(Copyright 1996 Linda Shafer)
CHAPTER ONE
Michael Namath leaned against the wall by the doorway of the
emergency waiting room, oblivious to the anxiety etched on the
faces of the people sitting inside, awaiting some word of their
relatives's and friends's conditions. His attention was instead
focused on the television set mounted on the wall in the corner
of the room, tuned to the all night movie station. The scene was
from an old classic monster movie; the character on the screen
had ignored the village folks's pleas not to go on with his
journey, and was standing before the castle and its unmoving,
menacing-looking host in the black garb. Michael was riveted to
the movie for a time, but after awhile, feeling self-conscious,
he glanced around the room to see if anyone had noticed his keen
interest. No one seemed even vaguely aware of his presence, and
he decided to leave well enough alone and make his exit. His
involvement with the movie was becoming just a bit too self
incriminating. Besides, his break was nearly over and he had to
return to work.
Michael strode through the corridors and different wards of
the hospital, going about his required tasks. A hospital
orderly's job really didn't pay a great deal, but that was no
great concern for Michael. Other than keeping a small apartment
and maintaining an abundance of magazine and journal
subscriptions, he had few expenses. His kind had no real need or
desire for money or material possessions. He had arranged for
his shift at the hospital to begin slightly past sunset and last
never more than eight hours. His inflexible schedule allowed him
sufficient time to attend to his true needs prior to returning to
his abode slightly before sunrise. This night, he felt an
exceptionally intense craving gnawing at him, probably the result
of his watching part of the old Dracula movie. He finished his
shift, clocked out at the appointed time, and walked the streets
until he happened across an unfortunate young woman. After
completely draining her body of blood and leaving her for dead,
he hurried to his apartment and went to his coffin that he kept
in his bedroom. He raised the lid and gently lowered his body
into the coffin, feeling sated.
* * *
It was Michael's habit (when he rose at sunset) to check his
mailbox for the usual barrage of magazines. He sorted through
the stack, deciding which ones to take into work with him to
read. He typically took advantage of the coffee and lunch breaks
to read his magazines, and had become somewhat of an expert on a
vast array of subjects. Whenever his co-workers managed to pull
him away from his reading material, his knowledge of so many
different areas fascinated them and triggered a variety of
lengthy discussions. From time to time, some fellow worker
questioned him as to why, since he seemed to be such an
intellectual, he was content in remaining an orderly. In answer,
Michael always shrugged his shoulders, gave a big close-mouthed
smile, and said nothing.
Despite his aloof nature, he was well-liked by his co-
workers and got along well with them. One worker, a nurses's
aide on the third floor, particularly cared about him. Alicia
Evans, a petite brunette with huge hazel eyes, had tried
unsuccessfully to gain Michael's attention. Each night when he
appeared on her floor, she struck up a conversation in hope of
seeing some spark of interest from him. He dutifully answered
all her questions, engaged in some degree of her small talk,
finished his work, and left. Each night she watched him until he
was out of sight, shaking her head and sighing, but never ready
to entirely give up. His cool, quiet demeanor intrigued her;
Alicia regarded him as a challenge, with the looks of a lady-
killer. He was tall with a slight build, had thick, black-brown
shiny hair, a young, unlined face whose jawline curved subtly
upward, a dark complexion, and eyes so dark they were nearly
black, with such a piercing glare that it was unsettling to stare
directly into them. Alicia was convinced that someday the two of
them would share a very unique relationship.
On his way into work the next night, Michael reflected on
his existence as he walked the three miles from home. Few
mortals had found the contentment with their lifestyle that he
enjoyed. He could not understand the attitude that a being of
his sort lived under a terrible curse, and only found freedom in
the eternal sleep that resulted from ultimate destruction.
