PART II: MAX’S STORY
I wake with a shiver and a gasp. My joints are unusually stiff, and as I sit up and push away the lid of my coffin, I find that my clothes are dry and brittle. It’s as if my body has been still for an unusually long time. I can’t imagine why I feel this way.
As I lift myself up and out of the coffin, I feel something fall out of my coat pocket. In the dark of the cave, I pick the object up and realize it’s a small book. I know this wasn’t on my person when I last went to sleep. I drop it into the pocket of my coat. There are cobwebs all over my arms, neck, and head. I pull them away and look around. Something’s not right.
It’s dark, but ever since I was bitten, I can see exceptionally well at night, perhaps one of the only good things about having become whatever I am, the other being the inability to feel extreme coldness or heat.
I’m hungry for blood. I spot a white rat scurrying by my feet and quickly snatch it up and bite into it. It emits a tiny scream and a small amount of blood shoots out from between my mouth and the rat’s body, spraying the wall of the cave. One rat won’t be enough.
As I begin my routine trek down the mountain’s trail, I notice some things have moved. Part of the trail is now obscured by overgrowth I hadn’t remembered seeing before. In addition, the small bushes, which were in full bloom when I last trekked down the mountain, are now missing all their leaves. It’s as if I’ve slept through summer.
I keep walking, descending the mountain. As the town of Peakskill starts to come into view, I fear for a moment that the entire valley is on fire. I soon realize that the town is not on fire, there’s just more of it and an increased amount of lights, as if Peakskill doubled in size overnight. As I get closer, I hear loud rumbling and through the woods I see lights moving fast on a black road, two at a time.
I walk out of the woods and wander into what was formerly a sleepy valley town. The carriages and horses have all been replaced by self-propelled buggies with lamps in the front. The buildings appear strange, with tall glass windows and beautifully illuminated signs. I’m amazed by all the lights. It’s as if night has been turned into day. I’m not used to this brilliance at such a late hour. I walk up to a yellow box made entirely of metal. I look through the glass on the front of the box and see a newspaper inside. The date on the paper reads 2018. For a moment I stand in stunned disbelief. I rub my eyes and look again. ‘My God,’ I think. ‘If this is a dream, it is the most real dream I’ve ever had. This must be a spell of some kind. I don’t know how else to explain it.’
I remove the small book from my coat pocket and examine it in the light of a streetlamp. The book has a green cover with the words Now We Have Nothing printed in yellow on the front. I remember a book with the same title from when I was a child, though this edition looks different. The story had been my favorite. Only one person in the world cared enough to know how much this story meant to me. I open the cover and stamped on the bottom of the first page are the words Howe’s Books. ‘Howe,’ I think. ‘That’s my last name.’ Beneath the words is a Rhode Island address.
I walk down a path that is unlike anything I’ve walked on before. The path is smooth with nary a stone or pebble upon it. People pass. They’re style of dress is unusual. Women wear pants and vests; men’s coats don’t appear buttoned but somehow stay closed. I stare at people as they walk by. They stare back, but only for a moment before they continue on their way.
I walk into an establishment that appears to sell food. The smell of newly cooked beefs and stews and breads used to make my mouth water when I was as hungry as I am now. No longer, however. Food can’t satiate my craving and therefore triggers no response upon encountering its aroma.
“Can I help you, sir?” A man, assumedly the proprietor, asks from behind a counter. “Jeez, are you okay? You don’t look so good,” he says, hovering his hand around his own face as if to let me know it’s my face he’s referring to. I walk deeper into the establishment without responding. “You looking for the bathroom? It’s right back there.” The proprietor walks from around the counter and leads me deeper into the restaurant, past tables where people are sitting and eating. At the back of the dining area is a water closet. He holds the door open as I enter, then walks away, leaving me alone. Inside is a white privy and a sink. Above the sink is a mirror.
A young man who looks to be in his late teens or early twenties enters. I move out of the way of the mirror, so he doesn’t notice that my visage casts no reflection. The man is wearing a shirt with the same image as on the signage outside the restaurant. He urinates into a long white basin built into a wall and presses a handle. Water cascades down the porcelain. He pulls his trousers together and walks back out. I follow him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Gino!” The young man shouts to the proprietor who nods before turning back to his work.
I follow the young man out of the restaurant and down the street. We walk away from the well-lit storefronts until we come to large houses with many carriages parked outside. I watch as the man walks up the stairs to one of the buildings and disappears inside. When I get to the building, a light comes on in one of the lower windows. From a safe distance, I squat and look inside. The man sits on a settee. He picks up a black box and activates a mirror on the wall. The man then picks up a second device and stares fixedly at the mirror as he begins to use his thumbs to manipulate the device in the air, like a dowsing rod.
