Underground Vampire
Read Underground Vampire Online
Authors: David Lee
By David E. Lee
Table
of Contents
INTRODUCTION
I was made during the War Between
the States at the Battle of Gettysburg by Friedrich von Staedt, a Prussian
artillery officer, who, like many of the Vampires of that time, flocked to the
carnage that America had become. A true Son of the South, I was a surgeon
attached to the Army of General Robert E. Lee. True to my nature, I
participated in battles whenever possible, retiring to tend casualties as required.
My Maker was an unsentimental realist who introduced me to Vampire culture,
instilling in me Old World concepts of duty and honor that meshed perfectly
with my Southern roots.
After the War he released me,
although to this day we remain in contact, and I continue as a physician and
surgeon. Under various names and guises I have studied at the preeminent
medical institutions throughout the world and can say without prevarication
that I am the most highly educated medical practitioner in the history of the
world. While I am less than two hundred years old and lack the accumulated
powers of more mature Vampires, I am schooled in the arts of war and take a
certain delight in the occasional skirmish and odd bit of violence.
For the last decades I have resided in the City
of Seattle, State of Washington, United States of America - where I am court
physician to Her Most Serene Majesty the Bloody and Awful Queen of the
Northwest Vampire Clan.
After hostilities ceased and
the initial spate of executions concluded, the historians of the Northwest
Vampire Clan published their collection of mistruths, fabrications and outright
lies. Pompously titled the Official Authorized History of the Second
Insurrection, the three volumes make up for their lack of accuracy with an
excess of boring, turgid prose. After reading their self-serving drivel,
I determined to set down my memories of the events to supplement their dubious
assertions of orthodoxy.
Popularly called the Nights of
Oliver’s Revenge, you may peruse either my account or the official history, as
you deem appropriate. Any discrepancies between my memory and the
Official History only serve to highlight the tidy aphorism, “history is written
by the victors,” universally but incorrectly attributed to Winston Churchill.
Much as politicians sell slogans rather than facts, so official historians turn
villains into heroes and epic disasters into truly awful public
monuments.
At the time, no one realized that a
true monster had been created and was upon us, or that both the innocent and
the guilty would suffer and die in the events I describe. Unlike the Official
History, I make no judgment on the participants, as I do not wish my personal
feelings to color the reader’s perception. Like all intra-family squabbles,
there were demons on both sides with decades of petty resentments and centuries
of hurt feelings fueling fantasies of revenge in the ordinary Vampire, so that
many acted not out of rational self-interest but injured self-pride. This
particular civil war, like all internecine struggles, took on a life of its own
separate from rational self-interest as each participant descended to his or
her own level of savagery.
It is a wonder, not fully
understood, how the Human population remained ignorant of the carnage played
out under the streets of their city and, occasionally, on them. So great
became the destruction that at times the bodies of the dead outnumbered the
living. What saved us, I believe, is the tendency of our Human relatives
to ignore the “other” that lives openly among them and to scapegoat the poor,
the disenfranchised and the immigrant. We are grateful for this Human
delusion as it allows us to live openly among them and provides cover for our
periodic bouts of blood lust.
My book is not meant to be a
formal history of the events but rather a summary of personal notes and my
memories of the various battles and struggles. Scholars will undoubtedly
quibble with the story I tell but that is their lot in life and I commend them
to it. Special mention should be made of the Human interlocutors, those persons
who, for whatever personal reasons, serve as anonymous liaisons between our two
societies. These individuals, often occupying positions of authority in Human
civil society, secretly serve for mostly altruistic ideals often at great peril
to themselves. Without their selfless service, the outcome of Oliver’s
Insurrection would have been far different and the carnage much greater.
I cannot, of course, reveal
their identities as to do so would endanger them to the Human authorities and
to the depredations of the various ecclesiastical authorities currently rampant
in America. Where necessary, I have obscured their identities but you may be
assured the persons I describe are real and actually did the things I describe.
