MONSTERLAND: PART ONE

Genre: Horror/Fantasy

MONSTERLAND

By Randy Romero

PART ONE: BAT COUNTRY

            Nothing is free in Monsterland. Nothing.

            And though it may sound like an odd, outlandish amusement park or some cheap, trashy tourist trap, Monsterland is no gimmick. It’s the world as we know it.

            The vamps in Bat Country are open to trade, if they don’t rip your throat open and drain you of your essence before you get a chance to make them an offer. A pint of blood–yours or someone else’s, the vamps aren’t picky–can get you a few days’ worth of rations or enough gasoline to take you where you need to go.

            The vamps don’t fear humans because they know they outnumber us. They fear only one individual. Supreme. He doesn’t just take your blood. He takes your spirit, drains you of your memories, absorbs your intellect, relieves you of your strength, talents, and abilities and claims it all for himself. This makes him the most powerful vamp, not just in Bat Country, but the entire world.

            A black Ford Bronco rolled past the empty ticket booth, exploring the desolate fairgrounds. It was an old truck and the shocks squealed with every bump they hit, but the tires were fairly new and the brakes were still good. And it was one of the only vehicles the group possessed.

The Bronco was an ’85 model and there were no doors for the backseat, which was the only major disadvantage. Whenever they stopped, someone had to get out and lift the seat so those in back could climb out.

They parked by the Tilt-A-Whirl and Tug got out and lifted the seat for the guys in the back. Hirschfelder and Wooderson jumped out, crossbows in hand. They had guns, but the firearms were merely a precaution. Guns won’t save your life in Bat Country. But an old fashioned bow and arrow seems to do the trick, especially after you replace the arrow with a wooden stake.

            Hirschfelder and Wooderson stood guard. Murphy stayed behind the wheel with the engine running in case things went sideways and they had to make a speedy getaway. And Tug unloaded the “goods” from the back from the truck.

            The vamp hovered under the shade of a red-and-white carnival tent, eluding the glare of the sun. Tug approached with confidence. No vamp would risk taking them in the daylight. As long as he kept his distance, he was safe.

Hirschfelder listened to the creak of a nearby Ferris wheel, its passenger seats swaying in the wind. Among the defunct rides and bumper cars was Terminal Velocity, a rusted rollercoaster that was slowly disintegrating with time.

This was Hirschfelder’s town…once. He’d lost his lunch to Terminal Velocity more times than he could count. The fair used to be open for business every weekend. It never moved away like other carnivals or drifted in and out of town like the circus. And now, it belonged to the vampires.

Hirschfelder let his mind drift for a moment, his lips smacking at the thought of the deep fried zeppoles they used to sell at the food stand. He could never resist them. And if it wasn’t the zeppoles, it was the cinnamon churros or the gigantic cones of cotton candy they swirled. He could almost smell the caramelized sugar and taste the fluffy pink treat melting on his tongue. Nick Hirschfelder wasn’t exactly fat, but thanks to his poor diet and penchant for Dr. Pepper, he wasn’t anyone’s idea of thin.

            He snapped out of it and refocused his energy on the task at hand. The sunlight protected them from the vamps, but they had to be wary of poachers.

            “What’s your pleasure, sir?” the young vamp inquired. He never stepped outside the tent.

            “What can I get for seven pints?” Tug asked, presenting a galvanized pail that was practically overflowing.

            “Seven pints? Not bad. Who’d you kill?” The young vamp grinned, exposing his ravenous fangs.

            “Is that relevant?”

            “No, it’s just for my own edification.”

            “We ran into some poachers on the backroads. Needless to say, they won’t be bothering anybody anymore.”

            “Did they suffer?” the vamp asked and that creepy grin edged across his mouth again. “I bet they suffered beautifully.” He stepped forward a bit, close enough for Tug to his see pallid, vein riddled skin and spiky blonde hair.

            “I can assure you they suffered plenty. And they deserved every minute of it.”

            “Splendid. Now, back to business. Seven pints can get you guns, ammo, food for your entire group, or enough gas to fill your tank two or three times. The choice is yours.”

            “I was actually interested in something else.”

            “Oh, do tell.”

