PART X: MAX

My eyes open and for a moment I forget where I am. I arrived in Rhode Island late last night in a blue van driven by a heavy-set man from Maine. I slept in an alley, covering myself with discarded mattresses fashioned into a sort of house in order to block out the rays of the sun. I push away the mattresses and stretch. I walk out of the alley and down the street. Most places have closed for the night. The lights are on in a small store on a corner. There’s movement inside and, as I get closer, I see people entering and exiting the establishment.

I walk up the store’s stone stairs and pull the door open. A bell chimes. I wait behind a woman who is paying for a few food items. The clerk looks to be in his fifties. He has a dark complexion and a moustache. His hair is parted to the side. He’s wearing a green sweater. He silently takes the woman’s cash and hands her back change. He puts her items into a bag and pushes them across the counter without saying a word. She takes the bag and walks out the door.

I step up, pull the small green book out of my pocket, and open it to the page stamped with the name and address that led me to this town. I put the book on the counter and turn it toward the clerk, pointing to the address with my long nail.

“Where?” I say.

The man sighs and pulls a device out of his pocket. I swear, everyone in 2018 would be lost without one of these things. The man turns and takes a pair of eyeglasses off the shelf behind him and puts them on. He looks at my book and then at his device, tapping away at the glass.

“Two blocks down, take a right at the light, then take your third left onto Water Street, then your second left onto Elm,” he says, pointing.

I close the book, slide it back into my coat pocket, and walk out of the store, following the clerk’s directions.

I find Howe’s and peer through the large store window. Although the lights inside are all turned off, I can make out shelves of books and two chairs in the back. I walk to the door and try the handle. I cup my hands over my eyes and stand on my tiptoes, looking through the small glass window above the door. I see a desk with some papers on it and a few boxes. I again pull on the door’s handle.

“Hey!” A man’s voice behind me says. I slowly turn to see a policeman standing next to me, sliding a nightstick from his belt. “They’re closed,” The officer says as he steps up and taps on a small sign next to the door with the weapon. “Come back tomorrow during the day.” I slowly walk backward, away from the door, never taking my eyes off the man, never saying anything. The officer slides his nightstick back into his belt and stares into my eyes, crossing his arms over his chest.

I walk down the street for an hour, eventually finding myself in front of a bar. It’s the only place open on the block. I walk in and sit on one of the stools.

“What can I get ya?” The bartender, a balding, overweight man with a goatee asks.

“Beer,” I say.

“Domestic okay?” He asks. I don’t know what he means, so I just nod. The bartender fills a tall glass with a yellow ale from a tap and puts it in front of me. I take a tiny sip. “That’ll be five dollars,” he says. I pull out my cash and peel off a five-dollar bill and slide it across the bar. The man takes the cash, then walks away.

I look down the bar for a victim. A short, portly man wearing a red and black plaid shirt tucked into blue jeans catches my eye and smiles. I slide off the stool and walk over to where he’s sitting, taking the stool next to him.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” I say.

“I’ve never seen you here before. Do you live in town?”

“No.”

“What brings you to Smithwick?”

“I’m interested in old books,” I say.

“Oh, a collector.”

“Something like that.”

“I love antiquing. What are you drinking?”

“Domestic,” I say.

My hand is wrapped around my glass of beer. The man reaches for the glass, putting his hand around my own. “May I?” He asks. I slide my hand out from under his. He slowly lifts the glass and brings it to his lips, all the while maintaining eye contact. He takes a long sip. “Now we’ve kissed,” he says, sliding the drink back to me. He licks his lips. “It’s a bit bitter for my taste. I prefer something…sweeter,” he says, winking. “I’ll be in the back if you’re interested.” The short man slides off the stool. I watch him walk to the back of the bar and into a single occupant men’s room.

I stand and walk to the back of the bar and slowly push the door open. I feel my fangs cutting through my gums. I’m ready to feed. As I close the door, I find the short man behind it. One of his arms is up against the wall and the other is on his hip. He reaches up, sliding his hands around my neck and pulls me toward him. He turns his head slightly to look at our reflection in the mirror and sees only himself.

“What the fu…” he starts to say.

I don’t waste any time. I bite down on his neck, and he attempts to fight me off, pushing at me and screaming. I wrap one arm around his neck and pull him close, continuing to feed. I put my other hand over his mouth to block the screams. As I drink from him, he slowly begins to weaken and become cold. Someone bangs loudly on the door.