Some were valiant, others less so, but all played their part; those of you
prone to judgment pray that, if you are ever in the unfortunate position to
participate in similar endeavors, you do half as well.
Due to my position as physician to
the Vampire community, I was afforded a unique entry into the matters I
relate. I provide my professional services to anyone who asks without
qualification. I will not divulge any information I learn in the course of my
treatment to an adversary or, for that matter, to an ally. My neutrality
is respected due to the simple fact that there are extant no qualified
physicians other than myself to treat the unique medical problems of the
Vampire community.
Both sides recognized this
ultimate fact early on in the hostilities and a protocol was established
allowing me to serve any injured Vampire as I saw fit without hindrance.
The primary impetus for the protocol was the result of my informing the
combatants that, if I was influenced, threatened, harassed or molested in any
fashion, I would refuse medical care to the offending party. Needless to
say, the combatants quickly acquiesced and, as is true in Vampire society,
once the protocol was agreed and formally accepted, unlike in Human society, it
was honored in practice rather than in the breach.
Partisans of realpolitik will
doubtless wonder why the existing Northwest Clan, as personified by Her Regal
Majesty the Awesome and Bloody Queen of Seattle would acquiesce in such an agreement
that would benefit her enemies. The answer is simple. She, of all
the Vampires, had the most to suffer by losing my services.
While it is true that
Vampires of great age have great powers, they also lose deformation. Put
simply, they are enormously powerful but unable to bend; subject them to enough
stress and they shatter. This condition is little known or understood in
the Vampire literature, but as Master Vampires age they become extremely
self-aware and avoid at all costs situations where they may incur massive
stress, physical, mental or emotional. Of course, attempting to subject a
Master Vampire to stress ordinarily results in the immediate and messy death of
the one causing the stress, so empirical data is lacking.
Nonetheless, the Queen relied upon
me for her medical needs and, over the course of decades, I developed a
familiar relationship with her that often involved great candor. I do not
and would never claim that our relationship could be categorized as friendship.
Anyone with the slightest familiarity with Vampire society would laugh outright
at such an assertion; Master Vampires do not have friends.
Likewise, after the return of
Oliver, I tended to his unique needs. Long-term starvation is the
cruelest punishment one can inflict upon a Vampire. The effects are both
physical and emotional; the deprivation condemns the body to a slow decay where
skin is shed, musculature rots and organs waste, while the mind is warped by
the unceasing desire for blood sustenance. The closest Human analogue would be
an addict suffering through decades of cold turkey withdrawal from a
particularly delicious and longstanding heroin addiction.
Few, if any, could survive
the torture without permanent damage. While the physical maladies can be successfully
treated, the psychological scars seem to be irreversible. Much of my
understanding of Oliver came from our extensive sessions attempting to resolve
the psychological issues plaguing him.
The following account is
based upon interviews with the principals, personal observations of many of the
events, review of source materials and inspections of many of the described
locales. I am personally acquainted with medical practitioners in the
Human community and keep a close association wherever possible with medical
examiners and coroners, for obvious reasons. I was summoned to administer
medical care to Vampires injured in the various clashes and was able to
interview the combatants immediately post bellum, when memories were fresh and
injuries the proof of their claims.
Any Human or Vampire who
feels maligned or defamed by my report deserves the opprobrium. I make no
apology and refuse to hide behind the banal assertion that this work bears no
resemblance to any person living or dead. Not only does it resemble
actual Vampires and Humans, it accurately describes their actions whether
valiant, vain, cowardly or despicable.
If you recognize yourself,
enjoy your brief moment and do not complain, for above all things I most detest
is whining. Finally, if your temperament is such that you must
complain, remember that, while I am a healer dedicated to the preservation of
life in whatever form, I am also a Vampire, so be cautious in the night lest
your unfounded criticisms meet my angry appetite.
