Blood Type: An Anthology of Vampire SF on the Cutting Edge

by Watts, Peter

  Along the corridor there’s only more doors for a while. Then I find an adjacent hallway on the left. I take it. More plain doors lining the walls. Just like ours. Nothing different after nearly an hour of walking either. But now I’m coming up on some silver railing along each side. I realize quickly it’s there to keep people from falling down into the bodies below. I can see them. Hundreds, thousands—I’m a terrible judge of numbers—but there has to be at least thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands. They’re all staring up at me. Or it seems that way at first. Their glassy eyes gaze upward into nothing—the ceiling maybe? Each one is completely naked, lying on a single slab of silver, with tubes coming out of their faces, wires coming off their chests attached to machines with green LEDs. A monotonous humming like the sound of an idle air conditioner surrounds the place.

  At first I think they’re in some kind of stasis, but there’s no glass cockpits, nothing to seal them from the elements. And those eyes. They’re not asleep quite like stasis. I lean up to the silver rail and squint, trying to see the far end of this gigantic room filled with bodies. I can’t. It’s that far away. The number of eyes that seem to stare at me is getting under my skin. I turn and run back down the hall. I picture those vacant eyes following me as I go. Whatever happened to those people, they aren’t here with us in the really real world.

  Running back, I almost trip over my own feet. I have to warn Zack. We have to get out of this place. I think of all the science fiction movies I’ve ever watched, all the stories I’d ever read where, at the surface everything was amazing and hopeful, but something dark and sinister waited underneath. That’s this place to me now. That something is opening its eyes and peering up at me.

  With hundreds of thousands of vacant eyes.

  The way back takes some time. Passing other people along the way, I try to slow down, to look normal, but I’m so scared that it only draws more attention. When I finally turn down our hallway I see door #236 and I exhale a weighted breath of relief. I type in the keycode and the green light blinks twice, the latch automatically disengages, and the door leans ajar.

  It’s dark inside.

  I push inward and enter the room and confirm the lights are all off. But somehow I can see. I close the door behind me and look around for any sign of Zack and Anne.

  “Zack? Annie?”

  It’s slight, like the rustling of leaves a mile off, but I hear movement from my bedroom. It has to be adrenaline—my hearing’s never been so acute. I turn and creep down the hall, picturing my friend and Anne on those silver slabs, staring up at nothing, and a chill slithers up my spine. There’s that movement again. I can picture exactly where it is in my mind’s eye just from the sound. Someone’s in my closet waiting and not breathing.

  I open my door and see Anne, crumpled on the bed. There’s something wrong with her neck. I see blood. She’s not breathing. And the smell… I’m just about to run to her when whoever’s in my closet jumps out at me in a blur. Claws dig into my back, something sharp pierces my neck. In my head I’m screaming, but my heart rate barely rises, and I keep my cool as I reach over and grab Zack’s head and pull his teeth from my neck. It’s him all right. I’d long ago memorized the smell of his cologne.

  I bend forward and toss him over me, Judo style. He lands shoulders first into the foot of my bed and catches himself with his hands and feet on the floor.

  “Zack? What the hell did you do?”

  He looks up at me with glowing feral eyes, fangs bared, nose scrunched upward. He speaks and his voice is a growling hiss.

  “You shouldn’t have left her with me. She was so beautiful. So delicious.”

  “What the hell is going on, here? I mean—”

  Zack lunges at me and in an instant I grab him by the head again and tear out his throat from left to right with my own fangs, and drop him to the floor. I didn’t really need to ask. Some revelations take more time to process.

  I walk over to Anne’s body and pick her up. I can smell it on her now. The blood. The scent is just like Zack had said. Delicious. I fight to keep from lifting her body to my mouth. All the while, images flash through my mind. I’m finally remembering.

  I see myself in school, learning about the revolution. It started in the 21st century. No one knows exactly what year. First, we took over the cities. Thousands hid in rural areas, hoping they were safer in numbers. But they weren’t. They only drew more attention. By the year 2119, we were the new human race. The vampires. Evolution had won. The lesser humans—as we called them—were gathered together. Bred. Farmed. And eventually, genetically grown in mass production.