Michael shuddered at the thought. Fortunately, the popular
notion that vampires live only in literature, plus the fact that
he held a job and appeared to live as a human, kept his identity
well concealed. He kept the authorities in a state of confusion
by never striking in any specific area, and no coroner had yet
managed to establish the real fate of his victims. With his
continued sustenance, the income from his job supporting his
genuine fondness for reading and his resting place, he was truly
happy. Not bad for a modern day vampire, mused Michael, not bad
at all.
Arriving at the hospital, Michael clocked in and began his
night's work. It soon became apparent that many of the hospital
staff were depressed about something. Passing through the third
floor, Alicia called out to him, as usual.
"Michael, have you heard yet? Trevor Jenkins was readmitted
a few hours ago. He's not expected to live through the night."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Michael replied simply.
"He's in an awful lot of pain; his medicine's not helping
much this time. There's just nothing else we can do," she
continued sadly, with her eyes lowered.
"Well, at least maybe he won't suffer many more hours," said
Michael, shaking his head, successfully mustering mock concern.
He stood silently for a second or two, then walked on down the
hall.
Trevor Jenkins was a young AIDS patient, only 16, who had
been seriously injured three years earlier in an automobile
accident. His cheerful disposition and invincible spirit had won
the hearts of the entire staff, and they had affectionately
nicknamed him T.J. After several surgeries and months of
physical therapy, T.J. was rebuilding his life when he developed
a respiratory infection and other nagging symptoms. His doctor
had suggested an AIDS test, which turned out positive.
Evidently, he was given tainted blood during one of his
lifesaving surgeries. His family and the hospital staff had
dared to hope that T.J., with his upbeat attitude toward life,
could beat the dreaded disease, but in spite of everyone's
valiant efforts, his condition only worsened. Now as he lay
dying, the mood of all the hospital workers who knew and grown to
love T.J. was nothing but grimness and grief.
Fools, thought Michael, as he observed the pathetic behavior
of the humans around him. Sure the kid was terribly sick and
would die, and what Trevor was going through was far worse than
what happened to his victims. (They all died quickly, because he
opted to never call again on the same person; he considered that
method the least traceable). For the most part, Michael had
learned to tolerate the humans around him well enough, but human
emotion, especially compassion and grief, was another thing that
he could not understand. He always regarded personal involvement
with the patients as a mistake. He believed it made the workers
less effective and affected their job performances. He saw no
reason to inflict any undue discomfort or pain on the patients
with whom he worked; he was no sadist. Causing them pain for
pain's sake was not the function that humans best served for
Michael.
The end of Michael's shift was approaching when, as he was
walking through a hallway, he detected a faint voice, barely
audible, coming from one of the patients's rooms. He stopped and
doubled back until he located the correct room. Stepping inside,
the patient in bed could be heard pleading softly for help.
"Please somebody come. Somebody please help me. Please
somebody..." begged the person.
Michael switched on the overhead light and walked over to
the bed. "All right. What do you need?" he asked.
"Help. Please help."
"Okay. Help's here," said Michael.
The patient moved his head slightly to look at Michael. A
sunken pair of eyes stared up at him, glazed and empty. The
wasted body, skeletal thin from the ravages of some hideous
disease, seemed to tear with each ragged breath it drew. The
wretched form that lay in the bed was Trevor Jenkins.
Trevor's chest heaved as he took another breath. He
swallowed once and opened his mouth to speak. "Thanks." His
voice was little more than a weak rasp now. "Stay with me. I
don't wanna die alone."
"I'll get the nurse."
Terror filled Trevor's otherwise vacant eyes. "No. Don't
leave me. Don't go."
"I must get a nurse," Michael told him firmly.
"No. Don't leave. Please. Hold my hand. Please," Trevor
pleaded.
Reluctantly, Michael reached out to hold Trevor's hand.
With his free hand, Michael pressed the call button to the
nurses's station.
"Thanks. Thank you." Trevor closed his eyes in relief.
After a moment, he opened them and looked dully up at Michael.
He wheezed a couple more breaths and swallowed again before he
made another attempt to speak. Then his lips moved as he
whispered, "They're right, you know."
