The Last American Vampire

by Seth Grahame-Smith

  Human evolution has seen to it that children have short memories. Otherwise, we’d all be traumatized for life, when every loud noise or funny face has the power to terrify us. Virginia seemed to get better as the days went on. I was glad to see it, but I was also slightly heartbroken, because she would never remember her mother’s or father’s face. The love they’d felt for her.

  But as the days passed and Henry grew weaker from hunger, carrying her for long periods of time became too difficult.

  When I couldn’t tend to her anymore, Crowley saw to it that she was kept warm and fed. He sang to her when she cried. The sick fuck sang to her. The same creature who’d killed her mother and father—torn them apart as she’d watched, screaming—now sang to quiet her when she cried.

  I was starving to death. My strength was leaving me. You have to understand—blood is the only nutrient a vampire’s body will accept. You can’t put food in our bellies and expect our motors to run. It doesn’t work that way, and I knew it, intuitively, even then. But I refused to accept it. I was grieving for myself, and the first stage of grief is denial. I ate berries. I ate the meat of the animals Crowley killed. I ate the bark off of trees and drank water from streams, only to have it all come back up in spectacular, projectile fashion. I was starving, but food and water made me sick.

  Crowley kept us marching inland, night after night. I knew what he was doing. What he was looking for. And I knew what he was going to do when he found it. I became obsessed with running away. Running off into the woods; getting away from him.

  But Henry couldn’t run.

  How could I leave her? How could I leave a baby with a monster? And even if we could escape—how would Virginia and I survive? I was too weak to carry her, let alone provide for her. Besides, I knew next to nothing about being a vampire, and while Crowley was a terrible man, he was a willing teacher.

  One morning Crowley ventured out into the light, leaving Virginia and me in the dark of our shelter. When he returned to the fort at sunset, he was carrying a native man in his arms. The man was unconscious but breathing. I could hear his breath, hear his heart beating, all the way across the room. I remember the way he brought the body over, laid it in front of me like an offering at an altar. Half of the native’s face was caved in. Blood had dried in his eye sockets, so thick that I didn’t know whether his eyes were even there anymore, or whether Crowley had ripped them out for some reason, which wouldn’t have made any sense. Why rip the poor man’s eyes out? Haven’t you done enough to him already? In a way, I hoped he had ripped them out. I couldn’t stand the thought of him looking back at me, even in death. Worse, the thought of those eyes suddenly popping open. Looking at me. Begging me not to kill him.

  The Henry of the civilized world—the wherryman’s son, the good boy who loved his simple neighbor—was giving way to Henry the vampire. The monster.

  I laugh whenever I see it portrayed in movies—how effortless they make it look. Even romantic. But really, just for a second, try to imagine biting into human flesh the way you bite into a chicken leg, clamping down on it the way your cavemen ancestors did eons ago. Now imagine that chicken leg thrashing around, trying to pull away, screaming as you hold it still enough to find an artery with your teeth. Imagine holding it there as you suck the blood out of its body. Not in the five seconds it takes on television, but for the better part of a minute—longer if you’re less experienced.

  I tried to fight against it. Tried to keep my eyes from turning, my fangs from falling. But I was weak. Running on instinct, reflexes. Try telling a starving vampire to control himself when there’s warm blood on his lips. You’d have as much luck telling a burning man not to scream.

  Though there were no tears, Henry cried as he fed. As the blood flowed through his fangs and into his veins, filling him with a warm peace he’d never known, while at the same time filling him with a deep sense of grief. Grief for himself. For what might have been. He took the body in his arms as the man’s heartbeat slowed; wrapped his arms around it, squeezed it the way a child squeezes a juice box, coaxing out every last delicious drop. The world was revealed in full.

  Suddenly I understood what he’d been talking about. “Freeing yourself” and “to be human is to be inhumane” and all of that. It wasn’t that all my grief suddenly fell away or that I suddenly relished the thought of killing people. It wasn’t like I forgave Crowley, either. I didn’t. I still hated him, and I hated myself for what I was doing. But I understood. The possibilities. The advantages. It was that first high. The one that addicts spend the rest of their lives chasing but never catching.

