Sixteen Small Deaths

by Christopher J. Dwyer

  “Davey Rain,” he says, perfect white teeth glimmering in the dark light of the office. “You must be Charlie.”

  “That’d be me,” I say, plopping down into the plush leather guest chair in front of Mickey’s desk.

  Mickey coughs, then shrugs his shoulders. “Gentlemen, we have a problem on our hands.”

  “That’s putting it lightly, cowboy.” Davey crosses his legs, peek of black dress socks marked with white dots. Not many of our kind dress like they’re running for office.

  Before Mickey can interject I raise my hand, gently let it fall to my lap. “He’s right, Mick. I know what’s going on. Pretty soon our entire race is going to know what’s going on.”

  Davey nods, lips parted in a frown. “Well, I can tell you for sure that Philly knows what’s going on. Dallas found out last week. New York is going through it right now, and well, the whole friggin’ east coast is ablaze.” He clears his throat and pulls a faded black cigarette from a bronze case. He lights its tip and smoke engulfs the room within a few seconds.

  “Is this really a threat?” Mickey leans over the front of the desk.

  Davey chuckles. “A threat, sir? You can ask your good friend right here if “threat” is the right word for what’s going on.”

  Mickey looks at me, and I look at Davey. Davey nods. “Tell him what happened last night.”

  I look to the carpeted floor, try to focus on a rogue patchwork of crimson loops and swirls. “Abel was killed last night. Torn apart by a woman that looked like she could be a dancer here. Short, pale, star tattoos on her shoulders. Didn’t even have to break a sweat, picked him clean up off the ground and tore him to pieces.” I swallow urgency, let it boil in my throat.

  Mickey’s mouth stays open. He leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. “Who did this?”

  “They’re called suicide angels, or at least that’s what the folks down south have been calling them.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Mickey twists in his chair. He’s never been the kind to accept the fantastical, save for the fact that he lives off blood and could probably live forever.

  “Listen to him, Mick,” I say. I turn to Davey. “Continue.”

  “They’re fallen angels. Eternal souls vaulted from the divine. Angry angels with a path to burn.”

  Mickey groans. “You believe this shit, Charlie? Fallen angels? Can’t be real.”

  Davey smiles, full grin swooping from his cheeks. “You mean to tell me you can accept your lifestyle, you can accept our existence…but you’re not open to the possibility that there’s something out there even more twisted than our kind? Just think, my friend, of the possibilities.” At his last word, his eyes are as wide as tea plates. His voice booms with authority. “The virus that swims in our blood, the virus that controls our every thought, our every action, it had to come from someplace.”

  “What is this? Retribution?” Mickey’s standing up, turned to the open window that looks down into the club. Flashing lights penetrate our reflections.

  “There are things that we’re never meant to know, gentlemen. If creatures like us can exist, why can’t angels?” He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a slick silver laptop. He props it open and pushes a button below the screen. When the monitor bursts alive with light, he holds a hand up. “Are you guys ready for this?”

  Both Mickey and I nod in unison.

  “Okay then.” Davey fiddles with the laptop for a few seconds and a square box is alive in the center of the screen. He pushes the laptop towards the edge of the desk and motions for us to look at it. “This is thirty seconds of surveillance footage from one of my bars in downtown Philly.” He pushes a key and the video comes to life.

  The first few seconds are black-and-white motions of at least a dozen men standing, drinking, talking, laughing. The bartender leans over the beer tap and pulls back the handle. As he slides the glass to the man next to the cash register, a rogue burst of smoke explodes from the corner of the screen. Bodies are tossed by an unseen force, a poor patron’s scalp ripped from his skull like it was latex. The smoke clears nearly twenty seconds into the video and we can see her: the black and blonde hair, tattoos on her shoulders like medals of evil. She grabs the bartender with a single hand and in a matter of seconds two little dribbles of white fly from his face. He falls over the edge of the bar, eyeless and lifeless. The angel turns to the camera and smiles. She’s not the same one from last night but it really doesn’t matter. The video stops and I finally take a breath.

