Vampire Rising (5 page)

Standing at the podium, he was majestic and
passionate, a winter storm gathering strength. His features were
too heavy and hawk-like to be handsome, but he was magnificent
looking. He had large freckles so pale against his alabaster skin,
they appeared to be translucent stains. His ginger hair stood
stiffly on his head, like a cock’s comb, having defied the taming
attempts of brush and comb and gel.

“Even our gay brothers reject us! We have
all seen the dating profiles that say ‘No Fats, fems, or Vampires.’
Yes, our gay brothers reject us—when they don’t they objectify and
sexualize us. Yes, some will fuck us but they’ll never introduce us
to their friends and family. Can you imagine that conversation? ‘My
boyfriend can’t join us for brunch—the sun you know—how about tea
dance?’”

The Vampires roared, while the humans
maintained a puzzled silence. When the laughter died off, Malcolm
continued, “Did you know the Catholic Church requires its
cemeteries to be lit with full spectrum lights from dusk till dawn,
presumably to keep us from waking—as if we sleep in crypts and open
graves! It is sad that in this, the twenty-first century, myths and
superstitions still hold sway.”

“Yet, despite centuries living among humans,
we remain misunderstood, invisible, unspoken of. Do you know, no
U.S. President, nor, indeed, the leader of
 
any
 
nation
in the world, has
 
ever
 
said
the word Vampire? How is that possible? Do we not walk among
humans? Do we not eat and sleep and breathe and work and pay taxes
like humans? Do we not work to save the planet and cure the ills of
humans? How is it then that we are not spoken of, that we have
no
 
voice
, that we have
no
 
human rights
?”

“The only reason humans have not enslaved us
as they have enslaved so many others throughout history is that we
are stronger and more clever than they. So, instead they plan to
separate and
 
contain
us. Right
now, there is a proposal before Congress to detain and intern us in
camps. These camps are in the most barren and desolate lands you
can imagine, surrounded by high chain-link fences forged from pure
silver. In these camps, we Vampires—stripped of money and
possessions—will be penned in like so many luckless beasts in a
zoo. But, I tell you, the Vampire nation
 
cannot
 
and
 
will
not
 
be contained!”

A cheer rose from the crowd of Vampires.

Under cover of the noise, a very tall, thin
human wearing a cassock stole into the square behind Malcolm.
Malevolent and unattractive, his drawn face was beet-red. He was
without eyebrows or eyelashes, and his hair had been reduced to
stubble upon his mottled head; he looked as if an attempt had been
made to pluck him.

“They call us bloodthirsty but they are the
ones thirsting for blood—Vampire blood!” Malcolm thundered jabbing
at the air with his finger.

Suddenly, the man in the cassock rushed the
podium brandishing a long silver sword with a wooden hilt in the
shape of the cross. As Malcolm leaned forward to address someone in
the audience, the man grabbed Malcolm’s stiff hair, and yanked his
head up, exposing his neck. The assailant towered over Malcolm,
shouting, “In Jesus’ name I do this!”

He swung the sword against Malcolm’s throat.
Malcolm’s head separated from his body. His body crumbled to the
ground in a heap as the man swung the severed head in victory.

Malcolm’s eyes opened wide in horror as he
stared at his body-less head on the Jumbotron. The microphone and
earpiece were still in place, and, wincing he spoke, “No, not in
His name! I
 
knew
 
Him. He would not have wanted this.
I
 
know
. I was one of his
disciples. I was…” Malcolm’s eyes drooped closed, and his mouth
hung open, the jagged teeth exposed.

A mix of horror and fright contorted the
assassin’s face. “Blasphemy,” he screamed shaking with righteous
indignation. “Blasphemy,” he repeated, this time less loudly, less
surely. Hundreds of mockingbirds swept across the sky, pink tongues
curling out of their long, thin bills, as their great wings blotted
out the moon, turning the gray-blue evening sky midnight black.

The Vampire who’d been sitting closest to
the podium sprang to his feet.

“Vampire rising!” one of the Christian
protesters screamed, pointing.