            “The whereabouts of the one they call Supreme.”

            “And why would you want to know his whereabouts?”

            “He killed a friend of ours. We’re looking to return the favor.”

            “Are you really that eager to join your friend? Supreme will slaughter you, each and every last one of you.”

            “I’m aware of his abilities. Now point me in his direction.” The young vamp didn't appear to have any backup, but Tug knew the vamps always traveled in packs, and the fairgrounds were usually crawling with them at night. Surely, he was not alone. If Tug stepped inside that tent, he may never step out. But the young, spiky haired vamp could see Tug meant business, and he didn’t want to press his luck with someone who looked like he could crush someone's skull with one hand. Tug was a tad short, but built like a brick-shit-house, which more than made up for his short stature.

            “You have to go west. There’s a funeral parlor on the outskirts of what your people call The Dead Zone. You’ll find him there.”

            “We’ll need some gas to get there.”

            “I already gave you what you wanted. But I’ll throw in a full tank on the house.”

            Nothing is free in Monsterland. Nothing.

            “What’s the catch?”

            “You find Supreme, and when you do, you kill that son of a bitch. Drive a stake right through his fucking heart. Deal?”

            Tug nodded. “Happy to oblige."

***

Hirschfelder was sweating bullets. He kept glancing anxiously at his digital watch. “One more hour of sunlight,” he said. “We’ll have to haul ass back to base.”

            “Then haul ass we will,” Tug said.

            “Do you think he was telling the truth?” Murphy asked as they took off down the road.

            Tug shrugged his boulder-like shoulders. “If he’s lying, I’ll rip his fangs out with my bare hands.”

            “How do Jodi and Sabrina feel?” Wooderson asked.

            “How do they feel about what?” Tug asked back.

            “About us going after Supreme.”

            “It’s not their decision. And it’s not like we’re bringing them along.”

            “I’m not leaving them behind.”

            “I never said we were. We’ll come back for them. They’re safer out east than they are in the Dead Zone.”

            They passed an abandoned Exxon station, the ruins of a Starbucks, and a demolished fruit stand that had once been a prominent staple of the east end. They were halfway home when they ran into a roadblock.

            Murphy jammed on the brakes and they locked up, the truck skidding a few inches before it came to a shrieking halt.

            “What’s your problem?!” Wooderson exclaimed.

            “Look,” Murphy pointed.

            “What is it?” Hirschfelder asked, a quiver in his voice.

            “It’s a herd,” Tug said.

            Zombies. But these were not your gray or blue skinned George A. Romero zombies with stiff legs and rigid postures. These things were the real deal, and they could move. They didn’t wander aimlessly, they walked with purpose and intent.

            Murphy and Tug could see them as they drew closer, their blackened teeth, exposed muscle and sinew, the flesh rotting down to the bone.

            “I’ve never seen a herd this far east,” Murphy said. “Usually they don’t stray too far from the Dead Zones.”

            “Someone or something must have led them in this direction,” Tug said.

            “Could be poachers,” Wooderson said. “This could be a trap.”

            “Duly noted,” Tug said. “Everyone has a gun, right?”

“That goes without saying,” Murphy chuckled. “But I don’t think we have enough ammo to clear the path. We’ll have to double back and find another route.”

            Hirschfelder had his .22 stuffed in his waistband. Not because it was comfortable or even safe, but it was what he’d seen in movies. In the movies, nobody uses a holster. They just carelessly cram the loaded weapon into their waistband or stick it behind their backs for the sudden reveal during the big standoff at the film's climax.

Nick Hirschfelder had never even fired a gun before he joined the group. But Tug and Murphy made it their mission to teach him. Knowing how to use a gun meant the difference between life and death in Monsterland.

            But you can’t hesitate. And that was Hirschfelder’s problem. Alan Wooderson told the guys he was hopeless, that Hirschfelder would have just as much luck with a Nerf gun. But Hirschfelder was determined to prove him wrong.

            Just pretend it’s a video game, he’d tell himself. Who doesn’t love video games?