  With their veins full of human blood, the vampires took turns carrying Virginia back to the fort at Roanoke.

  It had to be tonight.

  Henry knew it. He hadn’t the slightest idea how he was going to pull it off, but it had to be tonight, while he was still full. While he had the strength and the courage. Before the monster inside strengthened its hold. Stay with your maker, the monster would say. Learn from him. You could do great things together, you two. A whole New World, all to yourselves.

  Thinking about it now, it was foolish. Even if I did manage to escape, I had no idea where I was going. There were no other colonies in America. No towns or roads. And even if I managed to keep us alive, who knew when the next ship would come? It might be months. They might never come at all. Plus, Crowley could move in daylight. I couldn’t. That meant that for eleven hours a day, from sunrise at seven to sunset at six, I was a sitting duck. Just waiting there in whatever darkness I’d managed to find, waiting for him to come and sniff me out. Follow the trail of bread crumbs I’d probably left without even knowing it.

  Crowley was snoring. Henry had been waiting all day, too nervous to sleep. It would be dark soon. Crowley would be getting up from his winter’s nap. Henry had been observing him for three weeks now. He had a knack for rising precisely at sunset. But when he slept deeply, snoring away as he did now, he often slept up to an hour longer. Henry’s plan was simple: wait until it was dark enough for him to venture outside, scoop Virginia up in his arms, sneak away quietly while Crowley slept, and then run as fast as he could to God knew where. That was it. That was the extent of the plan.

  I waited until the light [through the curtains] was almost gone. I watched him awhile longer, making sure he was sound asleep, then rose slowly and crept to where Virginia was sleeping. I scooped her up, blanket and all, thinking please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up. I crept toward the door and I was most of the way out when I heard something moving.

  “I would rather you didn’t,” said Crowley. Henry spun around, startled. Crowley was standing, holding something compact in his right hand, leveled at Henry. He pulled the trigger, and the flint of his wheel-lock tinderbox snapped closed on a piece of steel, creating a small spark, which lit the sliver of dry bark loaded in its pan. Crowley used the resulting flame to light a candle and walked toward Henry, who pulled Virginia close, just as her mother had done in the last moments of her life.

  “Think, Henry. Where will you go? How will you care for yourself? For her?”

  Henry tried to back away. Crowley grabbed his wrist and held tight.

  “Henry… if you do this, you’ll force me to hurt you. Please… I’d like for all of us to be agreeable. A family. Come. Set the child down and let us forget this folly.”

  It happened so fast Henry didn’t even feel it. His eyes clouding over in darkness. His fangs descending.

  I raised a fist in anger for the first time in my life and struck Crowley in the face with everything I had. The tall son of a bitch flew clear across the structure and hit the other wall, cracking its wooden planks. The candle flew out of his hand and landed on the floor, igniting a small fire that began to climb the wall. The suddenness of it surprised him, I think. The power of it. I know the feel of it surprised me. I’d never felt my body move like that before. That quickly. If it had been a living man, my fist would’ve gone right though his skull.
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br />   But Crowley wasn’t a living man. By the time he’d found his feet again, he’d also taken his vampire form—his limbs tensing, ready to pounce. Little Virginia was awake in Henry’s arms. Screaming. The monster was back. The black-eyed monster with the big teeth who’d hurt her mommy and daddy.

  I’d never really been in a fight before that. I’d wrestled with other boys growing up. Maybe shoved and been shoved in return, but never a fight. Never closed fists, let alone fists with razor-sharp claws. It’s a strange thing to hit someone with the intent to hurt them. Even stranger when you mean to kill them. I’m not sure you’re ever quite the same after. I’m not sure you can ever go back.

  Faced with the vampire Crowley, Henry once again decided to run. To where, he didn’t know. Right now all that mattered was protecting Virginia.

  I had a few steps’ head start, but Crowley was taller and had a longer gait. And though I was, outwardly, much younger, I learned that a vampire’s outward age is irrelevant.

