by Alex Dire
Night School
Book 1: Vampire Awakening
Alex Dire
Copyright © 2017 by Alex Dire
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Jackie, Minh, and Ivol
Contents
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1. Breakfast
2. First Day
3. Student Teacher
4. Classroom Management
5. The New Kid
6. Detention
7. Teacher's Pet
8. Sick Day
9. History 101
10. The Office
11. Class Dismissed
12. Field Trip
13. Hookey
14. Dropouts
15. The Miserables
16. The Calm
17. Teen Angst
18. Inner Circle
19. A New Hope
20. Administration
21. First Day Redux
22. Choices
23. Insurance
24. God Laughing
25. Unexpected Guests
26. Scrapped
27. Victory - Pyrrhus Style
28. Fight or Flight
29. Bag of Tricks
30. Fly, You Fools
31. The Projects
32. Sometimes Dead is Better
33. Retreat
34. Homecoming
35. Star Crossed
36. Double Agent
37. Dead Again
38. Biology
39. Plan B
40. Intel
41. Weakest Link
42. The Calm
43. Mobius
44. The Neighborhood
45. Once More Unto the Breach
46. The Math
47. Border Skirmish
48. Morning
49. Do and Die
50. The Enemy of My Enemy
51. Ashes to Ashes
52. Skin Deep
53. A Moth to Flame
54. Reunion
55. A Very Long Day
Epilogue
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NIGHT SCHOOL SERIES
Book 1: Vampire Awakening
Book 2: Vampire Legion (Pre-oder Now)
Book 3: Vampire Ascendance (Coming in December)
HUNTED BY MAGIC SERIES
Demon Marked (Coming Soon)
Demon Blood (Coming Soon)
“Your only enemy is the sun. You can’t kill it. You can’t seduce it. It offers fire. It demands death.”
-Vampire Republic Military Motto
1
Breakfast
One hundred eighty days to go, thought Norman buttoning the top of his collar and cinching his tie. He’d already been awake for hours when his alarm had gone off at 6:30 PM. Norman scanned the room for his satchel. Cracks of fading light outlined the shades on the two windows of his small condo. The kitchen, living room, and dining room were really just different corners of the same space.
By 7:30 he emerged from the front door of his six story building to a world of fading pink and growing shadows. Night at last. He put on a thick, thrift store peacoat too heavy for this time of year and too large for his frame. He jiggled his shoulders as he walked to make it sit right.
Up ahead, light flooded the street from the storefront of Fiore’s bakery. Norman smiled, wondering what quip Fiore would have for him today. Fiore’s old world style made Norman nostalgic like no place else in the city.
Norman pushed the bakery door open, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply the smells of sweet pastries and yeasty rising dough.
He had missed this little ritual over the summer. Fiore, however, was not there. A young man stood behind the counter wiping away powdered sugar and drips of coffee. His thick hair jutted out in random disheveled tufts from his head. Splotches of purple and red jellies stained his white apron. The man looked up and smiled.
“Evening,” Norman said, almost as a question.
The young man nodded.
“Where’s Fiore?”
The young man stopped swirling his rag for a moment. “I’m Fiore.”
“You look good for seventy-eight.”
“My dad died in July. I’ve been trying to keep the bakery going.”
Norman’s smile flattened. “Oh. I’m so sorry. He was a fixture in this community and a great baker.”
“That he was. I’m using all his recipe’s, but it’s just not the same. What can I get you?”
Norman shifted to customer mode to address young Fiore
“I’ll have a jelly donut, and…a cruller.” He paused.
Young Fiore turned to the display case behind him. “Will that be all?”
Norman hesitated. Of course the new Fiore wouldn’t be familiar with his evening routine. “Oh no. There’s more. I’ll have six croissants, four cinnamon twists, a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, and…how many baguettes do you have left?”
Fiore glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve got five, but they’ve been out all day.”
“I’ll take them. Also, six bottles of water,” finished Norman.
“That’s quite a dinner.”
“It’s breakfast, actually. I’m on my way to work.”
“Night shift?”
“Sort of. I’m a teacher. I work at MLK down the street.”
Fiore seemed more confused, “Little late for class, isn’t it?”
“Night school,” replied Norman.
Fiore gave a slow nod that said, Ohhhhh… ‘those’ kids. It was a pretty standard response when Norman mentioned his job. ‘Those’ kids were the ones who failed out of regular school, plus all the alternative and other special schools the city had for the toughest kids. Night school was the last stop. A few grabbed the lifeline and got their high school diploma. Many graduated to prison. But not Norman’s kids.