  I remember working the new arrival line. Fresh, still, tiny bodies pass by on a conveyer belt. Zack and I check them each by hand for discoloration, imperfections, as they slide by. The ones that don’t pass inspection get knocked off and fall into large metal vats below filling with tiny decaying corpses.

  Of course, during the revolution, some of the humans got away.

  The Strays.

  They survived underground. And we let them be. Why hunt for your food when you’ve got advancements in modern agriculture on your side? Those eyes—those human eyes—hadn’t been staring at me. They were staring at nothing, kept alive by machines. They were the grown bodies I had passed through as babes.

  You see, evolution has been kind to the human race. They don’t have to live in fear, look over their shoulders, jump at every twig snapping in the dark forest. Their predators have been kind enough to raise them mindless from test tubes so they don’t have to think. Don’t have to know.

  Don’t have to feel any pain.

  I’ve found the main power breaker for the machines. Been watching the bodies for hours. Their chests rising and falling. Dark crimson liquid siphoning from their arms through thick plastic tubes every half hour like clockwork. That’s when I noticed the wiring under the floor. It led me to the central power hub. A single dull gray panel on the floor, about a foot long and wide.

  Been standing here for hours, just staring down at it.

  But now it’s time. I reach down and open the panel. My fingers pull the thin black plastic switch that keeps these hunks of meat “alive.” The monotonous hum slows down, drops in pitch, the green LEDs fade. All around me, voices gasp and bodies convulse in unison, dying.

  And now we’ll die too.

  Only the Strays will survive.

  Call it genocide, call it xenocide, call it whatever you want. I like winning fair and square.

  Victory’s a bitter pill when you have to cheat to survive.

  Robert S. Wilson is the author of SHINING IN CRIMSON and FADING IN DARKNESS, books one and two of his dystopian vampire series: EMPIRE OF BLOOD. He is a Bram Stoker Award-nominated editor of HORROR FOR GOOD: A CHARITABLE ANTHOLOGY and lives in Middle Tennessee with his wife and two kids. His short stories have appeared in/will appear in [NAMELESS] MAGAZINE from Cycatrix Press, HORROR D'OEUVRES from Dark Fuse, A QUICK BITE OF FLESH: AN ANTHOLOGY OF ZOMBIE FLASH FICTION from Hazardous Press, EVIL JESTER PRESENTS COMICS, FEAR THE REAPER from Crystal Lake Publishing, THE BEST OF THE HORROR SOCIETY 2013, BLEED from Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing, and his cyberpunk/horror novella EXIT REALITY published by Blood Bound Books was chosen as one of e-thriller.com’s Thrillers of the Month in July 2013.

  DAMNED TO LIFE

  Essel Pratt

  The musty stench of damp soil permeates the dank basement air. Dust flutters aimlessly as the aged and blackened windows usher in a noisy militia of whistling drafts. Fidgety house spiders retreat to safety as the wind forces their webs to seizure and an occasional rodent scurries across the compacted dirt floor.

  Shining brightly in the center of the room is a trio of ultraviolet spotlights focused strategically on a center point above an otherwise blackened pit. The light encompasses the opening with its radiance, but does not penetrate the depths. Inside the occasional movement accompanies the slow moan of a lost soul plagued with pain and anguish.

  The pit i
s a simple, yet effective, cage used to house the very essence of the damned. This lonely prison has been her home for as long as she can remember. Surrounded by crudely constructed concrete walls, she huddles upon the damp floor waiting for the day she can escape and experience freedom.

  Her pale skin shines brightly in contrast to the dark concrete walls. Her body shivers, not with cold, but hunger and disease. The miniscule amount of food—mostly small animals and bloody ground beef—provided by her captor leaves her emaciated and parched. Although he does provide his nameless prisoner an occasional bag of blood, it is polluted with impurities and disease, causing her more torture than relief. Her lust for the pure vital fluid twists her senses in a constant purgatory of living while her body battles against a horrible death.

