PART VIII: MAX

Upon waking, I hear noises from the other side of the storage closet door. I slowly open it and peek out. A small crowd of people are standing around the entrance to the laundromat. Three young men and one young woman are playing music in the lobby area. Some of the washing machines and dryers have been moved, and the band’s equipment is plugged into the wall. The group jumps up and down, pounding away at their instruments. The crowd hold up their illuminated devices, encouraging the musicians to keep going. The band members’ backs are to me, and there isn’t anyone else in the establishment.

For a while I stand just outside the door to the storage closet, watching the band perform. They have an energy that appeals to me. The singer is playing a miniature organ of some sort. He takes an extended solo that seems to last too long for the guitarist’s liking. The guitarist stands in front of the singer and looks at his watch. The singer stops playing and shoves the guitarist. The two young men begin fighting, pushing each other, their instruments still between them. The other two band members, seeing what’s transpiring, stop playing and rush over to pull the two men apart. The organ falls over. The guitar starts to squeal as the band members try furiously to detangle the two men from one another. Some members of the audience start shouting, encouraging the violence. After about a half minute of this, the two brawling band members are separated and are left standing, looking down, ashamed of their behavior. The band’s drummer is shouting at them.

The performance is over. The young musicians begin to pack up their equipment. The crowd slowly disperses. I see this as my chance to exit the laundromat without drawing too much attention to myself. I walk around the female member of the band and exit the lobby area.

I check my pocket. I will need to get more cash before I attempt to hitchhike out of the city. I make my way down to the subway and ride it to the business district. I’m hungry for blood.

It’s early evening. Men and women in suits and dresses are still getting out of work. They crowd onto the train. A woman sits down next to me. She’s young and has straight brown hair. She’s wearing a long tan coat with a collar over a white blouse and a gray skirt. She puts a black leather briefcase next to her on the side opposite me. She crosses her legs and looks at her device, sliding her thumb across the glass. I lean away from her and rest my head in my hand. As the train starts up, the lights inside flicker on and off. The woman pulls her straight brown hair to the opposite shoulder, exposing the right side of her neck. My mouth begins to water, and I feel my fangs push through my gums.

There’s nobody seated on my other side, although a man and a woman are standing directly in front of me. The man and woman talk to each other for a while before taking out their devices and staring at them. Everyone else in the cramped train car is either looking down at an illuminated device or talking to someone who isn’t there. The train rolls through a tunnel. The light in the car goes out.

With one hand, I whip my left arm around the young woman’s head and place my palm firmly over her mouth. I lean over and bite down hard on her neck and begin to feed. Aside from the light emitted from the various devices, the train car is completely dark. The tunnel goes on and on, the sound of the train’s wheels on the track echoing loudly throughout the car. The young woman’s device falls out of her hand and into her lap. The light from the screen goes dim. Her heartbeat slows. We emerge from the tunnel. The light in the subway car stays mercifully off for a bit longer. I slowly remove my hand from her mouth, push her eyelids closed, and slide her body toward mine so that her right hip is pressed up against me, her head on my shoulder, her hair obscuring her pale, lifeless face. The black turtleneck I’m wearing absorbs the warm blood leaking from the bite. We emerge from the tunnel. The light in the car comes back on. With my right hand, I reach across the woman’s lap, take her leather briefcase, and put it between us. I ride the subway until the car empties out completely. At the final stop, as I stand to get off the train, I lay the woman’s head where I’d been sitting. I lift her feet and remove her heels, placing the shoes on the floor in front of her. I gently bend her legs at the knees and put her stockinged feet on the seat. I don’t know why I do this. It’s the equivalent of carefully folding an empty banana peel and placing it back in a fruit bowl.

I exit the subway and walk down the street, carrying the briefcase. My shirt is soaked with my victim’s blood. I button my coat up to the top and walk down an alley. I stand under a dull light over a metal door and open the briefcase. In a large pocket in the front, I find a purse. I open it and pull out a small amount of cash. I wrap the money around what’s left on my person and stuff the entire roll into my pocket. As I exit the alley, I toss the briefcase and purse into a dumpster. I’m unfamiliar with this part of the city, but from where I am on the street, I can see cars on a highway. I need to head north.

After hitchhiking for about an hour, I’m picked up by a blue van with a Maine license plate. The driver unlocks the door, and I open it.

“Where you headed?” Asks a heavy-set man with glasses and a full head of white hair.

“Smithwick, Rhode Island,” I say.

“I go right through there. Can you drive?”

I shake my head no.

“You got money for gas?”

I show him my cash.

“Good enough. Get in,” he says.

Tonight, I will arrive in Rhode Island.