He had ample time to remember,
lying on his back in the concrete vault that had been his home for longer than
he remembered. Of course, he didn’t know exactly how long he’d been down
there, since he was inside his tomb and the expensive Swiss chronometer had
long since stopped ticking. His clothes had mouldered off and all that
covered his nakedness was an alligator skin belt with a stylish if ornate
buckle and the black cap toe shoes handmade in London still encasing his feet.
His toenails had grown long, curling back around the toes, cutting into the
sensitive flesh of his underfoot causing exquisite agony every time he
stretched his cramped legs.
As he waited for his teeth and
fingernails to grow back so he could return to gnawing and scratching at the
roof of the vault he had time, abundant time, to remember those who put him
there. And, when his scratching and gnawing finally produced a pinpoint opening
in the concrete ceiling scant inches from his face and the ice cold water
drilled through scouring the flesh from his face, it was not only dark and cold
but wet. He continued to scrabble away at the hole making it bigger, all the
while thinking horrid thoughts about the ones who put him there, planning
revenges and inventing the horrid terrors he’d inflict upon them.
But, first things
first. He had to escape this tomb, then he could hunt them down and kill
them, after a suitable bit of the old torture and suffering and screaming, of
course, and, when he had heard them plead and beg for their lives and he could
bear no more, he would bite them until they were dead, dead, dead and then he
would eat them till they were gone, gone, gone.
All that sustained him
through the decades of torment was planning his payback, that and thoughts of
blood, copious amounts of fresh hot blood, blood to drink and blood to rub on
his face, blood to smear all about maybe enough to fill a pool so he could
bathe in it, Humans running naked down the streets, the blood spurting from
their necks as he chased after them, his mouth wide open slurping it in till
they dropped from exhaustion and he finished them off one by one and by threes
and fours.
He couldn’t wait to get back
to Seattle, visiting old enemies, making new acquaintances and soaking in a
river of blood till the depravation of the tomb was a distant memory and his
enemies were at his feet suffering as he had suffered, lonely as he had been,
famished as he had been.
Whenever he grew depressed and
lassitude enveloped him, he would picture their faces: first ugly Petru pressed
close, binding his arms and legs, savaging his neck so that he remained
weakened while Arabella, fashionably dressed for the occasion, directed the
activities. There was no mercy, not that he would expect any from Petru,
more automaton than Vampire without a shred of humanity remaining in him.
But Arabella always strove to
maintain a connection to the world of love, resisting the more basic instincts
of her change, remaining aloof from the Clan. From her he expected more,
her precious humanity held out the hope of mercy, a hope that he held close, to
his bitter disappointment. Truth be told, it wounded him when she helped to
force him into the vault, his last vision of freedom her implacable face
looking into his as the lid slid closed. He would kill Petru, the animal
deserved to be hunted and killed, but Arabella had hurt him and she must
balance the wheel; she must suffer, then she could die.
Once the two were properly
disposed of he could turn his attention to Her Royal Majesty the Queen of the
Northwest Vampire Clan and deal with her in an appropriate manner. Her
demise would require careful planning and, since time was the only commodity he
possessed, he thought of her often and his hate fueled his efforts as his body
deteriorated.
After decades more of
scritching and scratching and gnawing and chewing, for it was a very thick
vault with little room to maneuver, he made an opening large enough to
wriggle his impoverished body through, and he began the two hundred and fifty-seven
meter ascent to the surface.
When they’d thrown him from
the back of the boat it was called the Strait of Juan de Fuca and he didn’t
know that life had moved on and they’d recently changed the name of his
graveyard to the Salish Sea. Had he been around, he would have
violently opposed renaming the Strait, writing letters to the Times denouncing
the move as nothing more than more misguided pandering to multicultural
elitists bent on the destruction of society. When they threw him from the
boat, that particular concept had not yet invaded common culture, but as a true
reactionary masquerading as a conservative, Oliver understood and embraced
discrimination in all its perverted forms.
Rising through the depths he
broke the surface and sucked his first breath of fresh air in one hundred
twenty years and began swimming towards a distant smudge barely visible from
the crest of a wave. As he stretched out he felt his stomach cramping with
pangs of desire and, not without irony, chuckled at the thought that his demise
might come from swimming on a completely empty stomach.