His mouth opens slightly, and although his hands move on the device, he rarely blinks, his stare fixed on the glowing mirror. The man appears to have put himself into a trance. I walk up the stairs to the building and enter a tiny lobby. I attempt to open the second door without success. A moment later, a woman in a hooded tunic comes through the door from the inside, and I grab it and let myself in. I walk downstairs to where the door to the young man’s room is. I turn the knob and slowly push it open. I silently enter and gently close the door behind me.
The man’s neck is exposed. It glows in the light coming from the mirror on the wall. I feel my fangs push through my gums. I walk quickly over to the sofa. The young man turns suddenly and opens his mouth to yell, but before he can, I grip his face in my hand, covering his mouth completely. I bite into his neck and begin feasting. The man goes limp, his hands drop, the device he was holding falls to the floor. I finish just before his heart beats its final pulse of life. I rise from the settee, avoiding looking at the glowing mirror for fear I will fall into the same trance that befell my victim. I walk over to the window and pull the curtains closed.
I turn and walk back to the door. In the small kitchen is a clock that reads 11PM. In six hours, the sun will be up, and I will need to take shelter from the daylight. I must find somewhere to sleep. On the kitchen table is a small stack of folded green bills. I take the money and put it in my pocket.
I pull out the book and look again at the address of the establishment with my namesake. “Rhode Island,” I whisper. I leave the room, walk out of the building, and step back onto the street.
Everything has changed. Gone are the small farms where I could feast on animal blood, then sleep in a barn. I must leave this town. As I walk into a residential neighborhood, I observe a man holding his thumb out and walking backward. A carriage pulls over. The man gets inside and is taken away. I must follow this traveler’s example and attempt to depart swiftly using the same method.
I follow the road, which eventually leads out of the neighborhood, and I see a green sign with white lettering that says North. I stand near the sign, hold my thumb out, and wait for someone to pull over.
Many carriages pass until eventually one stops. I grab a handle on the door and pull it toward me. As it opens, I’m hit with warm air and a pleasant leathery smell.
“Where you headed?” A man inside the carriage asks.
“Rhode Island,” I say.
“You from England?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Well, I’m only going to Philadelphia. You’re welcome to ride along. I hate driving alone.”
I sit down inside the strange vehicle and pull the door shut. I watch as the man first moves his leg and then a lever. The carriage begins to roll forward. He turns a wheel similar to one that would steer a sailing vessel. Using this wheel, he’s able to direct the carriage left and right.
“You gotta put your seatbelt on or else that thing ain’t gonna quit beepin’,” the man says. I don’t say anything but stare ahead, marveling as my driver directs us onto a road filled with carriages all going the same way at a speed unheard of for a horse-drawn vehicle. “Hey, buddy,” he says, hitting my arm with the back of his hand. “You gotta wear a seatbelt or that fuckin’ thing won’t stop beepin’.”
I look at the man. He tugs at a strap over his shoulder. I see where the strap begins and ends. I reach up behind myself and find a similar strap and pull it across my body.
“Here, I’ll help you with it. It can be tricky in the dark,” the man says.
He takes the buckle with one hand and pushes it into a clasp until it clicks. The sound in the car stops, and I realize this is what he’d been referring to. Either I didn’t notice when it was happening because I was too distracted by this wonderous invention or the sound just didn’t bother me.
The man talks at length. His name is Bill. He is nearly sixty-five and doesn’t ask me any questions about myself. This is to my liking. Bill tells me he’s close to retirement and looks forward to not having to travel for work. He says he’s been married three times. He tells me about his wives and how he’s single now. He’s going to Philadelphia to visit his daughter and his grandson. I stare ahead for most of the ride, listening to Bill tell me stories about his life and experiences. There’s something that touches me about him. I don’t want to kill him and, as I’ve already fed, I don’t believe I’ll feel inclined to.
By the time we reach Philadelphia, the sky is starting to lighten. The sun will be up in the next hour. Bill pulls off the road and into a gas station. I tell him I will be leaving, and he shakes my hand.
“My God, you’re colder than my last wife,” he says, laughing. “My word, look at those nails.”
