Blood Feud

by Cullen Bunn

  If I kept still, the pain wasn’t so bad.

  I lay there for what seemed like forever, waiting for death to finally take me.

  I grew cold. My breathing grew short and quick. My heartbeat slowed.

  Thin beams of daylight pierced holes in the wreckage around me. The settling debris creaked. Dust motes swirled in the rays.

  I was not afraid.

  There in the dark, waiting, I touched my fingers to the wound at my throat. My blood was as thick and sticky as jam.

  I reckon I should have guessed what would become of me, having been bit by that thing, but surviving, just as poor Seth Stubbs had survived for a time, before the hunger for blood overcame him.

  My mouth was as dry as cotton.

  The movies were wrong. Killing the master vampire didn’t save those who had been … infected. Most of the day had slipped away. Nightfall was approaching again. And I was still alive, even though I was busted in a dozen places.

  The cowboy has no happy song to sing as he rides into the sunset.

  The sunset.

  I nearly passed out from the pain as I crawled from the rubble, pulling myself towards the last rays of failing daylight filtering in from above. I tore my fingernails down to the quick. I dragged my crippled legs behind me, sacks of quivering muscle and crushed bone. Shivering from the strain, stinging sweat running into my eyes, I reached a small opening in the debris. Through the hole, I saw clear blue sky, marred by columns of smoke. I smelled smoke and blood …but, distantly, I smelled fresh air and pastures, too. I placed my trembling hand upon the mass of wood and stone and soot blocking my path. With a shove, I widened the opening so I might fit through.

  I pulled myself into the open and that’s when my strength or willpower finally gave out. I collapsed in the dirt with the stink of ash and smoke and blood filling my nostrils and warm, wet tears rolling down my cheeks.

  So, again, I wait.

  I haven’t changed yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

  I remembered Sue’s little tape recorder—the one I picked up off the floor during the tarantula attack—and pulled it out of my pocket. Since I don’t expect to be around for much longer, I reckon it can’t hurt to record this account of what happened, so maybe—just maybe—it won’t happen again.

  My legs are starting to knit themselves back together. I can even move them a little. It’s a strange feeling. Warm and cold at the same time. Painful and soothing. I figure in another hour I’ll be able to stand and walk away from here. But if I’m lucky I won’t make it that long.

  I don’t want to be no vampire.

  Listen real close. You hear them? Coyotes. Six or maybe more. Showed up just a few minutes ago, scrounging around for an early evening snack. They’re yipping and snarling nearby—and coming closer. They sound mighty hungry and there’s blood—my blood—in the air.

  Like I said in the beginning, you’ll have to judge the ending of my story for yourself.

  I can hear the coyotes rustling in the trees.

  I’m going to turn the tape off now, because I don’t reckon anybody wants to hear what’s coming next.

  All I have to do is wait.