"What? Who's right?"
"Those Jehovah's Witnesses. They're right. About not
taking blood."
"Blood?" echoed Michael. He narrowed his eyes at the youth
and then asked coldly, "What are you talking about?"
Trevor coughed several times and gasped before he could
answer Michael. Finally he replied, "They're right about never
taking blood. That's how I got it. They gave me blood in an
operation and I got AIDS from it. You should never take blood."
Michael blinked and stood perfectly still. He said
absolutely nothing. The last shred of Trevor's strength was
gone, and the last bit of his life energy went into the struggle
for each breath he drew. Michael suddenly became aware that
Trevor's room was filled with people. The nurses had all
gathered, and his exhausted family surrounded his bed. They had
been summoned from the waiting room, where they had been making a
futile attempt to get some rest. Trevor's parents stood at the
opposite side of his bed. His mother began gently stroking the
suffering boy's face; his father clasped Trevor's other hand in
both of his own. All in the room looked on in silent vigil as
they listened to Trevor's breathing grow continually weaker and
less frequent, until finally, the body in the bed lay completely
still. His parents sobbed uncontrollably and turned to embrace
each other. The nurses wept openly; some hugged each other for
comfort. Alicia was among the mourners present, standing with a
fist held against her mouth, softly crying T.J.'s name over and
over again. The only dry eyes in the room belonged to Michael.
He stood stoically and stared down at Trevor. Slowly, he
released Trevor's hand and placed it on the lifeless body. He
looked over at the clock on the wall; it was past time for him to
leave work. He turned away and calmly left the room.
Michael clocked out and had nearly reached the exit when he
heard hurried footsteps behind him. Someone called out to him,
"Young man--sir--may I speak with you? A moment, please?"
Michael turned around to find Trevor's father. "Yes, sir?"
"I...we...T.J.'s mother and I...we just want to thank you
for...If you hadn't heard him, he would have died alone." The
man babbled on, "He wasn't able to call a nurse. We should never
have left him alone." Trevor's father trembled as he finished,
"Because of you, at least he didn't die alone." He extended his
hand to Michael, who accepted the man's handshake and nodded
wordlessly at him. Then he watched as Trevor's father whirled
around and scurried away.
Outside, free of the hospital's stifling atmosphere, Michael
bounded through the welcome night air. The maudlin display of
emotions exhibited by the humans nauseated him. He was annoyed
at having been forced to witness the entire episode, and
disgusted with himself for not immediately ringing the nurses's
station when he entered Trevor's room, instead of agreeing to
hold the boy's hand. He then decided not to dwell on the matter
anymore; it was his time now, and he had to take care of himself.
Michael circled through the streets several times before he
spotted a woman on River Road, who looked as if she was in her
late thirties. He had almost settled for a male victim before he
found her, since he was running later than usual due to the
trouble at the hospital. He nearly always picked women, because
they were easier targets, and for some inexplicable reason that
puzzled Michael, the experience was always more pleasant when a
woman was involved.
The woman was standing near her car, stirring frantically
through her purse as Michael approached her. When he was close
enough for her to hear, he asked, "May I be of some assistance?"
She jumped at the sound of his voice and looked up to see
Michael coming closer. "No, I, uh, I'm just looking for my
keys," she began nervously. She hastened her search for her keys
as she continued, "I know they're here. They're just..."
Her voice dropped off as she caught sight of Michael's gaze
and froze. He was standing directly in front of her; he reached
out and expertly guided her into his arms. Her purse fell to the
pavement with a thud as he bared her neck and angled her body
backward. He lowered his mouth and had just started to sink his
teeth into her skin, when suddenly he thought he heard something.
He lifted his head and looked swiftly around while continuing to
clutch his prize, but saw nothing. Then Michael blinked and
stood perfectly still; the image of Trevor Jenkins in his
hospital bed flooded his mind. Trevor's words haunted his entire
consciousness and he stood rooted to the spot.