The rest of the Vampires unfolded themselves
and, rising, filled the square with motion: spinning, legs licking,
long arms whipping the air like windmills, fangs bared. Gurgling
screams erupted as white teeth, sharp and serrated, malignant with
purpose, tore into delicate throats. Blood, untasted, splashed on
the ground, the waste a sign of contempt.

Gray mists, like living shrouds, rose from
the ground where the Vampires and humans fought. The mockingbirds,
repeating the sounds of tearing flesh and falling blood, seemed to
be singing a dirge.

Fleeing the square, and running across the
promenade, frantic to escape the Vampires’ wrath, humans climbed
over bodies torn and slick with blood. The Vampires, like black
avenging angels, chased after them, tossing aside the bodies of the
dead and wounded; many, tumbling over the stone balustrades, fell
into the river, whose black waters, like snapping jaws, swallowed
the still twitching bodies. Many of the humans, scrambling to get
away, tripped on the discarded placards that littered the ground.
Others, hindered by the awkward sandwich boards they wore, fell
and, arms flailing, were defenseless, trapped by their own hatred,
as the Vampires tore at their flesh.

The mockingbirds wheeled through the sky,
mimicking the screams and gasping last breaths of the dying humans.
The police, who’d been standing idly by, sprang to sudden kinetic
life, like over-wound toy soldiers. Responding to shouted orders
that broke, like canon fire, over the square, they stomped past
Barnabas in a lather of jack-booted violence, a goose-stepping
bewildered army of madmen. As the cops advanced, the flock of
mockingbirds turned, as one, and flew straight at them. The cops
opened fire.

Guided by a beating heart which did not
carry his own blood but which acted as if it did, whispering its
trouble in his veins,
 
Barnabas’ fear passed through Gatsby like a
tremor. His rapidly beating heart echoed in his bloodstream. Blood
pounded in Gatsby’s ears like hammer strikes. He felt as if a piece
of his soul had been torn away. He threw his head back and howled.
“Barnabas!”

A mockingbird spread his wings and carrying
the echo of the last syllable of Barnabas’ name with him wheeled
across the sky.

Barnabas, whose fear of crowds had caused
him to take shelter in a covered doorway, from where he had a clear
view of Malcolm, but which obscured his presence, emerged, on legs
stiff with terror, from the sheltering alcove into the chaos.
Almost immediately, he felt a searing pain in his side, and started
to fall, the metallic taste of blood hot in his mouth, the awful
screams of the mockingbirds loud in his ears.

A cool wind blew over Barnabas as he felt
himself caught and lifted up as if borne on the wings of a prayer.
All motion seemed to stop, and sound drained away as he rushed
though the heavy death-filled air.

* * * * *

BARNABAS STIRRED. He felt warm and cool as
if he was being bathed in menthol. He realized he was about to
come, only this was like no orgasm he’d ever had before. This one
kept building. On the verge of release, he’d soar then reach a
plateau only to soar higher, reach another plateau then soar still
higher, over and over, up and up he went. When he finally came, his
orgasm seemed to last forever. Yet when it finally ended, he didn’t
feel let down or exhausted or alone. He merely
felt…
sated
…and loved. His heart wasn’t even beating
fast.

As he came to himself, he realized Gatsby
was nuzzling his neck. He turned his head slightly and Gatsby
pulled away. Barnabas felt a prick but in reverse, a drawing out
instead of an intrusion. He was puzzled by the sensation. When he
looked at Gatsby he thought he saw blood on his lips. Then he
slept.

Barnabas woke suddenly to find Gatsby
staring at him anxiously.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” Gatsby answered. “How do you
feel?”

Barnabas tried to sit up, failed. “I don’t
know.” His voice was cracked, ragged. He cleared his throat,
started again, “I don’t know. OK, I guess. My neck is sore.”

Gatsby smiled. “Yes, I expect it would be.
That happens the first time.”

“The first time what? I—I don’t
understand.”

Gatsby smiled and took his hand. “Do you
remember what happened?”

Barnabas tried to concentrate. Memory seemed
just beyond his grasp though he seemed to remember a leaden sky and
bursting blood vessels, but that made no sense.

“The Vampire rally?” Gatsby prodded him.

“Last night.”