As Bill refuels his carriage, which he calls a “car”, I depart and walk down the road until I reach a large lot with a sign that says Used Cars and Trucks. I find a truck with a cover over the back that rolls open and shut. I crawl inside and, using my coat as a pillow, go to sleep. I sleep all day in the back of the covered truck bed. Nobody disturbs me. I awake to the sounds of crickets, and I know it’s night. I’m hungry, and I want to feed again. I slowly roll the cover away.
I jump down from the truck, stretch, and put my coat back on. I make my way back to the highway and hold my thumb out. I walk for what seems like at least two kilometers before someone pulls over.
The window of the vehicle slides down, and I look inside. The driver has short hair and is dressed like a man, but as the occupant begins to speak, I realize she’s a woman.
“You’re not supposed to be hitchhiking on the highway,” she says.
“Oh, I’m from England,” I say, remembering my last driver’s interest in that initially.
“I don’t care where you’re from,” the woman says. “For all I know they let you do that over there. Hell, you guys drive on the wrong side of the road, don’t you? No wonder they let you hitchhike on the highway. They probably let you pass on the left, too,” the woman huffs, exasperatedly. “Where you headed?” She asks.
“Rhode Island,” I say.
“I’m going through Rhode Island. I’ll drive you as far as New York City,” she says, “but we switch when we get there, and then you drive the second leg. Fair?” I nod. “Get in,” she says and rolls up the window.
I open the door and sit inside. The seats of this woman’s car are made of cloth. My driver is a smoker. She doesn’t use a pipe, however, she smokes white paper sticks she calls cigarettes. This time I know to put on my seatbelt. We drive in silence for a while, and she turns a knob on the car’s console. The voice of a man begins speaking. A weather report is given, then a woman begins to talk.
Unlike my last driver, this one doesn’t say much at all. Occasionally, she grunts and shakes her head at something the woman’s voice coming from the console says or else she comments rhetorically. The woman’s voice stops speaking and the program then shifts to a game of some sort. It’s apparently happening in front of a large group of spectators. The car pulls into a station that looks exactly like the one my first driver pulled into, right down to the colors on the sign.
“Time to gas up,” the driver says. “You get this one, I’ll get the next one.” She shuts off the car and looks over at me, expectantly. “Well, go on. This thing ain’t gonna pump itself.”
I exit the car and walk over to the pump. I remember seeing my first driver do this. I attempt to replicate what I’d witnessed. A tiny door swings open on the rear of the car, and I realize this is where I’m supposed to put the fuel in. I turn a jar-like lid and remove it before inserting the pump. I squeeze the handle and feel the vibration of the fuel moving through the hose and into the car. A second vehicle pulls into the station and parks just behind where I’m standing.
Inside the car are two young women. They’re laughing. One of the women gets out and looks over at me, smiling. As soon as we make eye contact, her smile falls away and is replaced by a fearful look. She hangs up the device used to pump fuel and gets back into her car. The woman in the passenger seat, who had been putting something on her face with a tiny brush, looks at her friend confusedly, wondering why she hasn’t fueled their vehicle. The driver motions toward me and starts the car. The passenger looks up at me and mouths the word, “Oh.” The car backs out and drives away.
The lever I’m squeezing clicks, and I replace the nozzle on the machine. I screw the lid back on, close the tiny door, and get back inside the car. “You didn’t pay, numbnuts. Ain’t you gonna pay?” My driver asks. I stare at her and consider ending her right then and there. She points to a man standing inside a glass booth. I exit the car and walk over.
“Twenty-two forty-eight,” the man says without looking at me.
I remove the roll of bills I’d taken from my Peakskill victim and slide it under the glass toward the man. “Those are some nails you got there,” he says, laughing and looking up at me. His smile fades when his eyes meet mine. I look away. “He pushes my change back to me. I take it and shove it into my pocket.
By the time we reach New York City, it’s late and I’m extremely hungry and ready to feed. My driver pulls off the highway under a bridge and says, “Okay, you’re up.” She exits the car and walks around the front toward my side. I exit and meet her in front of the car. She attempts to move around me, and I shift my body in front of hers. She lets out an exasperated huff and sidesteps. Again, I stand in her way. “What do you want to do-si-do or somethin’?” She asks.
My eyes go wide, I feel my fangs break through my gums. Just before I sink my teeth into her, I see a look of fear on her face. With both hands, I grab her head and snap her neck and then proceed to suck all the blood out of her. I drink so fast I can’t even taste it. Her body goes limp and cold. I drag her over to the passenger side of the car, place her corpse in the seat, and close the door. The sun will be up soon. I walk away, looking for a place to sleep.