"They're right, you know. Those Jehovah's Witnesses.
They're right about never taking blood. That's how I got it.
You should never take blood."
Trevor's words careened in Michael's thoughts and his mind
reeled from the powerful memory. After a few minutes, the woman
in his arms shifted slightly and softly moaned. Her sound and
movement jolted him back to reality. He looked down at the woman
he held captive.
Michael released her; he pushed her away from him and
staggered backward. "I-I-I'm sorry. I...excuse me," he
stammered to the woman and to himself. He turned and rushed
away, leaving the woman standing, swaying in her stupor.
Michael bolted as quickly as he could back to the haven that
his apartment offered. He didn't understand anything about what
had gone so wrong. He was shaken and bewildered by Trevor's last
words and the whole incident. He shook as he fumbled his key in
the lock, and finally his apartment door opened. Michael pushed
through, slamming and locking the door behind him. He ran
straight to his coffin and jumped inside; he grabbed the lid and
yanked it down, shutting it with a bang. Maybe he could sort
things out later.
(Copyright 1996 Linda Shafer)
CHAPTER TWO
Bewilderment was slowly being joined with fury when Michael
rose. He had never before failed. He tried to understand why or
how it happened, and he was angry at himself because he had
allowed it to happen. It was utterly senseless. He felt no
warmth for Trevor Jenkins; his death was inconsequential for
Michael. It had not been an attack of conscience on his part for
the woman. He felt no regret or sorrow toward any of his
victims. Their blood was vital to his existence, and it was
totally irrational for him to be disturbed by the possibility of
contracting AIDS from the blood that he took. He had never been
subject to any of the ailments that plagued humans. It was
unreasonable that such a notion could bother him now.
Michael walked in stony silence as he went to the hospital.
Passing by the first floor lab after he arrived, Jim Stratton
leaned out the door to the lab and hollered out to him.
"Hey, Namath, has the world ended and nobody told me?"
Michael stopped to stare at Jim. "What?"
"Man, where are all your magazines? You couldn't have
forgotten to bring all your junk to read!"
Michael was nonplussed as to how to answer Jim. In his
agitated state, he had forgotten to even check the mail for his
precious reading materials and had showed up at work empty-
handed. After a bit, he faked a good-natured smile and thought
of a convincing lie.
"Aw, nothing new came today, and I've read everything else
I've got."
Jim gave Michael a horse grin and a jovial laugh. "Okay!
Just checkin', fella." With that, Jim popped back in the lab and
Michael continued his trek through the hall.
I've got to be more careful, Michael scolded himself
angrily, and I've got to pull myself together. Another slip like
that and they'll all know something is wrong. He forced himself
to regain his composure and maintain his usual calm appearance.
Inside, he still churned with rage and confusion.
Michael worked on through the night, keeping his face a
mask, so he would not expose the way he really felt. Usually his
magazine breaks and his work activities kept him occupied enough
that the hours passed by without notice, but this time his inner
turmoil made his shift creep by so slowly that he refused to look
at a clock until he was certain it was nearly over. The
remaining dismal mood of his co-workers over Trevor's death had
only served to irritate and remind him of the previous night's
occurrence, fueling his frustration even further. Missing his
nightly nourishment had left him feeling woozy. By the end of
his shift, Michael knew he had to find another human for his use,
and this time he had to see it through without fail. Never
again, he fumed to himself, I must never again allow anything
about these humans and their world to interfere with my personal
life. He clocked out and left the hospital as he did on any
other night.
He stalked the streets and alleys in downtown Louisville.
It had been some time since he had struck in that vicinity, and
he believed it was safe to return to the location. The walk from
the hospital and the fresh air helped to clear his mind and ease
some of his tension. Michael actually began to relax a little.
Maybe he had been too hard on himself; after all, it was probably
impossible to live and work among humans and be totally
unaffected by their actions and bizarre behavior. He directed
his attention fully to finding his new prey; the anticipation of
his catch wiped away the rest of his lingering self-doubt.