  “It’s not safe in the city.” Davey stands up and points at me. “We need to go. You, too, Mick.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.” Mickey’s voice booms with anger.

  “We don’t have a choice, Mick.” I stand up with a jolt.

  Davey turns off the laptop and slides it back into his briefcase. “Some of my guys are in a hideout on the border of New Hampshire and Maine. So far, they’ve only hit the most densely populated areas. We might be safe there, together.”

  Mickey pushes back his thick black hair. “This is fucking ridiculous, guys. We’re just supposed to pack up and leave our lives like this? And for how long?”

  Davey shakes his head. “I can’t answer that. Do you want to die, or do you want to come with us?”

  Mickey opens the closet in the corner of the office. He flicks the light switch, reaches on the top shelf, and tosses down a large gray duffel bag. “I need about twenty minutes.”

  “That’s fine,” Davey says, shoving his arms into his blazer. “I bet our boy Charlie would like to stop at his place before our ride, don’t you?”

  I nod, place a hand on Mickey’s shoulders. “Mick, be careful.”

  “I concur,” Davey says, and hands Mickey a business card with an address scrawled on its back. “We’ll all be there.”

  #

  The population hit its benchmark sometimes in the ‘80s. Some inside sources claimed that we were only outnumbered fifteen-to-one by normal humans. Clans erupted all over the country, some clashing with each other even though the constant threat of being outed hung over our heads like a lingering dark cloud. Although it didn’t happen overnight, the numbers dwindled into the ‘90s. Some, like Mickey, claimed that the scarcity of rarer blood types prohibited a regular feeding cycle for most of the infected. Without that fresh burst of life, our bodies shut down. The virus turns on us, causes our organs to eat themselves in lieu of proper nourishment. Our bodies have the same medical qualities as a dead human if we were shot in the head or hit by a car. Others, well, they’re not so lucky to leave something so quaint behind.

  When I was a pup, I saw first-hand what the hunger can do to us. A rogue lifer stepped into the December Club one summer afternoon with a gun planted at the sky, lips as tight as bridge cables. He pointed the pistol at one of the bartenders and in a matter of seconds I was on his back, pounding his skull with the bloody edges of my knuckles. We didn’t know he was like us until the sixth or seventh hour of keeping him locked up in the walk-in refrigerator in the back of the club. He shuddered in the midst of frost and hunger, his skin melting like cookie-colored candle wax. It took a full hour for the virus to sweep through his figure, destroying every last living cell. I watched in awe as all were left were the burnt edges of bone, a skeletal ghost lain in a pool of orange dust

  It’s almost as if only the strong survived. Only those who were willing to become monsters stepped outside of the boundaries of decency and planted their teeth into the soft flesh of a human. For some, it was just too hard. Even I found myself sitting in dark days during those years. It was only when I learned to stash, learned to make the right connections did I find myself fed, satisfied, and, until now…safe.

  Cale was well-connected within the East Coast societies. He knew the leaders of local clans. He knew how to get the right quantities of fuel without causing a stir or raising attention. And, most importantly of all, he hooked me up with Mickey, who kept me well-fed and well-paid with a gig at the December
Club.

  It’s very rare now that I sniff out a fellow infected soul in the public realm. We’re an endangered species, whittled down to the smallest number in decades. If you’re not like me and you live in the rural areas of the country, I can’t imagine you’d be anything but fucked. Only the powerful ones survived the worst, and now the few of us left have to deal with something even more violent than starving the virus.

  Everything before this week was perfect. I lived day-to-day with the same routine, the same bittersweet emotion of eternal life. I stay off the radar. My driver’s license is under a different name. I don’t have credit cards or bank accounts. I deal in cash and blood. I don’t have many friends. It’s a simple life, but it’s a life I’ve been used to for so long. And now that all seems to be crashing down around me. For once, I’m not worried about my next meal. For once, I’m not worried about finding a woman who I can share my terrible secret with.