“No, not last night. It was several days
ago—”

“Several days ago?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?

“There was a riot. You were hurt badly. I
was afraid if you were taken to the hospital they would think you
were a Vampire and refuse to treat you—they can, you know, they
have a ‘moral’”—and here he made quotes in the air with his curled
fingers—“right to refuse treatment to any Vampire or suspected
Vampire. Or worse they would restrain you and subject you to a
silver enema—you don’t want to know what that does to a Vampire’s
insides.”

Barnabas nodded, but said nothing, waiting
instead for Gatsby to continue.

“I—I—I turned you.”

“You turned me?”

“Into a Vampire.”

Barnabas touched his neck and felt the two
tiny puncture wounds. “But, why? You said you would never turn
anyone again—least of all me.”

“I had no choice. You were badly hurt. You
were dying in my arms. And I couldn’t bear the thought of you—and
all your artistry and heart—passing out of this world. I couldn’t
bear the thought of losing you. Do you—do you hate me?”

When Barnabas started to answer, Gatsby put
up his hand. “I don’t care if you hate me for you are here and
alive and well. If you hate me and walk out that door, just knowing
that you are alive and well in the world will gladden my heart and
make me happy to have curried your hatred.”

Barnabas touched Gatsby’s hand and it was
then he noticed his newly straightened fingers. “Look,” he said to
Gatsby, holding up his hands and wiggling his fingers.

“Yes. It’s one of the side effects of the
Vampire virus—physical deformities brought on by disease are
corrected as the disease is wiped away. You’ll notice your vision
improving as well.”

Barnabas started, unexpectedly, to cry. “Oh
what a gift for an artist such as me—to be able to hold a brush and
see!” Barnabas threw his arms around Gatsby and began kissing his
face.

Gatsby carefully unwound his arms from
around his neck. “Yes, but soon you will no longer be able to paint
in daylight.”

“Oh! Why not?”

“You’re a Vampire now. Daylight will become
anathema and dangerous.”

“I don’t care,” Barnabas said after a
moment, “I’ll learn to paint in the dark by candlelight.” Then
remembering at last, he asked, “What of Malcolm V?”

“He is dead. The sword severed head from
body, but the silver slowed any healing that might have occurred.
In the ensuing chaos and battle, the head was lost. When it was
found it was too late to join the two.”

Barnabas closed his eyes. When he opened
them sometime later, Gatsby asked again, “How do you feel?”

“Tired. Achy. Everything hurts.”

Gatsby adjusted the pillows under his head.
“That’s the virus at work. Remember every cell in your body is
changing.”

“How long does the pain last?”

“It depends. Usually just a couple of weeks
but you’re young, so your immune system is very strong, and
fighting the virus.”

Barnabas smiled weakly, nodding his
head.

“You should rest now. I’m going to take a
shower.” Gatsby kissed his forehead.

Needing to relieve himself, Barnabas
followed Gatsby into the bathroom. As he stood at toilet willing
the water to flow, he watched Gatsby behind the frosted glass of
their shower. Behind the glass Gatsby was an impression of damp
pearlescent flesh, ochre at the groin and the crack of his ass when
he turned.

Barnabas returned to bed. Tired, but anxious
to learn what had happened at the rally, he turned on the news.
Though it had been more than a week since the riot, it was still a
top news story. Hundreds had been killed and dozens more injured.
The smart ones, the ones who were able to keep their wits about
them despite the chaos and confusion of massacre, survived, taking
shelter in hotel lobbies and open shops knowing the Vampires
couldn’t follow without being invited in.

The anchorman abruptly switched to a video
clip from a militant Christian group’s campaign called “Light
Wins.” In the clip, an unidentified man in a clerical collar
declared, "If Vampire activists get everything they want, it will
result in nothing less than the criminalization of
Christianity."

Disgusted, Barnabas turned off the
television and sinking against the pillows drifted into a troubled
sleep.

He woke when Gatsby slipped under the
covers. The clean, almost antiseptic, smell of Vetiver tickled
Barnabas’ nose. He reached over and traced the broad flat planes of
Gatsby’s chest.

“How do you feel?” Gatsby asked, watching
him, “Still weak?”