Unmade: A Neo-Nihilist Vampire Tale (7 page)

            When
he woke up she was gone. It was night and he felt drained. His stomach grumbled
and his ribs felt like fire burning in his abdomen. He laid there wondering
abut the woman that he had slept with the night before. He didn’t feel
particularly sated. As a matter of fact, he felt like throwing up. That would
be bad for his destroyed ribs.

When did she
leave? When did he pass out? Had he simply lost consciousness when his memories
ended or had he continued like a mindless zombie. Despite the conversation from
the night before, he wondered what her name was. Hell, he couldn’t even
remember if she was a good fuck. It was Monday morning. Was she walking around
her work this morning talking about how she fucked a man into unconsciousness?
He would have wagered his soul that she worked at a record store or some place
that sold ladies’ lingerie; not the kind of lingerie rich matrons buy, but the
slutty kind, the kind prostitutes and strippers buy.

            He
felt salty, as if he had been sweating in his sleep but had slept so long that
the sweat had dried. He wondered what type of moon made its way across the sky
tonight. Was it a full moon or a new moon? Was it gibbous or waning? His head
rolled to the side in an attempt to shake his mind loose from its current line
of thinking. He gasped as the skin on his neck stretched.

            He
reached with his hand to try and immediately diagnose the problem. With the
pads of his fingertips, he felt a scaly lump on his neck; he remembered a quick
flash of what had caused the aberration on his throat. He got up to look at
himself in the bathroom mirror. Walking across the tiny space of his apartment
was only slightly less painful than the act of getting himself up off the bed.
Each step seemed a mile, and his battered body cried for him to lay back down
on his bed and sleep for another day.

            He
paused at the threshold of the bathroom, struggling to find the light switch.
He wondered if he had turned off the lights or is she had before she left. The
lights poured on with the intensity of the sun, stinging his eyes. He hid his
face in the crook of his arm, looking down at his feet from the shadowy
protection his arm gave him. When his eyes were well-adjusted he peeked out at
his reflection in the mirror. What he saw was a masterpiece of brutality; a
face so pale that the blue spidery veins of his face were plainly visible underneath
the tautness of his skin. His eyes were sunk into his skull and surrounded by
two rings of purplish black. He stumbled forward into the radiance of the
bathroom and leaned his weight on the sink as he studied the transformation of
his face. After he was finished being horrified at his new face, he tilted his
head to the side to get a peek at the wound that had brought him into the
bathroom in the first place.

            A
brick-brown blotch of scaly scab hung on the side of his neck. He gasped as he
noticed the pattern of the wound; the scabs had welled up and solidified around
two holes in the side of his neck. He could still see the purplish imprint of
the woman’s regular teeth in two semicircles that were only broken by the two
puncture wounds on his neck. He began to laugh.

            It
didn’t take him long to figure out he was a vampire. The rumblings in his
stomach reached an almost feverish pitch. He caught himself looking down at his
stomach a couple of times to make sure it was still even there. He had no food
in his meager kitchen and it felt like it was two in the morning. There
wouldn’t be any grocery shopping tonight. He decided to walk up to the
McDonald’s he had eaten at on the way back from the car rental place.

            It
was a long walk and he didn’t feel especially up to the task of walking, but he
managed to wrangle his shoes onto his feet. Tying them was a different matter
altogether. The fire in his ribs prevented him from bending over and tying his
shoes. Instead, he had to lean to the side, laying one lace over the other and
pulling them tight with one hand. If this kind of crap was going to keep
happening, then he would have to make it a point to get some Velcro shoes.

            After
he was finished with his shoes, he managed to slide into a pair of pants
without too much difficulty. He looked around for his keys and set out into the
cool night air. Walking became a whole lot easier once he managed to get down
the stairs. He shuffled down the street like an old man, underneath the glow of
the neon lamps. His steps were small and measured to ensure no unnecessary
jostling of broken body parts.

            The
dry, gum-spotted pavement moved underneath his feet like a conveyor belt, a
slow-moving conveyor belt. All he had to do was make it up the hill and across
the highway overpass and then it was all downhill to the McDonald’s... until he
had to come back. Maybe he would feel better after he got something to eat. He
was beginning to sweat from the strain of prolonged controlled movement. The
cool night air rushed over his now steaming head as streetlights splashed his
face causing him to bring his arm up like Bela Lugosi shielding his eyes from a
crucifix.

            As
he crested the top of the hill and set foot onto the bridge, he stumbled and
fell to his knees. He wondered what people would think of him if they saw him.
Would they think he was simply a drunk stumbling down the street? He supposed
it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was getting some food and
getting back to his apartment to rest. He wished he had a book or something to
keep him occupied while he rested at his apartment. Then he remembered that
some bum had jacked his lamp from him. He didn’t much care for sitting on the
bathroom toilet and reading a book. The most comfortable position for his body
right now was flat on his back. All of the sudden he wished Portland was like New York in the movies. Movie New York was filled with all sorts of restaurants that would
deliver food to your apartment; Chinese food, Thai food, Italian food, even
some delis.

            Portland wasn’t like that though; none of Oregon was like that. After 10 o’clock, if you wanted food in Portland, you had to get up off your lazy ass and go find a fast
food place. They were the only places open besides bars and as good as a beer
sounded right now, he was pretty sure that getting drunk and stumbling around could
only worsen his condition.

            He
finally composed himself enough to attempt standing up. He sucked in a deep
breath and shifted the weight of his body so that he could slip off of the curb
and onto his knees. For a second, he imagined that he looked like a Muslim who
was about to begin praying, except for the fact that he was facing north.