  Because now, all I’m worried about is death.

  #

  Davey switches the radio station with a quick twirl of his perfectly-manicured fingers. Hard rock, jazz, then silence. He can’t settle on a station. He finally puts his hand back on the steering wheel and we continue into the night. We reach the Ink Station and Cale’s already standing on its doorstep, plum cherry tip of a cigarette dangling from his lips. Davey rolls down the window and smiles. “Two hours and we’re not stopping.” Cale nods and opens the back door, tosses his duffel bag between mine and Davey’s and hops into the truck with a sigh. He looks back at the trail of fog and exhaust, as if the tattoo shop is his home.

  I lean against the passenger’s side window, cool glass pressing into my cheeks. Before long, I’m dreaming of the life I lived before all of this.

  #

  Night burns into a smoldering trail of haze and moonlight. I wake to Davey’s voice. “We’re here, partner.”

  I’m out the truck and surrounded by the woods, far different from the world two hours ago. Cale tosses my duffel bag at me and I catch it with both arms. He looks around and shakes his head. “Thirty years and it comes down to this,” he says. “Thirty goddamn years.”

  I can’t do anything but look away, listen to the speckles of rural nature tickle the innermost portions of my mind. It’s beautiful up here and dangerous at the same time. Only a few yards from us are the booming echoes of misplaced laughter and other voices. Drips and drabbles of other clans, souls lost and wandered into a place where we all might die. Davey motions for us to follow him up to a bleak and gray building that’s oddly out of place up here in the woods.

  “This place was once used to store my group’s supply,” he says, dragging his bag over a hefty shoulder. “For years I’d make trips up here with my guys and fill up. Local government thought it was a waste management facility. Never would have thought we’d have to use this place for a safe haven.”

  The voices grow louder as we approach the entrance, some of them familiar, most of them new. Davey holds the door open for us and we’re greeted with a dozen different sets of fiery eyes. These are the hunted brethren, the fellow lifers that have come here as a last resort. I find my place at a table in the corner of the lobby where I recognize Betty, a black-haired raven that once tended bar at the December Club. Her face lights up when she sees Cale and I, arms outstretched and gripping my shoulders with the force of a burning memory.

  “Charlie,” she says, lips as red as Christmas. “Long time.”

  A single peck on the cheek. “I know, Betty. Too long.”

  Before we can start a conversation, Davey’s standing on the counter of the makeshift bar in the corner. His words cut through the thick stench of ammonia and fear.

  “My friends. We are not here because we are afraid. We are not here because this is a final stand. We have not come here to die. For the last hundred years, we’ve lived as we’ve wanted and along the way there’s been bumps. We’ve seen our share of misfortune. We’ve seen our share of hardship. And tonight, my friends, is just another hurdle that we have to approach with caution. We’ve lived this long and tonight is not the last time we’ll see each other, you can mark my words.”

  He hops down from the corner of the bar and greets a group that has just walked into the building. I look around, see a set of doors and I imagine this place is not equipped as a bunker or even as a home.

  Cale grabs my arm. “I’m not in the mood to socialize. I can’t believe what we’re doing here.”

  “I know, I know. But this is the only way we’re going to be safe, or so says Davey. I’ve seen what they can do, Cale. I’ll never forget those moments. I’ll never forget what they did to Abel.”

  Cale looks away, sighs. Davey approaches from the corner, two beers in one hand. “Drink, my friends. I refuse to realize the fear.”

  I can’t help but smile. Long sip of alcohol and my nerves subside with a groan. Ten or so minutes pass and I feel just as Cale did. I set the bottle on the edge of the table and slide away into the opposite side of the room. I open the door next to the bathroom and find a storage room, dozens of large boxes stacked perfectly along the walls. It’s cool and dark and perfect. Cale’s right behind me.

  “Don’t feel like socializing?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Me too.” He plants his backside against a stack of boxes and lets out a deep breath. He unscrews the top of his beer and flips the bottle to his mouth.