            Tug and Murphy didn’t need to pretend. Murphy, an Iraq war veteran, was more than familiar with his firearms and he felt very comfortable using them. Nobody knew for sure if Murphy was his first name or last. He refused to tell them. He’d been with the group since the beginning, before Wooderson and Hirschfelder, even before Tug came along.

            Murphy had nicknamed him Tugboat because he was small in stature, but strongly built. But everyone in the group resorted to calling him Tug for short. The nickname stuck, and Tug didn’t seem to mind. Half the time, he couldn't even remember his real name.

            Murphy, with his black sunglasses and leather driving gloves, tightened his fingers around the wheel. “Your call, chief. You want to give these undead bastards a run for their money or floor it in reverse?”

            “I know what I’d vote for,” Hirschfelder said.

            “I’m cool either way,” Wooderson said, his voice never faltering like Hirschfelder and his cowardly warble.

            As the herd marched towards them, Murphy and Tug watched one of the zombies fall to its knees and crumple in the road, its head popped like a zit. Another dropped beside it, then another, and another; the bullets ripping through their skulls, their heads exploding like falling watermelons. Tug could hear the gunfire, but he couldn’t see the shooters. He assumed there had to be more than one. But when the herd was clear and the road was littered with rotting, headless corpses, a lone man stood with his AR-15 and a satisfied smirk across his ruddy face.

            He approached the truck, his gun rested on one shoulder to let the men know he meant no harm. Tug rolled his window down and nodded, a sign of recognition and gratitude.

            “Thanks for that.”

            “Don’t mention. David Murdoch, but everyone calls me Duke.”

            “Where you heading, Duke?”

            “Anywhere but here.”

            “Need a place to crash? It’s the least we could do.”

            “I wouldn’t mind a warm bed and a fresh meal.”

            “I hate to break it to you, but we’re not going to make it home before dark,” Murphy said. “We’ll have to find a place to camp out for the night.”

            “Hey, Duke,” Tug said, “Ever been to Reggie’s?”

***

            Reggie’s Diner was always open, for a price.

            Nothing is free in Monsterland. Nothing.

            This time, it all cost was a few CDs and paperback novels Murphy had found on their latest search for supplies. They sat in a booth and Norma, a young woman with a benevolent smile and shoulder-length blonde hair, came over to take their order.

            “What’ll you have?” she asked to nobody in particular.

            “Egg white omelette,” Tug requested.

            “You can have fried or scrambled eggs.”

            “Scrambled it is. Oh, and a side of bacon.”

            “No bacon or pork related products.”

            “I’ll just stick with the eggs.”

            “They have eggs here?” Duke asked.

            “Liquid eggs. It’s not as good as the real thing, but it’s better than nothing.”       

 

“BLT,” Wooderson said. “Hold the bacon.”

            “Anything that’s fresh,” Hirschfelder said.

            “So nothing for you then,” Norma said.

            “I’ll have a Coke,” Duke said, then added, “Please.”

            “We’ve got Pepsi.”

            “What about decaf coffee?” Murphy asked.

            “We’ve got Sanka.”

            “I’ll take it.”

            “Be right back with your stuff,” Norma said and sauntered away.

            “She seems nice,” Duke said.

            “She’s not bad once you get to know her,” Tug said.

            Outside, the wind moaned as it carried through the streets. Tug cocked his head to one side and listened closely.

            It wasn’t just the wind that was moaning. Someone was out there, screaming for their life.

            He peered out through the diamond patterned windows of the diner and could just make out a vague silhouette. The silhouette rapidly evolved into the thin, frail figure of a woman with fiery red hair.

            She scraped and pounded against the front doors, begging, pleading for help. Tug couldn’t leave her out there to face the vamps on her own. “Norma, toss me the keys.”

            Tug unlocked the door and grabbed the girl by the arm, pulled her inside. She recoiled slightly at his touch and he let go when he saw the trepidation in her eyes. She was wounded, had a nasty gash above her left eye that was still bleeding.

            “It’s okay,” Tug tried to assure her. “You’re safe here. Let me see if Reggie has a first aid kit in back.”

            “No!” the girl cried. “There’s no time! We have to get out of here! He’s coming!”

            “Who’s coming?” Murphy asked.

