There, towering in the center of the tightening circle, was Dallas, his mouth moving, repeating something over and over. He’s sorry? Herb thought distantly. He should be. Stabbing me with a pool cue. What a jerk.
Then, an angel. Radiant, beautiful, looking down at him from a great height. Strands of hair like sunlight floating in a halo around her face. Mascara-blackened tears fell and sizzled against is skin as she drew closer.
I love you, Lois. His mouth moved without sound. Sound required breath, but breath belonged to the living. He smiled. It hurt to smile, but he wanted to give her something and he had nothing else to give. The burning had spread from his chest to his gut, his arms and legs, tendrils of heat wrapping up around his scalp and pulling at his forehead, crawling up his throat and melting his teeth. Beneath the fire was a growing darkness, eating everything up. His vision narrowed to a blurry circle framing her face, now inches above his own. As the burning darkness spread, he tried one last time to say her name.
The Final Chapter
Where do vampires go when they die? Herb’s question floated unanswered through the darting minnows of disco ball light. He looked around, surprised by his strange vantage point near the dimpled acoustic tiles of the bar’s ceiling. Below, Dallas stood frozen, choking on a mixture of consternation and remorse. Lois knelt beside his body, face streaked with tears. Reaching for his hands, his face, her fingers met only smoldering dust. While Rhonda screamed into the phone for an ambulance, the locals turned and turned, a confused sea with a constantly shifting tide, drawing closer to Herb’s body, then pulling away. The frantic activity below buffeted and jostled Herb’s awareness. He floated like a plastic bag on a fickle breeze, first one direction then another, up and away from the charred and melting vessel below.
He knew in an abstract sort of way that he was dying, that soon all the pieces of him would fall away and there’d be nothing left of him in this world. As he floated above the confused, macabre scene below, memories fell and sparkled diamond-like on the dingy carpet below. There, Dallas punching Joey O’Connell in the girl’s bathroom, Herb watching in stupefied appreciation. And there, Stanley waving his umbrella at a group of kids as they ooh’d and aah’d about his abduction. Another sparkle, and he remembered watching Super Bowl XXXI, convinced he wouldn’t be sober for a week. Sparkle, and he felt Helen’s breasts brushing against his arm, Jenni’s nails across his back.
Piece after glimmering piece, the memories fell as Herb turned and twisted in the invisible breeze. Running the table at Stein’s. Drinking beers and watching bees from Dallas’s front porch. People chanting his name as he bowled a perfect game. Sparkle after sparkle, memories fell while Herb watched and relived and smiled before they were gone.
Some of the gems had a darker cast, rubies and sapphires, garnets and opals. These memories hurt to look at, poking at old bruises on his soul. Bo the retriever barking in the back of a pickup truck. The sound of a spinal cord snapping in the night. Candy’s lifeless eyes looking to him for an explanation. Lady, the unfortunate pug, sequined collar coated in gore. These darker memories were plentiful, stretching back and back to when he was young. As each glistened and faded, he felt lighter, freer, moving up through the ceiling of the bar and seeping into the night air. The sky opened above him, so full of stars he could hardly see the darkness between.
The memories fell faster now, raining like welder sparks to the world below. Fangs piercing veins, duct taping a rusted hole in the Pinto, arm wrestling with Dallas, running through the night like the summer wind itself. Each memory sparked, lit up his world, fizzled and was gone as what was Herb bled away into the night.
Memories of his Maker shook loose and glinted the moment Herb recognized him. Perched on a fencepost near the woods, a gentle wind stirring his short cape, the vampire gazed up at the starscape spanning the horizons. Despite being nothing more than a pile of ash in a bowling alley bar and this gossamer-thin awareness, Herb still had a sense of self, and was rather surprised to find his Maker looking directly at him.
It ends this way for most of my children, Herb heard his Maker…speak? Think? He couldn’t tell, but the words were not without kindness. For what it’s worth, at the end you were loved. Very few of our kind are so fortunate. Go now, Herbert Knudsen who makes pretty good French toast. Go now, and remember what it was to be loved.
As his Maker commanded, so it was. The brightest sparkles of all fell like tears turned to snowflakes, catching the moonlight with a radiance no words could ever describe. A hundred thousand memories lit up the world around him as he rose, rose, rose into the night. And while each sparkling, burning memory was as unique and beautiful as the snowflakes they reminded him of, they were all the same. Lois, Lois, my Lois.
Memories finally gone, there was very little left of Herb, just the tiniest piece of consciousness that every person has at their center. This bare essence once known as Herb was still aware, though. Aware enough to wonder with gratitude that he was rising up, up toward the limitless stars above.
Heaven? he wondered, basking in the starlight.
His Maker’s final thought reached him just as the stars started to fall away. Herb plummeted, the wind becoming a freight train roar, the pristine sky turned to jaundice and rot. As the darkness and scorching, everlasting pain embraced him, his Maker’s final words seared him like a brand.
Nope. Sorry. You’re a vampire, remember?
The End…?
Did you enjoy Wisconsin Vamp? Let me know! Please swipe to the last page and post a review on Amazon. Reviews for authors are like applause for actors, and are always appreciated.
For updates on the soon-to-come second book in the Monsters of the Midwest series and other random fun:
Find me on Facebook: www.facebook.com/SWBauthor
Follow me on Twitter: www.twitter.com/SWBauthor
Or visit: Bowling alleys and karaoke bars in the Midwest
Yours truly,
Scott
About the Author
Scott lives in the Midwest with his wife, Liz and their boxer/pitt mix, Frank. He enjoys beer, bowling, karaoke, horror, and stories about the underdog. After not nearly enough careful consideration, he decided to write about the things he enjoys.
Table of Contents
It Had to Start Somewhere…
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
The Final Chapter
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