In the front room of their
beach house Alan and Joyce sat watching the late season storm raise whitecaps
in the Sea, a prelude to the pounding the rocky shore they called their beach
would receive. Successful middle-aged professionals from Bellevue, they’d
skipped children in favor of careers, a neurotic Shi Tzu and a custom built
vacation retreat on one of the four hundred nineteen islands sprinkled through
the Salish Sea. Situated between British Columbia to the North and
Washington State to the South, they looked out at the mouth of the Strait of
Juan de Fuca and beyond that to the fierce and unpredictable confluence of the
Pacific Ocean, Bering Sea and the Gulf of Alaska.
Accessible only by private
boat or seaplane, they’d instructed their architect to “make us something
special, something one of a kind, AD worthy, if you know what we mean.”
In spite of them, the architect was able to produce a stunning glass jewel box,
with a deceptively simple interior stepped down the hillside rising steeply
from the beach. Cantilevered from the hill, it jutted from a surround of
mature firs floating above smooth beach boulders artfully arranged to appear to
be undisturbed. They and the house had been featured in a leading
architecture magazine as a prime example of modernism brought forward, and
rumor had it that a hipster website planned to satirize them in an upcoming
post.
As homage to the indigenous
peoples who’d once inhabited the isles, their decorator had carefully strewn
about Plains Indian artifacts casually accenting the totem pole commissioned
from an authentic Indian craftsperson. The pole was positioned on the
beach in a direct line with Alan’s living room recliner to mark either an
equinox or solstice, he could never remember which, and had been
designated an official vortex site by shamans from Sedona come to bless the
house.
Birthed in the Bering Sea,
this particularly nasty storm was accelerated by a weather system coming in
from the North Pacific and compressed as it funneled through the Strait.
Huge rollers picked up energy from the wind and tide, producing killer waves
the native peoples would have feared, had any remained on the islands.
Seeming to hover above the turmoil, the almost dainty house was engineered with
steel foundation beams anchored in ancient bedrock.
Clad in stone to repel the
elements, the all glass front gave the home a delicate effect, which belied the
strength of the metallic windows installed to withstand a hundred year
storm. Safe inside, Joyce admired the surging sea through sheets of rain
blown horizontal against the windows, confident that the storm would cast
treasure up on the beach, maybe even a Japanese glass net float like the ones
she scavenged as a child.
“Remember,” said Alan peering over
the top of his wine glass, “you can only salvage what you can carry.” She
stuck her tongue out at him, the pile of her treasures at the side of the house
a small joke in their relationship; he preferred a clean unadorned aesthetic
while she compulsively accessorized with the flotsam and jetsam cast up on her
front yard. Where he saw a clean wall in museum white finished with
subtle lighting as the perfect complement to the shifting day, she saw the
ideal spot to display custom framed debris gleaned from the sea.
Cozy, with a fire at their backs and an Oregon pinot at hand, they reclined,
relaxed and admired, safe from the storm.
“Look,” she said, pointing at
the surf line, “something’s coming in.”
“Great,” he groused, “more
junk.”
Whatever it was, it
surged through the surf like the prow of a Haisla canoe heaved from the
deep. Harsh rain slanted down, graying the view, and she squinted as the
wave broke and white foam surrounded her find.
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed,
sitting up in her recliner, “something’s walking out of the surf.”
Alan grabbed the
binoculars he kept ready by his chair and scanned the Sea. “I don’t see a boat
anywhere, where did he come from?”
“God almighty what is that?”
she said, pointing at the creature standing in the surf.
It had arms and legs and a
head with matted stringy hair rather like a Rasta man dragged from a greasy
pool. Its skin, what was left of it, hung in leprous lizard tatters like
scaly ribbons pasted to the white bones sticking from its frame. The only life
was its bright red eyes, beacons blinking in the storm.