  Henry ran as fast as he could, trying to keep the baby steady in his arms. He was fast—as fast as a horse in full gallop, it seemed. But Crowley was faster, and once again, the monster was gaining. Henry approached the wall of the fort, twenty feet high, wooden spikes at its top. He might’ve taken the leap if he hadn’t been carrying Virginia in his arms. What if he didn’t clear it? She might be impaled or crushed to death. Henry pulled up at the last second, and Crowley pounced.

  He grabbed the baby and tried to pull her away. In that split second, the story of Solomon and the two mothers flashed before my eyes. I had to make a decision: let her go or hold on and risk having Virginia torn in half?

  Henry let go. Crowley set Virginia down and attacked—leaping at Henry with his claws extended, gnashing his fangs. Night was falling quickly now, the dark blue of the sky becoming black.

  I’d been given the keys to a race car, and I had no idea how to drive it. Crowley, on the other hand, was a master. But it’s like I used to say to Abe when he was young: all the technique in the world doesn’t amount to anything without passion. Without anger. To Crowley, I was just an obstacle that needed to be dealt with. But me—I was fighting the motherfucker who’d killed the love of my life. My unborn child. My friends. The man who’d left me to die, before he’d decided that death was too merciful.

  Yes, thought Crowley. There’s that hatred. That’s why I chose you, don’t you see? Can you hear me in there, boy? Don’t you understand how much I can teach you? How wonderful it can be?

  Crowley’s structure was completely engulfed, the flames climbing higher than the fort’s outer wall. The two vampires fought in its light, punching and clawing at each other with animal power and savagery, seeming to defy the laws of physics as they leapt across absurd distances. Human beings with the power-to-weight ratios of insects. But Henry was on his heels—up against a bigger, more experienced opponent. And unlike Crowley, Henry was battling fear.

  I’d seen his vampire face only once before, on the night he killed Edeva. But that had been for only a moment, and at a distance. Now he was right on top of me. This demon, gnashing its teeth at me. Black eyes staring into my black eyes. I’d never been so close to something so terrifying. There were no movies or television shows to prepare me for anything like that face. The closest thing I’d ever seen to it were the gargoyles on Westminster Abbey.

  The fire had already jumped from Crowley’s structure to a pair of adjoining ones. The fort was built out of timber, crude constructions covered in bark and grass. Fire had been a constant concern among the colonists, and it was easy to see why. If left to burn, the whole fort would be gone in a matter of minutes. But the fire also gave Henry a way to level the playing field.

  I knew that if I was going to have any chance, I had to keep him close. Grab on and grapple with him. So I did. I wrapped my arms around his middle and tried to wrestle him to the ground. He dragged his claws across my back, ripping my shirt to shreds and opening deep gashes along my spine, but I held on. He bit a chunk of skin off the back of my neck, but I held on. I held on, and I started pushing him toward his structure. Toward the flames. He started to feel the heat on his back and dug his boots into the dirt—but I kept pushing. Crowley didn’t want to die. That was his weakness. Me, I didn’t really care whether I lived or died. That was my strength. I was willing to go right into that fire with him.

  Virginia was crying on the ground somewhere behind them. It wouldn’t be long before the fire spread to where she was. Live, thought Henry. You have to live, or she’ll die. Henry lowered his head, wrapped his arms around Crowley’s middle, and surged forward with so much force that for a moment, Crowley’s feet were lifted clear off the ground.

  We were right up against the wall of [Crowley’s] structure. Right on the edge of the flames. The heat was incredible. Enough to singe the hairs on my arms, blister my skin. The hot air whooshing at us, making our hair blow like we were standing in front of a fan. I held him in a bear hug, even as he pounded his fists into my back, trying to get me to let go. But I wasn’t going to. Even if I burned with him.

  Crowley’s clothes caught fire. Feeling the flames lick up his back, he pushed back harder than before. “You’ll kill us… both!” he grunted.

