Wake Up Dead - an Undead Anthology

by Suzanne Robb

  ‘Wel-’

  Before another question left the lips of Quinn, he felt the cold hands of his maker holding his head straight. He could feel his makers teeth scrape against his warm skin, and then came the pain. The needle-like teeth did not pierce his skin; they instead tore into his flesh. From the corner of his eye, Quinn watched his blood spurt onto the grass. He wanted to pull his maker away from his neck. There would be no point.

  Collapsing to his knees, Quinn held his neck. The blood ran between his fingertips like sand. Before he could catch his breath, Quinn felt the powerful hands of his maker beneath his armpits. From there he felt himself hoisted to his feet.

  ‘Here, take this.’ said the maker, wiping the blood from his mouth onto his sleeve. Before he was even aware, Quinn felt something hard and heavy drop into his palm. Before he could react, he once again felt the gentle kiss of his maker upon his throat. Quinn could feel his flesh knit together, almost as if the sinew and muscle were dancing until it became one blanket of skin.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Quinn, who was not even aware that his maker’s nails had penetrated his skin. It had once again become the uniform of skin that it once was.

  Quinn thought that if only man could have known of the healing properties of vampire blood, maybe then they could have been accepted into society of equals.

  ‘Never mistake the living as equals; humanity is greedy by nature.’

  Quinn hated the privacy of his thoughts being invaded like that, he craved some privacy in his own mind.

  The maker's nails tapped against the sharp stake.

  ‘It is my saviour; remember what I said…they will be here in moments.’

  Quinn’s lip quivered as he spoke, his voice trembled.

  ‘I don’t want to do this, I won’t…’

  ‘ You must, you will, I don’t want to found by the other vampires. I have exposed them. At least this way…they cannot get to me, or you. Quick, they are getting closer!’

  What could his maker see that he could not? In the deep darkness where the moon ruled with its light. Who were they? Who was he, other then his maker? If only he could read him so openly as his maker could read Quinn.

  Before another question could form on his lips, Quinn felt the hands of his maker upon his own hands. He felt the hard and heavy object swivel within his palm, he felt something sharp brush against his skin. Quinn felt as though he was a puppet; his maker was pulling his strings. Before his eyes, his hands drove the object into the chest of his maker. A look of pained relief struck his maker's face. A scream from his maker pierced the night, Quinn’s head followed the howl into the sky. He expected for that one moment which went as quick as it came, for the very stars themselves to fall once the sound reached them. His maker's body made its last sound as it hit the ground with an empty thump. Quinn looked down at his hands, covered in red guilt. The stake, once silver. Now covered in warm red liquid from the walking cold body. Quinn watched the lifeless body heaped upon the floor, just how much had those eyes seen? From the birth of the world's first car to the birth of modern technology. Could he have been older then that? Could his maker have seen the birth of an empire to its inevitable fall? Quinn wished he had taken the time to find out; hindsight was a beautiful thing.

  Quinn loomed over the body of his maker, his mentor who never taught him enough. How much was there to learn? All Quinn had was the little he was told and the vampire films he had grown up with. An ache within his jaw, more precisely in his teeth. He could feel his fingernails pushing, growing at a snail's pace. Tears began to fall, the closest thing to love he had ever known was now a lifeless heap upon the floor. He had lost a father for the second time in his life.

  ‘Put your hands up and drop your weapon!’ Screamed a voice behind him. Quinn was too numb to respond straight away. He wondered how many lives had been lost so his maker could live his. He wondered if he would ever recover from his loss. Quinn could hear the

  footprints treading closer behind him. The commanding voice repeated its original demand. Quinn felt as though he was in a haze; he had envisioned a more powerful, maybe even a romantic start to his journey into his second life. Every moment passed as though time had stood still, well almost. Quinn held up his hands, letting the instrument of death drop to the ground. He put up no resistance as he felt the steel cuffs hug his wrists. They felt tight, its grip closing in on his freedom.

  ‘Hey, Alan, come throw this loon in the back of the car…Don’t worry ’bout his head when you duck him in the back.’ A cruel chuckle followed. Quinn’s mind worked at light speed, his mouth made not the slightest motion. It was as still as the body before him.