Fiore pushed the large bag of food across the counter. “You feeding all of them?” Then he turned to fill a disposable coffee cup.
Norman slid his wallet out of his pocket, “No. Not really.”
“You must be very hungry, then.”
Norman almost smiled. “You could say that.”
Fiore turned around and put a coffee next to Norman’s bags of breakfast goods. “Here you go,” he offered. “My sister’s a teacher. She mainlines this stuff. On the house.”
“Oh…no thank…uh…thanks a lot.”
Norman left two dollars in the tip jar and stepped through the bakery door. He breathed in the vibrant rhythms of night. Very hungry indeed, he thought as he exhaled, and opened his eyes.
His vision narrowed as his focus zoomed in on an alley between two closed shops a few blocks down the street. Without looking, he dropped the un-sipped coffee into a nearby garbage. He lengthened his stride as he neared the alley.
His target grew larger and larger in his vision. His senses heightened. He could smell the odors of sweat and urine drifting from the alley. He heard a clock-radio alarm go off in the fourth story above him. A tiny lump in his crooked sock pushed into the bottom of his foot. But only one smell mattered. The rest of his senses provided the rhythm sectio
n to the music of the moment.
Norman stopped at the mouth of the alley. The polyphony muted. He peered between the buildings. It was darker than the night. In the nothing, he sensed the homeless man slumped next to a dumpster. He glanced each way down the street. A few people shuffled here and there ignoring the world around them.
Norman strode in and approached the crumpled form slumped against the dumpster. Loud snores emerged from the man’s flaring nostrils. Norman stared at him from the opposite wall of the alley. He was plainly passed out.
Norman knelt next to him placing the bags of food among the man’s chaotic jumble of possessions. “You need this more than I ever will,” he whispered. He then removed his heavy coat and draped it over the man tenderly, almost tucking him in.
“I thank you in advance.” Norman crumpled his eyebrows and pursed his lips. His mouth snapped open revealing long, sharp incisors. A hiss escaped his throat. It grew louder until Norm thrust his lips against the homeless man’s exposed neck.
Norman’s eyes rolled back as his teeth slid through the man’s skin and the walls of his carotid artery. He didn’t need to suck. The man’s heart pumped away, doing the work for him. A primal satisfaction overcame him as warm blood flowed over his tongue. Always go for the arteries. Far less work than the veins. He gulped and felt the rush of instant energy.
After just a few moments, Norman withdrew. The potent coagulant in his hollow fangs was already closing the arteries. He stood, removing a small bottle of blue liquid from his pocket. Twisting the cap off, he swigged, gurgled and spat out behind him. “Ahhh.”
He left the man with plenty of blood to heal and survive, plus donuts.
Norman emerged from the alley, straightened his clothes, and resumed his walk down the street. His students would arrive soon. Can’t be late for the first day.
2
First Day
Norman squeaked the word “Welcome” across the white board with a blue marker. He stepped back to inspect his penmanship.
The students would feel anything but welcome. They’d been kicked out of enough schools to know that the person at the front of the class, in the office, at the other end of a call with their parents was not there to welcome them. The primary lesson those schools had taught them was that teachers, principals and mid-level administrators were their enemies.
Norman placed a bright orange card on each desk for students to fill out so the office knew who to call in case of an emergency. For most of Norman’s students, though, the emergency was their lives. But the person who showed up to help was not a cop, or an EMT, or a firefighter. It was a teacher, armed with copies of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare and an overhead projector with a burnt out bulb. No matter. Norman didn’t need the projector or any of the technology fancier schools had. He had other advantages.
The antiquated school bell tried very hard to ring but succeeded only in making a single ding and then a buzz. Nice try. A river of students flooded into the building, dividing into rivulets along the way and trickling into classrooms.
Each doorway was monitored by a smiling teacher. They were young. Idealistic. They’d learn.
The students slogged forward in a nearly silent march. Many had oversized headphones on or white wires dangling from their ears. Some wore hoods. Most stared at the ground. Norman wondered if they were hiding from each other or the teachers or all of it.
Down the hall, Norman saw the shiny top of a bald head weaving a path toward him. Headmaster Shapiro wedged his way between students, calling “Welcome” every few seconds. A boy with a basketball tucked under his arm lifted his head to the headmaster as if to respond. Shapiro snapped his gaze away, avoiding eye contact, but never dropping his smile.
Please not me, thought Norman as Shapiro edged closer.
Shapiro locked eyes with Norman. “Ah Mr. Bernard. There you are!”
“Shit,” said Norman through his teeth.