  He pushed back as hard as he could, grunting, but I pushed harder. The sleeves of my shirt burned away, but I held on. The skin on my arms turned red in the flames. Began to blacken. The pain was incredible, but I was only a passenger in my body at that point. I would’ve held him there until there was nothing left of my arms but two charred bones. I’ve seen my share of burning bodies since that night, and I can tell you—the smell is something you never forget. The smell of hair and skin cooking. The smell so thick you can taste it on your tongue. It’s just a meat, like any other, some people say. But steaks don’t have fresh blood pumping through them when you throw them on the grill. The blood—that’s the smell you remember. Gets in the back of your throat and chokes you. And the screams. The screams of the burning are unlike any sound I’ve heard human beings make. Thomas Crowley made that sound just before I let go of him.

  It had been Virginia’s sharp cries that had brought Henry back to his senses. Live, he thought, and let Crowley go. Crowley fell to the dirt, the whole of his upper body engulfed. He rose to his feet, blinded by the flames—his eyes have probably cooked away—and staggered off, marching blindly into the wall of fire, screaming the unmistakable screams of the burning.

  He would burn, and the fort with him. Good. Henry didn’t like the fort, anyway. It was full of shadows. And now the good doctor was one of them.

  Virginia had finally fallen asleep. Henry cradled her, his back against a large piece of driftwood on the rocky beach. The gashes on his back and the burns on his arms had already healed beneath the long white sleeves of his shirt—the only article he’d bothered to take from the burning fort. The sun had long since dipped below the western wild, making it safe for the young vampire to venture out, though the last of the pale daylight hung stubbornly in the summer sky. He looked down at the sleeping girl in his arms, not yet a year old. Now solely his responsibility.

  I don’t know how to describe it. There was a passage in one of [Abraham Lincoln’s] journals,9 something about the first time he held Robert. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was about that indescribable feeling of being responsible for something so helpless. The knowledge that you would do anything—sacrifice anything, commit any atrocity—to protect it from the slightest harm. I think I fell in love with her. That’s really the only way I know how to describe it. I mean, have you ever held a sleeping infant in your arms? Looked down at that little being who so desperately needs you, so unconditionally loves you?

  It was the near dark that humans have to squint to see in, but to Henry, every crashing wave and grain of sand shone brightly. They’d slept on this beach for three nights. Rather, Virginia had slept while Henry stood guard, the rhythmic sound of the ocean soothing her. Henry hadn’t rested more than a
few hours in the past week. Finding dark places to stay by day, foraging food and fresh water for Virginia after dark, and standing watch over her when she finally stopped crying out for her mother and fell asleep, exhausted. Each wave pushing one of those smooth black or gray stones up from the ocean depths, a fraction of an inch closer to the shore.

  Eternity.

  Henry tried not to think about it. There was no telling whether he’d survive the next few days. It was presumptuous to ponder the decades and centuries. Still, sitting there in the dark, with only his thoughts to keep him company, it was hard not to wonder how long his own journey to shore would take, or if he’d ever get there at all. How the currents would shape him. Would he resemble anything of his human self when he arrived?

  Someone’s approaching.

  There was some rustling in the high grass near the beach. Too faint for human ears to pick up. And a scent on the wind. I wasn’t sure what it was, but instinct told me that it was alive and that I should be afraid of it.

  It’s Crowley, thought Henry. He survived. Somehow, he survived and tracked us here. Henry was suddenly panicked by the thought. So panicked that he was actually relieved to see that it was a group of four men and not one. Henry stood slowly, taking care not to make any noise as he lifted Virginia in his arms. The quartet approached. They’d already spotted Henry, thanks to his white shirt and the last of the blue dusk.

  They were natives. I knew from the way they were dressed, but I didn’t know which tribe they belonged to. They could tell from my clothes that I was English—and they probably wondered what the hell I was doing out there on my own, sitting on a beach with a baby. I could’ve run, and chances are they never would’ve caught me. But I didn’t. The truth is, I think I wanted to give myself over to them. I wanted company, even the company of strangers who didn’t speak my language. I wanted help.