He rounded another corner and saw a teenage girl with long
blonde hair waiting at a bus stop at Brook and Broadway. Michael
came near her and said, "Beautiful night, isn't it, Miss? Won't
you walk with me?"
"Oh, no, thank you, I have an early morning...", she
started, but as she spoke, he leaned forward and grabbed her arm.
"Please, let me go! No, I can't!" she protested fearfully.
"It's all right. Come with me," Michael told her evenly,
looking straight in her eyes. The girl quieted, allowing him to
take her by the hand and lead her away into a darkened alley.
Secluded from the streetlights, he turned the girl so she faced
him and grasped her waist, pulling her solidly against him. He
brushed her golden hair away from her neck and dropped his mouth
to her skin.
Michael froze and blinked; the scene of Trevor Jenkins in
the hospital bed returned to his mind in a tremendous surge.
"They're right, you know. Those Jehovah's Witnesses.
They're right about never..."
Michael threw his hands over his ears and stumbled backward
from the girl. Gnashing his teeth, he doubled over and began
quaking violently. "NO! NO! NO!" he roared into the night. He
slung himself to the ground and rolled from side to side, gasping
and fighting to regain control. Momentarily, he caught sight of
the girl, still standing in her trance. He twisted and wrestled
himself upright again a few feet from the girl. He stood shaking
with his hands clenched into tight fists, glaring at her.
Suddenly, he pitched forward and seized her savagely, landing on
her with such force that she was knocked down. His arms gripped
and crushed her body, the intense pain of the attack jarring her
back into awareness. She screamed in agony and terror at the
monster on top of her. Michael rammed a flattened hand into her
face and against her mouth to silence her. He jerked her
shoulders upward at the same time, snapping her neck with a
sickening crack, and he ripped his teeth deeply into her throat,
spurting her precious blood onto the asphalt.
When he had salvaged as much of her blood as he could,
Michael climbed off her broken, bloodied body. He hovered over
her, staring at the carnage for which he was responsible; she had
been a really beautiful girl. Now she lay crumpled and lifeless;
blood was smeared across what remained of her neck, leaving her
blouse and once lovely golden hair stained from the scarlet
river. Her eyes were open, wearing an eternal expression of raw
horror.
Michael slowly pushed himself to his feet, feeling jittery
from the whole thing. He gave his mouth a quick cleansing swipe
with his sleeve, and after one last backward glance at the
victimized girl, he blundered off for the solace of his
apartment.
(Copyright 1996 Linda Shafer)
CHAPTER THREE
When Michael awoke at sunset, he laid despondently in the
darkness for quite some time. The events of the previous night
danced tauntingly in his mind. Visions of the slaughtered girl
tormented him. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut in a vain
effort to block out the overwhelming memories. He had never
before brutalized any human. He had always allowed them the
dignity of a clean, humane death; the hypnotic state he induced
upon his humans created a dreamlike condition in which they felt
little or no pain. They simply drifted off into a peaceful
sleep. Working in the hospital, he had seen many people suffer
terribly before they died. He had often thought all humans were
entitled to the opportunity of enjoying a death as serene as the
one he granted his humans. He had denied the teenage girl the
right to a pain-free, easy death. Michael had permitted the
madness that possessed him to overtake his senses, and he had
ruthlessly murdered her.
Finally, he arose and stepped from his coffin. He felt his
way over to the wall, found the light switch, and flipped it on.