A young girl passing into his room stopped and looked up. “Hmmm?” Her wavy dark hair swept back from her eyes.
“Oh, um. Sorry. Sit, please. Sit at your numbered seat,” said Norman. He lifted his clip board. “Your name?”
“Felicia Gomes,” said the girl. Her accent leaned Puerto Rican. Norman had gotten good at accents over the years.
He glanced across his clipboard and looked up into her light brown eyes. “Seat number eight and welcome.”
She dropped her gaze and entered the room.
“Found you!” said Shapiro. The headmaster arrived while the river of students dwindled to a few drops.
“Yes, Mr. Shapiro. Here I am. Right in front of my room. Nice to see you.”
The headmaster shifted his weight from toe to heel. “So, how’s your year going?”
“What can I do for you?”
“Ahhh, yes. I wanted to let you know that…”
A loud crack down the hall interrupted him. A skinny youth, seventeen by the looks of him, emerged through the heavy entrance doors into the empty main hall. His ragged afro jiggled as he glanced at a paper in his hands, looked both ways, and strode with unhurried steps toward Norman and Shapiro.
A pair of aviator sunglasses reflected Norman back at himself. He reached Norman’s room and looked down at his paper again. His chin moved as if chewing. Dark skin nearly hid tattooed letters on his neck “D.S.M.”
“Good evening. Welcome to Night School.” Norman extended a hand.
“Shakespeare?” said the student.
“Yes. Please find your seat number on the board.”
“Fuck your numbers. I’ll sit in the back.”
Here we go. “I’m Mr. Bernard.” Norman searched for signs of weakness. Nothing. The boy had a good game face. Norman’s hand dangled in the air. Just before he withdrew it, the youth snapped his own up and gripped him. His grip was strong for someone so skinny.
“‘Sup, Bernie. Chubs.” The handshake went on and became awkward. “On second thought, think I’ll leave a little early today. Save me a seat in the back.” His grip loosened.
Before Chubs could let go, Norman tightened his fingers. Chubs’ face flinched. Norman focused through the glasses into the young man standing before him. The normal world fell away. Everything in his surroundings became distinct, each detail discernible but not distracting. Chub’s will floated before him, a grating red sphere, hot and spastic. Arcs like jagged electricity shot out from the orb. Norman reached out with his own smooth tendrils, gripping the erratic lightning - seizing, connecting. “Last name?”
The corners of Chubs’ mouth dipped. “Marshall.”
“I think you’d rather stay, today. Please take a seat at chair number…” Norman glanced at his clip board. “…twelve.”
“I think I’d rather stay. Chair number twelve is fine.” He released Norman’s hand and shuffled to his seat.
Headmaster Shapiro removed a brown paper towel from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from the top of his head. I don’t know how you do it, Mr. Bernard.”
If only you knew. “It’s the teacher look. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to attend to.”
Headmaster Shapiro nodded as he turned to walk away. He stopped mid-stride. “Oh, I wanted to talk to you. I’ve got…”
The intercom blared to life with the secretary’s voice. “Good evening Night School students.”
Shapiro’s eyes widened. “Announcements!” He spun and speed-walked back to the office.
Norman stood in front of the whiteboard, his name in blue just above his head. The intercom buzzed away. “…We know this will be a fun and exciting year. Please don’t forget to return your orientation packet signed by a parent or guardian…”
Norman took a moment to scan his rabble. His hearing picked up everything. A short kid in the back whispered to another that he’d meet after class to hook him up. Another student sat with his head down on his arm. A basketball rested next to his seat.
This was not like a reunion after a long summer. Most of these kids
were strangers from schools across the city. Introductions were happening, pecking orders working themselves out. A large white boy flicked his chin at the only other white kid in the room. The other kid shook his head and sat at the margin near the window. He slouched into his trench coat so only his crew cut stuck out.
Lots of chin flicking was happening. One student flipped open his denim jacket flashing a red patch of fabric beneath. Another, across the room returned the gesture, displaying his black bandana dangling from an inside pocket. Rivals. They approached each other and engaged in a series of hand slaps and shakes. Temporary allies. Norman was these students’ Axis.
There were two spots of calm amidst the fracas. Chubs sat in the front staring ahead. Waiting. But there was another. Two seats down, a boy rumpled his thick brown eyebrows, staring at Chubs. Norman looked at his seating chart for his name: Juda Martinez.
Juda slowly turned his face to Norman. The stare was piercing. His eyes swirled dark blue, like pools of moonlit water. Norman twisted his neck inside his collar. Norman had never met a student who could intimidate him, but there was something in Juda’s eyes that made him feel defenseless.
