, just like hers. She looked so peaceful, so calm and sure; I almost envied her.
A fierce desire for vengeance swept through me like a thunderstorm of fire and rage, gradually eclipsing the hurt until nothing seemed more important than balancing the scales, in laying waste to the whole rat’s nest of vampires. Blotting them from the face of the earth and making one tiny detour into right from this freeway of wrong. Nothing else seemed to matter, not even my sorrow or the temptation to join her. I would set things right.
But that was spare comfort now. I gathered her close to my heart and buried my face into the cold, sweet stretch of her throat.
Rex edged up to sniff and lick at her face, as if the effects of his tongue might change the course of nature, but failing, retreated into the shadows with a whimper. At last I stretched out beside her and imagined us back up at Widow Woman Creek that last night with the sun setting and her in the firelight, so alive and lovely. Now, in my arms she felt so cold and forgotten. I reckon I must’ve cried myself to sleep in childlike fashion.
When I woke, for the barest of instants my mind convinced me it had all been a terrible and long dream and that Lizzie was sleeping in my arms. But as I brushed the hair back from her face and pressed my lips to hers, they were cold. She was dead as my heart.
Out of the depths of this tragedy, the oddest thing happened.
My hand was splayed out over her chest and I felt a tiny stutter, faint as distant thunder. A bare and halting echo of a rhythm that struggled and lapsed and fell back on itself, only to start over. I drew back in absolute alarm and fear as her eyes fluttered open.
There was life in there, an empty kind of life that was unsure of itself. Hungry life, but life just the same.
Her lips parted and she struggled to form words. “Tucker. I knew you’d come,” she whispered.”
TWENTY-NINE
He stood at the window, resting his hands on the cool adobe, the sweet smell of sagebrush and night washing over his face. A shooting star fell, blazing fiercely, then disappeared. The silver glow of the moon lit up the hills and twisted juniper silhouetted there. It brought a smile to his weathered face.
There was a knock at the door and a tall, youthful man with wise eyes and pale skin stood in the shadows under the arch. He was dressed simply in blue jeans and a plain cotton shirt.
“Carlos. Come in.”
Carlos bowed respectfully and pulled up another chair. “It’s a beautiful night.” The older man nodded. Carlos continued. “Any news?”
“According to Jenkins, the turning occurred. Shortly thereafter, she escaped. Elita believes it was by her hand.”
“We should be there,” Carlos said.
“We must not allow impulse to rule. Every action taken now will have serious implications.”
“He will try to get her back,” Carlos said.
“Of course.”
“What if he is successful?”
“It is a distinct possibility. New York is his element. More importantly, can he convince her to follow him?”
“Julius can be quite persuasive. Naturally, she will be confused at this early stage.”
The older man sighed. “If she believes him, chooses to follow him, then she will have chosen her destiny, as well as that of billions of Adamites. But the choice must be hers and we will wait.” Smiling benevolently at his young friend, he added, “After all, what meaning has time to us?”
Carlos rested his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands. “I can’t help but fear for her,” he said. “I remember my own turning well. If you had left me to my own devices, I would have lost my mind.”
The old man contemplated his cup of coffee. “There are worse things than the turning,” he said. His eyes clouded darkly like the shadowy cave that still, after so long, made up the bulk of his memories.
He pushed back his chair and stood, returning to lean against the windowsill. “Her lover is alive and seeks her in New York. He is aware, to a limited degree, of what he is up against and yet has gone anyway.”
“He is either very brave or very stupid.”
The old man shook his head. “He is in love, that’s all.”
“What will it mean to us?” Carlos asked.
“He loves her, and she him. That is all
I know. Who can predict the effects of love, even with the unique historical perspective you and I enjoy?” He turned from the window. “We have seen much together, yet I believe our proudest moments still lie ahead.”
Carlos stood and smiled. “I hope so, Lazarus. I truly hope so.”
Part Two:
Resurrection
THIRTY
“What have they done to you?” Tucker whispered, stroking Lizzie’s hair.
She struggled to find words. “You must get me something to eat. You must hunt for me, I can’t do it.”
“Hunt? What do you mean?”
“I need blood,” Lizzie said. The hunger was almost crippling.