Clear of the surf and
striding across the rocky shoreline, Joyce could tell it was male and noticed
the incongruous belt about his waist and shoes flapping on its feet. She
thought of pictures she’d seen in a Journal depicting a Stone Age tribesman
who’d adorned himself with bits of broken glass from discarded beer bottles, a
flashy bottle cap dangling from his penis. The man walked without mincing
over the sharp and uneven stones and didn’t appear fazed by either the weather
or his predicament.
“Oh my God, he’s naked,” she
blurted out, “he must be freezing.” The wind blew his hair around obscuring
his face. He took a moment to brush the black strands from his eyes and
looked up at the house. Joyce got the uncomfortable feeling that he could
see her and she would have sworn that he smiled as he came forward, showing
remarkably nice teeth for such a decrepit specimen. He moved like an
animated skeleton draped in raw, crusty, stringy muscle, except for his eyes
unblinking and red.
Striding across the rocks and onto
the narrow sandy strip where the stairs led up to the deck, he paused then bounded
up the steps without touching the railing. Stopping at the deck he took a
moment to look around. “He’s admiring the house,” thought Joyce, “he
doesn’t even try to cover himself.” He turned towards them and crossed
the deck.
“Jeez, he’s going to walk
into the glass,” said Alan “he really must be confused.” He stood and
waved his arms trying to warn, but his alarm only attracted the man who glanced
at the waving arms then veered directly towards Alan.
“Oh no,” screamed Alan, as
the plate glass window exploded in his face.
Shards of glass like daggers
through the air bloodied Alan and Joyce.
“It’s not supposed to do
that,” thought Alan, as the intruder casually strolled up to him and grabbed a
handful of his hair, bending him to his knees, “the windows are
unbreakable.”
Joyce wet herself with fear
as the creature clutched a fistful of Alan’s shirtfront, lifting him so that he
was curved like a bow, his neck stretched long and fine. The tableau froze for
a quiet moment like a scene from the Pageant of the Masters they liked to
attend every year at the Festival of Arts in Laguna Beach. She watched as
the man lizard stood over Alan with what appeared to be the beginning of an
erection; Alan softly groaned from the strain to his back, his neck arched and
vulnerable, his veins blue, the arteries pulsing steadily.
The moment broke as the
intruder crushed Alan’s throat in massive canine jaws, ripping through the skin
and muscles, finding the right side carotid at the branch and severing the junction
so that Alan’s blood erupted in a joyous geyser, filling his mouth and bathing
his face in the red sacrament of spring he’d fantasized about for all those
lonely, hungry years.
As the blood shot from his
neck spraying the wall in bright red Jackson Pollock drips, Joyce thought how
her husband would hate the look as, punctuating Alan’s moans, she heard an
obscene gurgle as the stranger sucked the last drops of blood from her
husband. As he turned towards her, she saw that he was fully engorged and
that his rough scaly hide seemed to resemble skin, the kind that grew back
after a bad burn.
He seemed to transpose before
her eyes, as he stood taller in the grey/blue storm light. Standing
taller and filling out, the reptilian cast fell from him and he came to
resemble a white man with what she thought of as Asian tones, he stood over six
feet, she guessed, and was lanky and muscled like the swimmers she watched
every four years. He had dark eyes still glowing like banked embers and
thick black hair hanging to his shoulders. His body seemed hairless except for
his groin.
The last sound Alan heard as
his successful life petered out on his polished fir floor was the hideous way
Joyce’s last scream was silenced as the man crunched her throat in his jaws.
Oliver looked around the
room, savoring the blood-spattered mess. Momentarily sated, he paused to admire
the view. After a moment he shrank behind a comforting wall, the vastness
of the sea overwhelming him. He still held Joyce’s hand and in a gesture
of humanity gone, pulled her body to his face and, seeking some comfort, bent
over and began to consume her ravaged neck. Revulsion paused his meal,
but desire and hunger overcame the vampiric prohibition and he leisurely
finished his meal, musing all the while on why he should not be allowed to
consume prey.
