Sixteen Small Deaths (7 page)

The first conversation I had after I was infected was with Cale in the back of The December Club, a place I’d soon enough call my second home. One of the few fantastic traits is that you can
sniff out other similar souls, and Cale did just that while downing whiskey sours at the club’s colorful bar. He was my mentor, my guide to this new world, this new life. One of the first things he told me was that just blood wasn’t enough to sustain our life; the only blood that would satisfy the hunger deep within our bodies was that of the same grouping system when we were human. Since my blood was of the AB-positive variety, the only blood I could drink with any effect on my system was AB-positive blood. Although any type of blood could quiet the virus for an hour, one of us couldn’t live alone on blood that wasn’t within our grouping system. As Cale would say, “It’s just like a fucking appetizer.”

If there was one thing that made me clamor for my previous life, it would be the fact that only 4% of the general population could provide me with the proper nourishment. This proved extremely difficult for an abnormal soul like me. I couldn’t walk into the streets in the middle of the night with a 50/50 shot of fully feeding the virus. The ones that ignored this crucial element of their existence are the ones that are weak. They’re the ones that are constantly hungry. This is why I learned to keep a deep stash buried in my safe. This is why I developed the trait of hording blood in my apartment. I could never take the risk of running low.

I toss a packet of the O-positive to the side and sigh. I take a moment to think of Abel, his infectious laugh, his soulful eyes. We would droop our legs over the sides of the Tobin Bridge when the rest of the world was sleeping. We’d share beers and stories, words that calmed the hunger of contact deep below the surface of my skin. Some would say I could live forever and never know what love could be. Abel was my brother, a soul that would pour you a drink and relieve the tension in your bones with just a smile.

I fish out a packet of AB-negative and waste no time. I don’t need a cup; I just pinch a hole in the corner of the bag and drink.
When the blood rushes through my body the whispers turn into silence, every pore of my body dripping with the sweat of satisfaction. I sit back against the wall and let the blood soothe my insides, full nourishment the only thing that a vampire craves more than sex. Sunlight drips into the bedroom window and for a moment I’m alive again, in my head my heart is beating and I’m back with my family. I’m normal again.

It’s only when that initial jolt passes that reality kicks in once again. The voices in my belly are quiet for now, but like every one of my kind knows, a pint can only keep them at bay for oh so long.

#

The telephone rings and I shove the receiver to my ear with a violent jag. “What?” My voice is crackly, like it’s bouncing off the walls of an old and tired radio.

“Charlie, there’s a guy here who’s looking for you.” The other voice is Mickey’s, my boss.

“What’s he look like?” While it’s true that my body is never actually tired, sometimes after a full dose the eyes need to sleep.

Mickey clears his throat. “Older, but you know, he’s one of…
us.
”

It must be Davey. “Tell him to sit tight. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Within moments, I’m in the shower and scrubbing off the bits of Abel’s blood that I didn’t notice before. I sigh once, remember what it’s like to have real friends in a world that needed them.

I towel off in the bedroom and grab a pair of broken-in jeans. Black t-shirt, brown leather jacket. And, of course, a nine-millimeter pistol lodged uncomfortably into the back of my jeans.

#

The Boston transit system is a lot like the fourth or fifth layer of hell: every soul trapped down here is vague of smiles and warmth. Every passenger looks as if the world could end at any moment and it’s something they’d welcome. The train shifts for a second and I balance myself with a hand gripping the dirty steel bar above the row of seats below. I close my eyes and sniff. Traces of urine and sweat and rage. I look around the car and don’t see a fellow lifer like myself. Another sniff. No, I’m the only one on this train.

I get off at State Street and walk for a mile or so before the sun dips below the horizon. The December Club’s lights echo from a distance, its attractive glow alluring and dangerous. I don’t even remember what day it is, but I can tell it must be a weekend because there’s at least three or four dozen mini-skirted girls waiting behind the velvet rope. Slowly letting them in is a hulking brute of a Mexican named Johnni.

“Charlie, you working tonight?” He smiles and points to the entrance, letting a girl who’s presumably underage into the club.

I pat him on the shoulder. He’s all muscle, much stronger than I. Any shifts that I’m not covering, Johnni’s usually here. Who can complain? It’s good money and you get the chance to knock around people who have even the slightest attitude.

“Not scheduled, but I came in to visit…” My words trail off at the sight of a woman with the eyes of a tiger, twisted vines of ink adorning her pale frame. The wind sucks the air out of my lungs for a second and all I can feel is that cold metal keyhole pressed against my face, the eager breeze of death ripping limbs and life. The girl giggles and holds a man’s arm, probably her boyfriend. I catch my breath again.

“You okay, buddy?” Johnni puts up a hand to the long line and grips my shoulder.

I nod. “Yeah, just thought I saw someone I knew.” I force a grin and motion towards the entrance. “I’ll catch up with you later. I gotta talk to Mickey for a bit.”

Johnni nods and continues scanning driver’s licenses. I clutch my chest, feel the panic swimming alongside the smooth edges of my ribcage. It all seems like fantasy to me; another breed on the hunt for vampires, tasked with hunting us down like fucking rats. I push open the doors, neon rays dissipating into a cloud of cigarette smoke. I scan the bar for an older gentleman but only come across an array of twentysomethings and Goth burnouts. When I step into the lounge a familiar voice slices through the thick noise overhead.

“My friend.” Mickey’s holding onto my arm, that golden smile plastered across his face like he was a used car salesman.

“Mickey,” I say, eyes continuing to scan the rest of the club like a focused hawk. “What’s going on?”

His smile fades into wrinkles. “My office, now.”

“I’m looking for—”

“I know.” He cuts me off. “He’s in my office.”

I follow Mickey into his office, loud rock music from the club downstairs lightened into silence. He slams the door shut behind me and motions for me to sit next to a sharply-dressed man, pinstriped suit and an aura of prestige. His hair is as gray as dirty snow. The man stands up and offers his hand. I shake it with full force and his fingers are strong and firm.

“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