Tucker stared, unable to comprehend the truth of the matter. He wrapped his arm around her. “Honey, you didn’t have a pulse. And now you want blood. What have they done to you?” he asked again, eyes wide and heart heavy.
Her hands trembled and her voice was shaky “I didn’t believe. Last night, I thought it was all a game, but the light came out of me, and the voices. Then I ate a rat. A rat. I needed the blood. And I died. I died, Tucker. I was dead until just now.” She looked into his eyes, terrified. “What am I going to do? What are we going to do?”
“I have no idea, sweetheart,” he said, his mind struggling to keep up with a heart that, at the sight of her breathing, immediately and without question resigned itself to her changed circumstances.
She was living, in a way. He could talk to her, touch her, kiss her, and for this he was grateful, but she was something grotesque too, something he would never have believed before these past few days. “I guess we’d better get you fed,” he whispered.
“I can’t kill anyone, I can’t do it.”
He swallowed hard. “We’ll do it together. I’ll help,” he said. “We’ll figure this out, and then we’ll kill them all, every last one of them blood-sucking bastards.”
Out on the streets of Manhattan, they walked silently, Rex trotting along beside, and safe in the seclusion only a huge city can offer. They held hands with a desperate tension that kept them anchored to reality inside a swirl of madness, hiding their emotions awkwardly behind the immediacy of her needs.
“Let’s go to one of those places that stays open all night to buy blood from the winos and junkies when they need a few bucks,” Lizzie said, hailing a cab. She pulled open the door fiercely and the hinges groaned.
“Hey lady, careful with my cab,” the cabbie said. “What are you, a body-builder?”
Lizzie, surprised at her own strength, crawled into the back seat. Tucker stood on the curb and Lizzie looked at him from inside the cab. Now was the time to leave, and they both knew it: get himself out of this mess. Lizzie looked away, into the traffic on the street, resigning herself to the idea he should go. She could go it alone, if she had to, and it would certainly be better for him. Turning back, she saw him watching her intently, as if memorizing her features for some distant, future time when he would have to struggle to recall her face from a long-ago dream. Or nightmare.
Rex jumped into the cab next to Lizzie and barked. She smiled weakly and stroked his head.
Tucker climbed in the cab and scooted over close, planting a kiss on her lips and then glaring at Rex. “Like you’re so goddamn smart.”
Twenty minutes later they were outside a blood bank watching through the window. Tired volunteers moved with graceful efficiency through the spent bodies of the blood donors, all willing to give up a pint of their life for a few dollars. It was a square room, sterile, with a gray, stained carpet and once white walls turned sickly yellow with time and inattention. There were a few worn-out, upholstered chairs, intravenous devices for blood-letting and several stacks of coolers where the yawning nurses placed pouches of blood. It wasn’t busy, only two people giving blood, with a receptionist and a nurse overseeing the process.
“I wonder if I could give my own blood and then drink that?” asked Lizzie.
“Sounds like some kind of vampire eating disorder,” Tucker said. “And what’d happen if your blood is green or something even more disgusting? It would be a dead giveaway.”
He took a hard look at the blood bank. “Goddamn, this is depressing. And I thought LonePine was a sad little town.”
Lizzie’s knees buckled and she sagged toward the sidewalk. Tucker caught her and held her up.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I don’t know, I’m dizzy. My head feels like it’s filled with light.”
But it was light and sound combined, the now-familiar cacophony of voices urging her to feed, to take a victim, Tucker if she must, but to survive at all costs.
“Leave me,” she whispered to him. “I don’t want to do anything bad.”
He pulled away and walked to the entrance of the blood bank, his boot heels striking hard on the pavement. “Just hang on,” he said.
Kneeling on the sidewalk, she put her face close to the store-front window and Rex peeked over the ledge next to her. Her breath formed a veil on the glass, a mist through which she watched his every move.
Inside, Tucker smiled brightly at the receptionist who cheered noticeably when a handsome cowboy walked in. She handed him a clipboard with a paper and pen and pointed to a chair against the wall on the other side of the room, smiling at him all the time. He smiled too, but nervously, and then walked to the center of the room and pulled out the biggest, shiniest pistol Lizzie had ever seen. It was long and sinister and gleamed in the harsh light.