“Get a room!” An annoyed, effeminate-sounding man shouts.

My victim’s legs wobble, and his body begins to slide out of my arms. I let him drop, following him to the ground, all the while drinking his blood. When I’m done, I unbuckle the man’s belt, pull his pants down to his ankles, and sit him on the toilet. I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my coat, then confidently walk out of the men’s room without making eye contact with anyone. One victim will not be enough to satiate my hunger. I will need to feed again before the night is over.

Outside an all-night diner are two taxis side by side. One of the drivers is standing in front of his car, looking at his device. He inhales from a stem attached to a small box and exhales a sweetly scented white cloud. I stand in front of the man without saying anything. After a moment, he senses my presence and slowly looks up from his device.

“Hotel,” I say.

The driver sighs and shoves the devices into his coat pockets. “Sure thing,” he says as he gets into the car. I get in the back. “Any particular hotel?”

“The most expensive one in town,” I say.

“Well la-di-da,” the driver says, chuckling. He turns around as if expecting a reaction. I stare back. His smile drops. He clears his throat, starts the car, and pulls out onto the street.

Twenty minutes later, the taxi pulls into a posh hotel parking lot. Flags posted on the building’s roof blow in the night sky as spotlights below highlight the stark white building’s façade. The cab rolls into a circular drop-off zone. A man and a woman in maroon uniforms wait with their hands behind their backs on either side of the doors. I pay the driver.

Inside the hotel lobby, I observe two children, a boy and a girl, both dripping wet and dressed in swimwear, standing outside a pair of inset doors. The boy pushes a place on the wall and a circle lights up. I walk over to the children and stand behind them. The doors slide open and three people step out of a walk-in-closet-sized space. I follow the children inside the mysterious box. The boy has a towel wrapped around his neck. The girl has a towel wrapped around her waist. The girl reaches out to push a circle on the wall. The boy grabs her wrist before her finger can touch it.

“Hey!” She whines, pulling her hand out of his grasp. With his other hand, he pushes the button. A number four lights up.

“Ha, ha!” He says, antagonistically. The doors to the box slowly close.

“You’re such a…,” the girl starts to say.

“I’m such a what?” The boy asks.

The girl slowly turns to look back at me, a frown on her face. She bares her lower teeth, angrily. “Nothing,” she says, backing off her insult, assumedly due to my presence. She flips her wet hair and a few drops of water hit me in the face. She crosses her arms and adjusts her stance to better express her anger. I stare at her neck. I imagine myself biting into it, drinking her sweet, young blood. Pure. No alcohol. No barbiturates.

The box we’re inside begins to rise. One by one, numbers light up over the door, making a dinging sound each time. When the number four lights up, the moving box slows to a stop and the doors open. The children get off. The doors begin to close. I thrust my hand out just before they shut completely, and the doors reopen. I slowly step out of the elevator. The children are halfway down the hall. I follow them.

The boy and girl stop in front of a door, and the boy takes a card from his swim trunks. I walk purposefully toward the children. The boy pushes the card onto a piece of black glass near the handle, then tries to open the door. It doesn’t move. My fangs are pushing through my gums. The children have not noticed my presence. The boy continues to struggle to open the door.

“Let me try it!” The girl says.

“Hang on,” the boy says as he flips his towel around his neck like a scarf.

“Let me see it!” The girl says as she reaches out for the door handle with both hands.

I step up quickly and as silently as possible grab a handful of the girl’s wet hair. I yank her head back and bite into her neck. I wrap my other hand around her mouth to muffle the screams. I feed. The boy hasn’t yet noticed me. The door makes a clicking sound, and the boy pushes it open. With my mouth still on the girl, I reach out and grab the towel around the boy’s neck, pulling him toward me, covering his mouth before he can make a sound. As the hotel room door slowly closes, I hear the shower running, a woman is singing. I finish with the girl and let her thin, cold frame drop to the floor. I rip the towel from around the boy’s neck. The door closes completely. He fights me, frantically kicking and punching. With one hand, I cover his mouth and with my other I grab his wrists, holding them behind his back. I bite down hard on his neck and drain him of his blood. I’m finished in a matter of seconds. I let the boy drop to the floor next to the girl. I pick up the white pool towel and wipe my mouth on it. I drop it on the face of the boy’s corpse and walk back down the hall to the moving closet.