  I sit cross-legged on the cool tiled floor, stomach mixing alcohol and the whispers of the virus. It’s hard not to ignore its siren but there’s enough fear careening through my mind to keep it at bay for at least the rest of the night.

  Cale finishes his beer and rolls the bottle along the floor. He burps and tilts his head back. “Jesus, Charlie…we really should be at the club, you know? Mickey booming with laughter, tearing through a bottle of scotch with everyone. This just doesn’t feel right.”

  Before I can speak, the familiar rumble of broken glass and bursting explosions echoes from the room outside the door. Cale’s eyes widen, black and blue drops that radiate with dread. I stand up and my brain flutters, wonder quickly if I’m dreaming the sounds on the other side of the wall. Before I can turn the knob the door dents and cracks into a million sprinkles of wood and gray paint. One of the group’s bodies is bloodied and beaten, tip of his skull scalped around his temple. Mushy squiggles of brain and flesh goop onto the floor and it only takes me three total seconds to grab Cale’s arm and jump out of the broken entrance in the storage room door. I push my way through smoke and screams, quick glance of black-and-blonde hair swooshing into the wind. I don’t take the time to find Davey or anyone else involved in the slaughter. I can hear Cale’s words close behind me. The truck…the truck…

  In a squeal of seconds I find the open wall that once stood solid before the angel burst her way into the building. Moment of freshness from the cool night air, soon dissipating into a frantic run for Davey’s truck. Cale reaches the driver’s side and flips open the door. I jump into the passenger’s seat and breathe again while he plucks the keys from the visor. Loud roar of the engine and we’re off. I take a single second to look behind me, long wispy trail of smoke and fire spinning from the building.

  The truck careens along the dirt road, Cale pressing hard on the gas pedal. The speedometer rifles with glee and soon enough I can’t hear the disparate voices in my head. He doesn’t anticipate the curve at the end of the road and time freezes as we’re spun upside down.

  Crank of metal and wood, gush of red from the open wound in my forehead.

  #

  The stars blush and smile, bits of glitter exploding into long streams of hazy purple liquid. I can’t feel my arms or legs and I imagine this is where my soul is trapped. The virus robbed me of my soul and forever I’ll be a part of somewhere that has no depth, no air.

  I look down and see my boots are level with the sea. I’m walking on water, the glistening edges of violent waves crashing against each other in a fit of winter storm
. Snow and ash fall from the sky. When I close my eyes I fall backwards into sand. She’s standing above me, hair floating in the wind like a cloud of black snakes.

  “The angels form the demons,” she says.

  I can’t speak, can only watch a whisper of smoke escape from my lips. She raises a white-painted fingernail and I’m drawn to the ground, an unseen force pulling me below the sand and into darkness. When I finally shout, my voice is beaten and broken. I hear the murmur now, like a million dead souls singing with their final breaths.

  The angels form the demons.

  #

  I wake to the sounds of blood sloshing against my chest. It’s wet and painful and I don’t know where I am. Blurry vision gives way to an aura of broken light. I wince when Cale’s head is thrown onto my lap. I’m lying at the side of the truck, steady downpour of rain dousing the goosebumps trailing across my arms and legs. I claw along the ground, fingernails digging against a mix of dirt and grass and mud. It’s only when I bring my hands to the air that I can see the two events unfolding before me: the rain is my best friend’s blood and the light is coming from the fire in her eyes. A suicide angel, the same one from the beginning of my downfall. Leather pants as tight as latex paint. Pale skin, two tattoos now drenched in the blood of her kill.

  She stands above me, the rest of Cale’s body floating in the air. On the horizon, the last breaths of night slip into the distance. The trees beyond the fence shudder in the wind. I kick off Cale’s lifeless head from my legs, his face locked in a cold, dead stare. My breaths are erratic and as she nears closer to me, every inch of every hidden memory of my life before all of this flashes in the corners of my eyes, each scene and every bit of dialogue muddled by the sparkling cigarette burns popping into view with every drop of my eyelids.