            Once
he was on his knees, he put one leg bent out in front of him so that he was
only resting on one knee. He then contracted his muscles and raised himself
from the ground. It was a painstaking process full of constant sharp pain, but
he had done it. He took his time as he attempted to finish the short walk
across the freeway overpass. He paused to lean against the fence that kept the
crazies from splattering themselves all over the freeway. He had to catch his
breath; this whole adventure was really more tiring than he had thought it
would be. He watched as the red tail lights of cars hurtled into the distance
and around a corner to disappear. Even at this hour the highway had a steady
flow of traffic and the roar of the highway was a constant in his ears. He
leaned his face against the wire mesh trying to push his way through. He
wondered if he had it in him to climb over the fence. It was a hell of a way to
go, all smashed up and spread out over a freeway. He put the thought out of his
head for the time being. If he was going to kill himself it was going to be
with a full stomach. Even those bastards on death row got to die with a full
stomach.

            He
continued on his way to the downtown McDonald’s leaving the prospect of
permanent rest behind. He cruised among the skeletal remnants of empty office
buildings and parking garages. Even though they were empty, many of them still
blazed with fluorescent lights just as if they were filled with diligent
employees slaving away for broad multinational corporations that had the type
of money to waste on keeping an office building’s lights blazing 24 hours and
seven days a week.

            He
passed the huddled mass of a bum who was curled up inside a sleeping bag. You
had to admire the man that could go to sleep on the sidewalk without the fear
of some crazy bastard coming along and stomping his brains in. He wondered if
the man inside the sleeping bag was really fearless or if he had just passed
out drunk. He guessed it didn’t matter.

            He
had once tried to sleep on the sidewalk in a sleeping bag. It had been at the
gas station in Scappoose. The owner had paid someone to come in and strip the
floors of the mini-mart portion of the gas station. The store itself was
closed. He couldn’t even go inside while the two men that were cleaning the
floor were doing their business. The only reason he had been there was to keep
people from going inside while the doors were open and to make sure the floor
guys didn’t take anything.

            He
had curled up on the sidewalk in a sleeping bag, because it had been fall
outside and since it was the graveyard shift, he didn’t really have that much
to do. He hung up a “CLOSED” sign on the open front doors and curled up
underneath the overhang of the storefront. He never actually went to sleep that
night, but did learn an interesting fact: concrete is frequently referred to as
cold for a reason. Not even the thick insulation of his sleeping bag could keep
the creeping chill from his bones.

            He
gave one last glance of admiration to the huddled bum and shuffled down the
street to the accompaniment of a street sweeper that was doing its business a
couple of blocks over.

            The
streets were empty, except for the occasional car crossing intersections in the
distance. He finally rounded a corner to be greeted by the welcoming golden
glow of the McDonald’s. It was open and there were even a few people inside.
Not the type of people you’d want in your house, but people nonetheless. He
moved to the counter, fully realizing that he didn’t quite look like the type
of person anyone would want in their house.

            The
person running the counter approached cautiously.

            “May
I help you?” she asked with an air of suspicion. She looked like she was ready
to bolt at any second. He supposed Portland wasn’t as nice at night as it was
during the day. Most places weren’t.

            He
cleared his throat and placed his order: a double quarter-pounder with cheese
meal, super-sized, of course. He stood off to the side and tried to look
non-threatening while the Hispanic man in the background cooked everything up.
The lady that took his order went about prepping the place for the morning
rush. She never completely let him out of her sight, but he didn’t care. All he
could think about right now was getting something in his stomach.

            After
the quick microwave of a hamburger and the quick dip of potatoes in grease, his
food was finally ready. The lady behind the counter slid the food at him like a
jailor slides a tray of food to a prisoner. None of that bothered him. He
grabbed his tray and parked himself in front of the big glass window that
looked out onto Sixth Street. He tottered on the circular seat of a stool with
his feet touching the ground, not the most comfortable position but it was
better than sitting bent at the waist.

            He
sat for a second admiring the emptiness of Sixth Street. The people around him
disappeared and he watched as the grease from his hamburger created a circle of
transparency on the wrapper. Time to eat.

            He
started with the fries. They were hotter than he liked, but at least he knew
they were fresh. You could never be too careful with a fast food restaurant. He
certainly didn’t want to end up with a wicked case of the shits on top of his
current physical state. He had enough trouble tying his shoes; he was pretty
sure wiping his ass nonstop for an hour and a half would be just as torturous,
if not more.

            He
continued scooping fries into his mouth, wishing that he had grabbed a couple
of salt packets before he had perched himself on his precarious stool. They
were hot and they were food, but they didn’t have much in the way of flavor. It
was too much of a hassle to get off of his stool, so he put the salt idea out
of his mind and shoveled the fries into his mouth, two and three at a time. The
street sweeper trudged by without a care in the world as he devoured the last
lonely French fry.

            He
reached toward the now grease-drenched wrapper of his double quarter pounder
with cheese. He undid the wrapper and laid eyes on the mammoth burger that had
been hiding inside. A little river of brownish grease floated along a crinkle
of the wrapper at the base of the burger. Then he noticed that he didn’t have
any napkins. This was going to be a messy job and he would rather have the
napkins now than later, so he resigned himself to getting off of his almost
cozy perch and walking over to the napkin dispenser.

            He
slid his butt off of the stool without bending or twisting too much and found
his way towards the front of the store. The lady behind the counter eyed him as
he scooped out three or four napkins. She was probably expecting him to take a
handful of unneeded napkins. If he was feeling better he might have given her the
finger, but you never knew what people were going to do when you fucked with
them, and he certainly wasn’t up to any trouble at the moment. He looked at the
salt with a wistful glance before he headed back to his seat. As he turned
around, he gave the lady behind the counter a sneer just for kicks.