  Quinn never made one complaint, his rights were read, and the offer of a lawyer stood. Quinn felt like a pawn in his maker’s game. He quickly concluded that it was his maker who called the cops to his own murder. If his maker was to be dead to the world, why did it have to be like this? He left Quinn feeling used. Where would he go from here without a mentor, a father figure to guide him? Quinn wanted the roller-coaster of emotions to slow down, but he wondered if they ever would. The body of his maker remained motionless upon the floor. Was he not supposed to turn into ash or burst into flames when he died? Yet Quinn had only known this from the movies and the drunken ramblings of an Irish writer. The fantasy was a far cry from the reality that he now knew.

  ‘Hey, Alan, it’s only nine o’clock and the moon howlers are out already! Get it? Moon howlers, those ready for the rubber hotel!’ Frank chuckled at his own brand of humour, followed by a false cackle from Alan. They were probably the only two men in the world who would laugh at that joke, and what a lonely world they both lived in. The blue lights of the patrol car tried to outshine the stars; they would never be as beautiful, no

  matter how much those lights shined. Quinn felt his head bounce off the metal as he was placed on the back seat; not one word passed his lips. He would have the last laugh, he would make sure of it. It was as guaranteed as those very same stars appearing every night. Would the blood in his veins make good on that promise? Maybe it would, maybe it would not.

  Quinn knew the clock was against him, even with the blood of the eternal in his veins. It was only a matter of time before the effects of that would expire.

  He would have to find a way to die in order to live forever.

  *

  Quinn was not looking for excuses as he sat quietly in the interview room, as the coffee in front of him grew cold. His thirst was not lost to the arrest or the thought of his freedom being taken away. It was lost to the blood and hunger for it within him. The yearnings were quiet, yet they made their presence known. Meanwhile, Alan and Frank readied themselves for the play ahead; this is what they trained for, not for what they were taught to do. They did everything by the book, for the most part. As with any play, its interpretation was down to the actors. Quinn had refused any representation; he knew he did not need it. After tonight was a hopeful glimmer of eternity. Both Alan and Frank sat their steaming coffees down onto the table. Frank placed his pack of cigarettes down next to his coffee. The window to the left of the room echoed every movement made. Quinn wondered why they even bothered with the two-sided glass nowadays; he knew every movement they made was being recorded like some cheap porno. He wondered if they all got together after their shifts and watched the tapes of what really happened to people in their custody. The tapes that never made it to court, the sneaky tricks, the spitefulness that they would use like little school bullies.

  ‘So, what do you think we have here?’ asked Frank as he handed Alan a cigarette, placing one in front of Quinn. He wanted to reach out and grab the cigarette. Was he going to have too worry about lung disease…? Not fucking likely.

  Quinn reached out for the cigarette, and Frank's hand hovered over it like a territorial dog. His fingers ready to bite into Quinn’s hand.

  ‘Not yet…You gotta give, before you receive. You're gonna learn that, especially when your ass hits the showers in Sing-Sin
g when you bend over,’ said Frank, his eyes danced with spiteful delight. Quinn quickly concluded that Frank was one of those cops who thought you as guilty, even when you were innocent.

  Quinn had felt Frank's handcuffs, which were all the proof Frank needed. Alan chimed in before Frank had the chance to continue.

  ‘What he means to say is, tell us your name and you get treated better. It's better all round that you just cooperate. I’m not going to refer to you as John Doe all night, so tell me, What’s your name?’

  For the first time that night, Quinn smiled. It was a weird and unsettling smile. Quinn showed his pearly white teeth. How proud he was going to be when he

  reached the puberty of his vampirism, when he really

  could finally use them.

  ‘What is your name, you pissing moon howler?’

  ‘Isn’t this where you’re supposed to lull me into a false sense of security? Isn’t this where you’re supposed to convince me that you’re my friend?’ smirked Quinn.

  Frank slammed his meaty hand onto the table; the metal vibrated and echoed painfully around the interview room. Alan flinched. He had felt that fist before.