“Nobody move, this is a hold-up,” he said.
Nobody moved because nobody believed him.
“Come on,” he yelled again, this time more loudly. “Get against the wall.”
A bedraggled man looked up from his seat, needle in his arm slowly dripping blood into a bulging pouch. “What, are you nuts, Tex? It’s a blood bank, not a money bank. Who the hell steals from a blood bank?”
“I do.” Tucker backed toward the stack of coolers. Pointing the gun at the nurse, he yelled, “Come on, come on. I’m on a schedule here. Open one of them up.”
The nurse began to cry.
“Oh, damn, I’m sorry ma’am,” he said, rummaging through his pocket for a tattered old handkerchief. He moved to comfort her, but Lizzie tapped her nails against the glass and he caught himself. “Look, this is hard on me too. Just move it. Open that cooler.” Inside were at least thirty pouches of blood in an orderly stack, jewels as far as he was concerned.
“All right, everyone stay where you are, I’m taking this cooler and getting out of here.” No one moved, largely because they were astonished they were being robbed.
Tucker struggled to hoist the cooler onto his shoulder with one arm while still managing to wave the gun around in a mostly comical fashion. Lizzie turned, hailed a cab and waited for Tucker to emerge from his robbery and slide the big pistol back into the shoulder holster.
“The things a man will do for love,” he said as he got into the waiting taxi.
Lizzie reached into the cooler for a bag and tore it open, gulping down the blood so greedily some dribbled out her mouth, down her chin and onto the tatters of her dress. That first one gone, she looked up at Tucker, half embarrassed, half relieved. She drained another.
The change was almost immediate. Her weak frame and ashen face, that only moments ago had convinced Tucker she could die at any moment, were transformed as the fresh blood flushed her skin and her eyes began to glimmer. Her lips turned deep crimson before his eyes. In a matter of seconds, she was radiant. Tucker was transfixed by her beauty, and simultaneously repulsed.
“Hey, you plan on telling me where you’re going?” asked the driver.
Startled, Tucker responded, “Just drive for a while. And it’s tomato juice, really.” The cab driver shrugged his shoulders and pulled out into traffic.
“How long will this last you?” Tucker asked.
“I have no idea,” she said. “This is all new to me. I guess we’ll learn the ways of a vampire together.” She pau
sed. “And I have a feeling there will be a lot to learn. I don’t know if I can eat regular food. And will I still have my period? Will wine still make me tipsy? Just how strong am I?”
Her words were manic, and she emanated a blood-satiated vitality and exuberance. Tucker was quiet. All he cared about was what it all meant for them and just how long it would take Julius to catch up.
“I have to tell you about the safe-deposit box,” Lizzie said, her voice business-like. “You’ll need to get into it tomorrow during the day when I’m sleeping.”
“Honey, it ain’t sleeping. Let’s call a cow a cow. You’ll be dead. And while you’re dead, you want me to rob a bank. Isn’t a blood bank enough? You want me to break into a real bank during the light of day?”
“No, Tucker. I have a key. But it’s at my apartment. And I’ll need some clothes too.”
“But we can’t go back there. They’ll be watching your apartment for sure.”
“I’ll call the landlady. She owes me. She can just meet you somewhere.”
Her landlady was not happy to be disturbed in the middle of the night, but after the initial surprise and the promise of fifty dollars, she agreed to meet Tucker the following morning with a suitcase full of clothes and the desired key.
The next morning, Tucker watched Lizzie die.
He had candles and a flashlight and she told him about the pull of the darkness and as he watched, his heart shattering, the light was extinguished in her eyes. He could only hope she would arise again when the sun set and wondered if he could ever grow used to seeing her die.
He sent a silent, urgent prayer to God retracting his earlier angry break, hoping He might look over Lizzie through the day and see her safely back to the land of the living that night.
While she was dead, he left Rex watching over her in the catacombs — without cash, a hotel room seemed too risky — and met Lizzie’s landlady. At Lizzie’s bank, he opened the safe-deposit box and found two letters, yellowed by age, both with Lizzie’s name neatly inked on the outside.