  ~

  The sound of a key turning echoes down from the upstairs entry. Thunderous footsteps thud on the creaking floor above and send shivers down her spine. It won’t be long until James comes downstairs.

  In the kitchen, ice falls into a glass followed by the sound of liquid pouring. It’s his favorite whiskey judging from the smell. A normal routine when he arrives. He finishes the drink quickly and the glass crashes in the sink. A few minutes later the refrigerator opens. The fetor of blood bags permeates through the floor boards. Her heightened sense of smell is working at full strength now that the last of the poisons have excreted from her body. The aroma of anemia and hypoglycemia is strong. Both of which have little effect on her, only causing a little dizziness. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad after all.

  The handle of the dingy basement door turns and the un-oiled hinges screech. James stumbles inside and stands there a few seconds, blinking his eyes before ascending. The light does not venture much further than the opening to the pit, which leaves a majority of the basement in darkness.

  He approaches the edge of the pit, and peers inside. There is something different about him, something odd, as she glares up at his fatigued face. His gaze peers deep into her being. She senses envy amongst his hatred and exhaustion, something never noticeable before.

  He places a plastic grocery bag on a wooden table, pulling a bag of blood and a chunk of fresh hamburger from within. Ripping open the bloodied ground beef he makes half-dozen, or so, meatballs. He seems to enjoy throwing the bloodied projectiles through the lighted barrier—aiming for her head. Fast reflexes prove that the diseases he had fed her the previous day are now gone, as she snatches today’s rations from the air and devours them. Even in a malnourished state, her disease-free equanimity could prove disastrous if she were to escape. After years of captivity and observation, he is covetous of her miraculous healing; cursing that she will outlive his finite existence.

  The juicy beef beckons an insatiable thirst for more blood. She can tell from James’s expression that he isn’t going to satisfy her needs right away. Before quenching her need for sustenance with a bloody hemopathy cocktail, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small tube. Curious, the young vampire waits for whatever torture he is about to present.

  “I saw a movie on T.V. earlier. It had sparkly vampires in it. Why don’t you sparkle?” James says in a slurred tone.

  His shaky hands fumble with the cap, causing it to pop off unexpectedly and sending metallic glitter flailing into the air around him. He curses the foolishness and pours the remaining contents into his hand, sprinkling the glitter through the ultraviolet barricade that covers the opening. As the pieces flutter below, they disperse the illumination like a disco ball. As the light reflects, it burns into her flesh like laser beams. The agony is almost unbearable as the glitter unhurriedly drifts to the floor below. Through the pain, she looks up toward him knowing that his days are numbered and her wounds will heal even after he is gone.Satisfied with his torturous game, James tosses the blood bag into the pit. Emaciated hands grasp the treat and she desperately bites through the plastic. Warm blood siphons down her dry throat; she feels a familiar energy stream through her. The surge is invigorating as a rush of vitality consumes her.

  Through the burst of energy, her thoughts turn to the oncoming weakness that will be brought on by the anemia concealed within mélange. However, it never comes. The tainted sample must be labeled incorrectly; the anemic smell has to be coming from somewhere else. Maybe there was another bag upstairs, but the stench seems too strong.

  Not since her birth has she felt the energy of pure blood. Power and confidence rush through her veins. Her mind combusts with a clearness she has not experienced since birth, all pain in her muscles dissipates in an instant, and each of her six senses collide toward freedom as though the floodgates of a dam have burst. If not for the damning lamps above, she would attempt escape.

  James’s hateful expression melts into fear and confusion as her black eyes metamorphose to crimson. He stands above her tapping his foot, fidgeting with the empty glitter vial. She can hear his heart pound faster in his chest. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t realize the blood is pure. She contemplates faking it for him, but decides against giving him the satisfaction. Instead, she finds herself scanning his thoughts for weakness, something she never knew she was capable of. He wonders if she's grown a tolerance for the stuff, if the cow's blood is somehow helping her now. She smiles at his confusion.In a panic, he turns toward the stairway and traverses the darkness without allowing his eyes to adjust. His carelessness leads to blunder as he trips over the electrical cords driving the ultraviolet spotlight, disconnecting the power. Darkness erupts in the room as he falls hard to the floor, his head bouncing as it slams against the dirt. Unconscious, his body rests vulnerably limp.