  ‘Us friends? I ain’t your friend. We caught you red-handed! We got you at the crime-scene, blood on your hands, with a stake in the poor bastard's chest. What did he do? Was it revenge? Did he bang your wife? Did he rob you? On the other hand, did he just come around and piss up your kids Christmas tree? C’mon, boy, tell me, what in the hell possessed you kill him?’

  Quinn continued to smile, that strange all knowing little grin.

  ‘Alan, take over for a moment.’ said Frank between gritted Teeth, bringing his coffee to his lips.

  Frank walked around the table, taking a seat against the wall. From there he sat, Alan’s back turned to him. Quinn’s shit-eating grin watching him and his every move. How that grin annoyed Frank. He looked forward to wiping it from his face.

  ‘So, what is your name? You could be innocent…. If you are then tell us a name. What have you got to lose?’ Despite the deep scratchy quality of Alan’s voice, he had managed somehow to make it soothing, light.

  ‘My name's Quinn.’

  Quinn allowed them to have their paper-thin, good-cop, bad-cop routine. If it made them happy, let them have it. Why kick a sleeping dog? Alan gave a victorious smile, the pride of making a little ground, spread across his weather beaten face.

  ‘Finally we’re getting somewhere.’ Frank looked at his watch as he spoke. It read: 9.45 P.M.

  Its digital glow lost within the sea of the overhead strip light. Before Frank could continue, a knock came from the door. Frank strained his bulky frame out of his chair, to answer the door. Quinn saw Frank's lips move, yet heard nothing. He was more interested in what the person behind the door was saying. He could not wait to be dead. As a vampire, his hearing would be better. At least then he could listen instead of just hearing. Frank uttered a few words, unheard by the interview room. Shutting the door behind him, Frank fell against the door. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, blowing the blue smoke towards the ceiling.

  Alan looked onward at Frank.

  ‘What’s the latest Frank?’

  Quinn’s hands recoiled like a snake as he hid them beneath the table. He hoped his movements had gone unnoticed; his nails were growing. Quinn peered downwards at his hands beneath the table. His nails had grown into short sharp points, almost like spearheads. They looked as sharp as a cut-throat razor. What the hell was going on with his body? He had not died, he was not due to turn. Not yet. He still had to die before the sunrise if he wanted to live forever. What prison would he be facing; the one where the bars shadowed the sunlight or the sweet prison of the eternal night? Quinn knew which one he wanted. Hell. The one he needed.

  ‘Heh, look at me boy.’ said Frank.

  Quinn looked upwards at Frank, his breath held. For the first time that night, Quinn looked anxious. Frank continued.

  ‘Finally sinking in is it…? Shame that. They would have loved you in prison. Got bitch written all

  over you.’ Frank's voice had a deep scratchiness. The tobacco-tinted rasp that only years of smoking could bring.

  ‘Wha-’

  ‘Shut up moon-howler. I got news for you…you’re not a killer. Not yet anyway.’

  Quinn opened his mouth then shut it again. It seemed Alan had the same question burning in his mind as well.

  ‘What’s going on Frank?’

  Taking a deep breath and a pull on his cigarette. Frank looked at his feet, the steps that had been taken. The beats that had been stomped, the teeth they had kicked in. Frank raised his head ready to address everyone.

  ‘How can I put this? The body, the victim was on the slab ready to go, and well...the coroner left the room because he needed something, a sandwich, knowing that fat shit. When he got back the body was gone. Just like that he'd gone, as if he was never there in the first place.’ Frank looked as though he was still trying to process what he was told.

  Alan’s eyebrows furrowed, his cigarette had been out for some time now. Reaching into his pocket, Alan pulled out his lighter and relit his cigarette.

  ‘So any idea where this guy has gone? What the hell is going on?’

  Quinn sat silently, his hands placed upon the table. His fingers interlocked, trying to hide his newly-grown

  nails. He wanted to admire them, marvel at the blood that they could spill. Another tool in his box of fear.