And just as he asked, they heard the thunderous pounding on the front doors of Reggie’s establishment.

“Amber!” a man screamed so loud his lungs threatened to burst. “Get out here now!”

            “The girl is with us,” Tug shouted from the other side of the door. “I suggest you leave. You’re outnumbered. I’m trying to do you a favor.”

            “I’m the one doing you a favor, buddy. You don’t know what she’s capable of, what she did to my friends. She has to die. Or she’ll destroy everything in her path.”

            “I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. But this is your final warning. Leave now.”

            “Have it your way,” the man said, his voice trailing off at the end.

            They waited until he was gone, then all eyes in the diner turned to the girl with the red hair.

            “So you must be Amber,” Tug said. “They call me Tugboat, or Tug for short. That’s Murphy, and Hirschfelder, and Wooderson. And that big lug over there calls himself Duke.”

            Duke tipped his invisible cap to Amber. “Evening, ma’am.”

            “Now what the hell was this fella talking about? You have something you need to tell us?”

            A gunshot echoed through the kitchen and a body dropped to the floor.

            Tug drew his gun, but by then, the man was out the kitchen and he had Norma by the throat, the cold barrel of his gun pressed to her temple.

            “I didn’t want it to come to this,” the man said, his voice cracking up when he saw just how outnumbered he really was. “But that girl is trouble. I have to end this before she spreads the plague again.”

            With the man's eyes on Amber, Murphy made a move. But the man was too fast for him and the bullet went through his right hand. Then the gun returned to Norma’s head and they were back to square one.

            “Put the gun down,” Tug said, trying to play the role of negotiator. “We can make a deal, work something out. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

            “You foolish bastard,” the man said, shaking his head. “There’s nothing you can offer me. You give me the girl and we walk out of here together, end of story. You’ll never see me again.”

            “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

            “Then I’m afraid we have nothing left to discuss.”

            Duke, Hirschfelder, and Wooderson all rushed at him at once. Duke tackled him to the floor and Wooderson helped pin him down. Hirschfelder was attempting to wrestle the gun from his hand when it went off, the bullet entering and exiting through the man’s skull before anyone even realized the gun had been fired.

            “Fuck me,” Duke said, wiping fresh blood of his brow.

            “It was an accident,” Hirschfelder insisted. “He had his finger wrapped around the trigger.”

            “No big loss,” Wooderson said and patted Hirschfelder on the back. “Nice shot, even though you weren’t trying to kill him. I’ll still give you points.”

            “You alright?” Murphy asked, helping a distraught Amber back to her feet as Tug consoled a traumatized Norma. Amber had taken cover under one of the booths as soon as she heard the first shot.

            “I’ll be okay,” she said.

            “Nasty cut you have there,” Murphy said, brushing her head with his mangled hand. He didn’t mean to, but Murphy was a righty, and it was all instinct. But that’s all it took. Just one drop. One drop of Amber’s blood and the virus was coursing through Murphy’s veins. The extreme change was instantaneous and sent shockwaves through his system. His eyes grew dark and gray, the color of storm clouds.

            The virus enveloped him and filled him with rage. Pure, unfiltered, endless rage.

            “Murph? You okay?” Tug asked.

            “Don’t!” Amber cried. “Don’t touch him! He’s infected!”

            “Infected with what?”

            “With me…”

To Be Continued With Part Two: CONTAMINANT

DUSK

Genre: Horror

DUSK

By Randy Romero

As the sun set and disappeared below the horizon, Lucius awoke from his diurnal slumber.

Contrary to popular belief, Lucius did not sleep in a coffin as it has been depicted in film and literature. Coffins were meant for the deceased, a category Lucius didn’t quite fall into.

Lucius found coffins to be cramped and confined, and he never understood where this myth had spawned from. Lucius wasn’t so different from you or me. He slept in a king-size bed every night…well, to be technical, every morning.

He sat up in bed and checked his pocket watch, a relic from the 19^th century that he couldn’t bear to part with. Digital watches were abundant and inexpensive, but they could never replace his vintage pocket watch. As long as that watch kept ticking, it’d never leave his side.