  The young vampire stares at the exit toward her freedom. Her chance to escape has arrived, yet she pauses. Fear of the unknown hinders her reflexes as she contemplates her next move. All her life, she has known only the stagnant confines of this pit, what lies beyond is enthralling, but also horrifying. She cannot help but wonder if the rest of the world will treat her as her captor has.

  James groans as he begins to wake from his short slumber. The sound jolts her back to reality and she instinctively jumps from the pit, pouncing upon her defeated imprisoner. Still dazed, he turns his head toward the weight on his chest, their eyes meet. Fear displays clearly upon his face as he mentally surrenders.

  Intuition bullies her to gorge on his blood, letting him die a slow and painful death. Forcing him to feel just a fraction of the pain he has caused her will make his death a satisfying retribution. She licks her lips in anticipation as a pair of fangs protrudes beyond her upper lip. Moving toward his neck, she purposely takes her time to prolong his anxiety. As she edges closer their eyes meet and his expression changes from fear to placidity.

  His mouth opens, to speak. She pauses for a moment, just in time to hear him whisper the words, “You have your mother’s eyes, Elizabeth”.

  He has never spoken her name before. A strange feeling beats within her heart as she withdraws from his neck. His unexpected repentance is unnerving, but her enhanced senses can tell that his remorse is sincere. Glaring at him for a few more seconds, before placing her cold hands on either side of his head, she allows him to speak one last time.

  “I’m sorry. I was scared and angry and it was too late to turn back. Your bastard vampire father raped her—your mother. I should have known her frail body couldn’t survive your thirst at birth. Please forgive me.”

  With a tear dripping from her eye, she softly utters, “goodbye,” and swiftly snaps his neck, opting not to drink the poisoned blood spilling from his torn flesh where the bone has ripped through. A familiar scent of leukemia and anemia fill the air around her, explaining the look of fatigue on his face earlier.

  His hatred of her was real, she knows this, but she wonders if his love had fueled that hatred. She pauses a few seconds to reflect on his passing, and come to terms with her feelings toward him.

  She forgives him.

  Now that she is free, Elizabeth inhales the musty air around her; it has never felt so good withi
n her lungs. Nervously, she makes her way up the creaky stairs, unaware of what strangeness might await her. The familiar screeching hinges shriek as the door opens into the kitchen. Her fingers trace over the cryptic crosses carved into the door, meant to keep her trapped below although completely ineffective on her flesh now. The sweet smell of garlic tickles her nostrils, a familiar treat she has grown to love. Overall, her first experience with the outside world seems rather peaceful and welcoming.

  She wanders the house in awe of the collection of crucifixes and statues of Mary Magdalene. Within the living room, a small pile of wood shavings rests on the floor in front of a leather recliner. A half-finished cross carving sits next to a shiny pocket knife. As she scans the walls, she notices that all of the crosses are hand carved. Some are crude in their design, while others are magnificently ornate.

  On the upper floor she finds a closet filled with her mother’s old clothes. A blue Sundress catches her attention. Trapped in the pit, she never felt the warmth of fabric upon her naked skin, it was a luxury not allowed. Now that she is free, Elizabeth tries the dress on, and musters a smile as the fabric caresses her naked body; her mother’s fougere perfume still emanates from the cotton blend.

  Out of the corner of her eye, an unexpected movement startles her. She turns toward the intruder, only to peer into her own reflection. For the first time she looks into her own eyes. A photo taped to the mirror catches her attention. Tears stream down her face as she recognizes her father and what must be her mother on their wedding night. Elizabeth grasps the photo close to her bosom and mourns her mother’s loss.