  Not death, just fear. He had already played his part in the attempted killing of another of his future kin. Either way he would stand trial as a killer, or at the very least an attempted killer of his kin. Quinn was woken from his quiet admiration of his nails as Frank placed a heavy palm upon his shoulder. Frank's fingers gripped into Quinn’s shoulder. Quinn refused to give any sign, not one note of pain, as Frank's fingers dug in deeper. He looked upwards, watching the muscles twitch in Frank's flushed face.

  ‘Don’t think for one second you're getting away with this. People like you make me sick. Even if he does turn up alive, you’re still looking at an attempted murder charge. There will be a body somewhere. So don’t look so damn happy.’

  Alan picked up on the growing, violent vibe that was emanating from Frank.

  ‘Hey, Frank, fancy some coffee?’

  ‘Screw the coffee, Alan, look at this freak,’ said Frank as he reached over and took hold of Quinn’s hand, turning it so this his palms were facing down.

  ‘His nails; look at them. Who does he think he is? That shit-eating grin. The way he thinks that nearly killing a guy is okay? I see knuckleheads like this all day, every day. They make me sick.’ Spittle ran down the corner of his mouth, Frank quickly ran his sleeve across his face, wiping away the offending saliva.

  ‘I’m getting some coffee. I’m getting too old for this.’ said Alan as he left Quinn alone with Frank. It was almost like leaving a Christian to a lion. The door shut behind him along with any hopes of fair justice being provided. Quinn looked upwards at Frank; he saw the sadistic glee ignite within his eyes. Quinn imagined it would be the same look that a pyromaniac would have with a book of matches. Quinn brought his hands from beneath the table, his nails scraping against the metal. From there he held his hands together in the form of a chapel roof just below his chin.

  ‘We’re not so different, me and you.’ said Quinn, his voice held a confidence that mystified Frank.

  ‘Really? Well I do an honest day's work, go home, have a beer. Then I start the whole process of protecting the world from little fuck-nuggets like you. So how are we the same?’

  Frank stood back with his arms across his chest as he spoke, the cigarette was nearing its end. All that was left was the long worm of ash waiting to fall. The room now filled with smoke like a Vegas magician's show. Frank didn't have a wife to go home to; she had left him some years ago. The final straw for Frank’s wife, Annette, was when the illusion of the good cop faded. The true nature of Frank’s extra cash was not the result o
f holding a good position within the force, it was from those who he was supposed to be protecting. The old Chinese man who was left with broken fingers for not coughing up the cash, the prostitute left for dead after her pimp “kept her in line” just that one time too many. The list of his misdeeds was long and ever-growing. His cash roll of kickbacks growing even more. How else would he keep up the lifestyle he had grown to love? The power that came with corruption he lapped up like a thirsty dog.

  ‘The greatest trick the devil ever performed was to convince the world he did not exist…So when you go home, to your wife, does she look at you as a hero, as opposed to the abuser of power that you truly are?’

  Quinn recoiled as Frank bolted forward, his hands wrapping around Quinn’s face. Pain flowed around every muscle within Quinn’s features as Frank squeezed his head like a Florida orange. Quinn’s hands met with

  Frank's, with strength he did not know he possessed. His nails dug into the skin of Franks hands. Quinn watched Frank pull his hands away, his skin pulled taut as if caught on a rusty nail. He watched on in fascination as the blood fell from the cuts made by his nails.

  Frank tore at his shirt, not caring how it looked. He quickly wrapped his hands in the shirt to stop the blood-flow. Quinn watched the hypnotic blood dance down Frank's hand.

  ‘You mother…’ Frank shook his head. ‘You're gonna fucking pay for that!’ he screeched, his head leering forward. At that same moment, Alan entered with the coffee. The moment he caught sight of the chaos

  before him, the coffee cups fell to the ground where they landed with an empty echo. Alan rushed the few steps needed to reach his partner. Frank was hurt. Nothing life-threatening, Quinn sat there with all the innocence of a child. The serene look upon his face unsettled Alan. Frank continued to scream obscenities around the room while clutching the shirt that covered his hands. The blood continued to flow. What began as a crisp white shirt was now a sopping red mess.