The windows in his bedroom were boarded up from the inside, so Lucius went straight from the bedroom to the living room. He peeked out through the venetian blinds and watched as a fading twilight paved the way for a gloomy dusk.

Lucius released a sigh. But this was not a sigh of discontent. This was a sigh of relief, gratification. This was his favorite part of the evening. There was something so eerily satisfying about watching the darkness slowly creep in and envelop everything around it.

            The red brick fireplace was already stacked with cordwood. Lucius crumpled a few pages of an outdated newspaper and stuffed them into the fireplace, under the firewood, and lit it with a long match from a box on the mantle.

            Lucius could not feel the cold, nor the heat, for that matter. But every winter night, he made a fire and sat in his favorite chair, clutching a snifter of brandy with his thin, claw-like fingers. And this night was no exception.

            He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of brandy from a bottle he got from the cabinet under the sink, then he walked back to the living room and sat by the fire in a chair bound with red leather.

            Wind traveled down the chimney, causing the flames to dance and sway. His eyes perused the fire with a clear lack of enthusiasm. The fire did not intimidate him; it never did. But it didn’t stimulate him like it used to, either. He used to appreciate sitting in front of the fire with his brandy, but it had lost its charm. He’d grown bored with this ritual. Truth be told, he’d grown bored with life in general.

            He sipped his brandy and tried to keep the memories at bay. This constant isolation gave Lucius nothing but time to ponder his misdeeds. But he never asked for this life. He wasn’t born into it. He wasn’t a vampire by choice. He was like an untamed animal, loose in the wild, doing whatever it had to do in order to survive.

He finished his brandy, got up, and refilled the glass with a red, viscous liquid that he poured from a vial he’d taken from the freezer. There was just enough to fill the glass halfway.

            He took his seat again by the fireplace and stared lifelessly into the flames, contemplating his immortality. But immortality came at a heavy price. Low on blood, Lucius would have to hunt again soon in order to subsist.

He had survived war, famine, plagues, and pestilence. He had lived since the 18^th century. Watched the times changes, watched the world perpetually reinvent itself, watched us evolve from primitive savages to sophisticated savages.

He wondered if he was getting greedy. Overstaying his welcome. All those innocent people that had to die for him to survive this long. But his avarice far exceeded his compassion for humanity. If society knew that monsters like Lucius walked among them, he’d be hunted down and killed. Or worse, the government would keep him alive to experiment on him.

Lucius had seen visions of his own demise. He’d envisioned an angry mob chasing him through the streets with torches like Frankenstein’s monster. He saw the mob lining up to plunge stakes through his heart or saw off his head. In these visions, not all the townsfolk had stakes. Some of them carried axes or pitchforks or baseball bats. Some of them were toting shotguns or wearing crosses around their neck. But all of these visions shared the same ending. It ended in Lucius’s death.

            Lucius could not see his own reflection in the mirror, but aside from his pallid complexion, he was virtually ageless in every other aspect. His jet-black hair was thick and full, and he always kept it slicked back. He wasn’t trying to impress; he just liked how it looked. His skin, though pale, was taut, not saggy or wrinkled. He hadn’t aged physically since the day he was turned.

            The snifter rested in his hand, the blood untouched. This evening, his mind was overwhelmed with thought. Something was nagging at him, something that refused to let up.

Lucius was a walking thesaurus. You don’t live over two hundred years without soaking up knowledge and language like a sponge. But one word had been plaguing him for years.

           He scanned the archives of his brain for every synonym he could conjure up. Malevolent. Sinister. Creepy. Baleful. Malicious. Wicked. Sinful. Vile. Vicious. Fiendish. Diabolical. But there was one word that truly summed it all up in four letters.

“Evil,” he said. The word rolled off his tongue and exited his mouth as a harsh whisper. “Am I truly evil?”

He stared into the fire for hours on end, until the wood was nothing but small chunks of glowing red embers, debating that question for half of the night. He tried to count the number of people who had suffered at his hands, but he lost track several times and inevitably stopped trying to figure it out.

The number was big enough to inspire guilt in even the coldest of hearts. And Lucius had the coldest heart of them all. But a small part of him was still capable of feeling regret. Arguably his biggest regret had been the Pickman incident.

Christmas 1997. Lucius was prowling the streets that night and his hunger had gotten the better of him. He did something he had never done before. A light was on in the upstairs bedroom of a house on Pickman Street.

Lucius had never learned her name, but her face stayed with him after all those years. Shoulder-length chestnut brown hair, light hazel eyes, with a scattering of golden brown freckles across her rosy cheeks.

The woman was getting ready for bed when Lucius crawled in through the window and gave her the fright of her life. Her son, only six years old at the time, heard the scuffle that ensued and thought it was Santa Claus coming down the chimney. He rushed into his mother’s room to tell her of Santa’s arrival. And what he saw that night would change his life forever.

The sheets and pillow cases were saturated with blood. Lucius saw the boy watching him and looked up, retracting his fangs from the mother’s neck. The boy stood at the threshold of the door, paralyzed with fear. Lucius could have taken that child’s life, but instead he slipped out through the window, and disappeared into the night.

Lucius never saw the boy again, but knew the mark he’d left on him. That boy would never be the same again. And he knew the boy would never forget his face, just as Lucius could never forget the face of his mother. And no amount of brandy or blood could ever wash away that lingering regret.

Lucius never did solve his internal debate. In the end, he simply couldn’t decide. Good? Evil? It all depended on the definition that society bestowed upon the words.

In the time that had passed, he hadn’t even touched his drink. The blood was warm now, but it made no difference to Lucius. Vampires can’t afford to be particular. It wasn’t like taking your pick at the buffet. He took whatever he could get.

He emptied the snifter and wiped the blood away from his lips. But it still wasn’t enough to quell his thirst. He craved fresh blood. And fresh blood he was going to get.

* * *

When his hunger flared up, Lucius took to Ravensville Park. The park wasn’t so much a park as it was a refuge for hobos, stray runaways, junkies, and denizens of the city. And no matter how many bodies piled up around Ravensville Park over the years, the cops didn’t bat an eye.

Most of the victims had no immediate family, no relatives or friends, nobody to mourn their loss. And the cops didn’t have the time or the resources to pursue these investigations with more pressing priorities at hand.

Lucius moved quietly through the park, his footsteps producing no sounds. The winters were cold in Ravensville, meaning a large number of the homeless population had sought refuge at actual shelters, where they had food and cots and heat. But Lucius eventually came across a park bench where a young man was resting.

The top of his head was covered by a wool cap, and the lower half of his face was covered by a gray scarf. All that was visible were his eyes. He wore a red parka, gloves, and boots, but even those didn’t help fend off the cold.

“What’s your name?” Lucius asked, startling the young man.

“Ra-Ra-Ray,” he stammered. “Raymond Kessler.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kessler. I’m Lucius. And what is your story.”

“My story?”

“Yes, your story. Are you a junkie? You homeless?”

“I got kicked out by my foster parents. They don’t approve of my lifestyle choices.”

“Lifestyle choices?”

“I’m gay.”

“That’s alright. I don’t discriminate. You all taste the same to me.” Lucius grinned just to flash his razor-sharp fangs to Raymond.

Raymond recoiled at the sight. “Are you…are you Dracula?”

“Don’t be preposterous. Dracula is only a myth, a horror tale. Vampires do exist. But there’s no Dracula. No head vampire. Vampirism started as a genetic curse. There was no explanation for it. Some babies were born with no genetic defects. Other were born with fangs and a thirst for blood. It didn’t start spreading until they learned they could pass on the curse through their bites.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Lucius yanked down his shirt collar to reveal the two bite marks that were still visible after all this time.

“Holy shit,” Raymond exclaimed.

“I’ve never understood that expression,” Lucius shrugged. “What is holy about shit?”

“It’s just an expression,” Raymond said, trying to keep the conversation going and buy himself some time.

“While you’re at it, can you explain to me why most people assume vampires sleep in coffins?”

“That’s usually what they show on TV and in movies.”

“And I suppose you think I was born in Transylvania or something?”

“Now that you mention it…”

“I was born in Italy before your great-great grandparents were even born. I’ve seen more than most people would ever wish to see. Horrors you could not imagine.”

“Then why would you want those horrors to continue? Why feed on the blood of the living?”

Lucius pondered his question; the same question he’d been pondering all night.

“Just let me go,” Raymond continued. “My parents are tough, but they’ll come around. They’ll learn to accept me as I am. But they can’t do that if I’m dead.”

“Who said I was going to kill you? I could just drain some of your blood and turn you if I wanted to.”

“God, please, no,” he cried. “I’d rather be dead.”

Lucius took no offense to his protests. In fact, he was starting to see it from Raymond’s point of view. If Raymond would rather be dead than be a vampire, what did that say about Lucius? It told him that he was a monster, plain and simple. It had brought closure to his endless debate. He truly was the personification of evil.

And looking down on this boy, trembling and on the verge of wetting his pants, Lucius felt something he hadn’t felt in the longest time. He felt pity.

He sat down on the bench beside Raymond and looked at him, looked past the fear in his eyes. He saw a young man who had his whole life ahead of him. And Lucius saw no reason to cut it short.

Raymond stared back at him, and Lucius saw the fear in his eyes had been replaced with something entirely different. The look Raymond gave him was a look of recollection.

“It’s you,” Raymond whispered. “I could never forget that face. You killed my mother. So, what? After all these years, you’ve come back to finish me off? Go ahead. Get it over with. Id’ rather die than be anything like you.”

Raymond had removed his cap and scarf so Lucius could get a better look at him. It took him a moment to recall his face, but there was no doubt in his mind. This was the same boy that had lived on Pickman Street back in 1997. And this revelation did more than persuade Lucius to let him go.

“Raymond Kessler, this is your lucky day. I’m going to spare your life, on one condition.”

“What condition?”

“You must wait here with me for the sun to rise.”

“But won’t you–”

“Yes, when the sun rises, it will destroy me. I will cease to exist. And the world will be a better place without me.”

“But why?"

“For years, it’s been gnawing away at me. But tonight helped put it all into perspective. I can’t deny it any longer. I am a monster. And monsters have no place among the living.”

In the hours that passed, Lucius regaled Raymond with stories of his past. He’d lived through it all, and he wanted to pass along some of the better memories before his time ran out. And seeing as how he wouldn’t be needing it anymore, he decided to pass along something else to Raymond.

“It still works,” Lucius said, taking the pocket watch from his coat and placing it in Raymond’s hand.

Raymond looked back at him with a hint of gratitude. “It’s almost morning,” he said.

“You should go,” Lucius told him.

“No, I promised I would stay to the end.”

“Then at least step away from me. Things are about to heat up, if you catch my drift.”

Raymond took his advice and got up, stepped away from the bench.

“The last time I saw the sun rise was 1758 in Ancient Rome,” Lucius shared. “Too bad I won’t live to remember this one.”

As the sun rose above the vast trees, Lucius felt a warm sensation overtake him. It was a sensation he was certain he had lost forever. And although that feeling signaled death, he embraced it.

The flames came gradually, sprouting up on his chest and back. Soon, his arms were swords of fire. It hurt more than Lucius had imagined. But pain was something he had long forgotten, something he thought he’d never feel again. And it was a surprisingly welcome change from a life of apathy.

The fire consumed his body, until all that remained was a pile of smoldering ash that was quickly swept away by the wind.

Raymond, still grasping the pocket watch, tucked it away in his parka. He put his wool cap back on, wrapped his scarf around his neck and the lower half of his face to shield himself from the cold. Then he started walking.

He had some cash on him, but he wasn’t hungry. And he wasn’t ready to face his foster parents again, not yet at least. Raymond had only one destination. The cemetery. He needed to see his mother’s grave.

Raymond often visited her grave with flowers. He’d sit and talk to her for hours. And there was certainly a lot he had to share with her that morning. When he got there, he planned to leave the pocket watch at her grave, as a sign of victory. The nightmare that had plagued him since childhood was finally over, and he believed his mother could finally rest easy.

On his quiet morning walk, he remembered what Lucius had said. About how he wasn’t the only vampire. He couldn’t help but wonder how many other monsters were out there, blending in with society. The thought would continue to haunt him for many years to come.