Michael looked down at his hands; dried blood encrusted his
fingers and fouled his shirt sleeves. The skin around his mouth
felt tight. It was obviously there, too. He went to the sink
and washed, watching as the bloody water disappeared down the
drain, then gathered clean work clothes and showered. Michael
honestly didn't know how he would cope with his job. It was just
too much for him to handle this time. When he had finished
dressing, he sat down dejectedly and cupped his head in his
hands. He couldn't go on any longer; Trevor Jenkins's words
would continue to vex him until he got to the root of the real
trouble. Michael realized now that he had to admit to himself
the exact nature of his problem if he was to solve it. Blood was
his sole existence. Despite the vicious way he had killed his
last victim, he still had no qualms about taking blood from the
humans. However, he now understood that once and for all, he had
to settle the question of whether or not he, like the humans,
could contract AIDS from blood. Evidently, at some point in his
life, Michael had been human, too, although he couldn't remember
it, and he was still glad he was not one of them, even with all
the worries he was facing. Since he had once been human, had he
retained the human vulnerability for catching diseases? Because
he had never been sick in his present life, he had always assumed
that not being human protected him from their maladies. Had he
simply been lucky, or had he not yet encountered the disease that
he was capable of getting?
Michael didn't know the answers to these questions. What
bothered him even more than not knowing was whether or not he
could find the answers. He looked over at the clock on his
living room table; he was already late for work. He got up,
walked across the room to the table, opened its drawer and
removed a slip of paper. Michael closed the drawer and walked to
his apartment door. He paused for a moment, then opened the door
and went to his telephone that he kept in the hallway. After
dialing the number written on the paper, he reported that he
wasn't feeling well and he would not be coming into work.
Sticking the paper in a pants pocket, he hung up the phone and
headed for the mailbox. Perhaps he couldn't find the answers he
needed, but at least he knew where to start looking.
* * *
Returning to his apartment, Michael climbed the stairs
rather cautiously. His arms were laden with his two days's
supply of mail. He had found the newest issue of a medical
journal among many other magazines, and it promised a story on
the latest knowledge of AIDS and the newest research on it.
Michael's mood had brightened a bit when he saw the cover, but he
wondered if anything could help him with his dilemma. The other
periodicals he held were normally ones he enjoyed reading, but
tonight they seemed to be nothing more than a nuisance. He
reached the top of the stairs and struggled with the doorknob
until it turned. Michael walked through the doorway and shoved
the door shut with his toe, then plopped his load in the middle
of the floor. He turned on a couple more lamps and flopped down
in the floor with his materials. He located the AIDS article in
the medical magazine, shoved all the others aside, and began his
night of study.
The journal article proved to be a disappointment, just as
Michael had feared. It was long and involved, and although it
was interesting, it had nothing in it to reveal whether or not a
non-human, non-animal could contract AIDS, and had wasted too
much time. Fortunately, Michael had saved every book and
magazine he had ever acquired, believing that they might be
needed for future reference, and he had them neatly divided into
assorted categories. No library anywhere could have possibly
equaled his precise system of organization for his prized
materials. Michael had them all carefully listed and filed as to
their exact location, so at any given time he could check his
records and find whatever he wanted. The walls in the living
room, and in the bedroom, were covered with floor to ceiling
shelves filled with his books, papers, and such. He had slowly
and meticulously erected his shelving and created his personal
library in his free time on his occasional nights off from the
hospital. It was here that Michael hoped to find the solution to
his problem that he desperately needed to solve. He got up and
went over to the spot where he kept his library index. Michael
located and pulled all of the relevant medical journals, his
books and articles on the occult, everything he had that was
written on vampirism, and anything else that seemed to be even
remotely connected to the subject at hand. He took all of it and
laid it by the smaller pile that came in the mail, picked out
another journal, and resumed his reading.
Michael had read nonstop for hours when his aching back and
shoulders and tired eyes were beginning to get the best of him.
He put his book down, rolled over on his back and stretched out
flat. He rubbed his eyes and massaged his stiff neck. After a
minute, he turned his head and looked at the size of the stack of
material he had finished. Then he glanced at what remained to be
studied; he only had another article and a couple more magazines
waiting for him. He sat up and quickly skimmed through the rest.
It was as he had suspected; there was nothing to be learned that
could help him answer his questions and relieve his fears. He
had spent nearly all night poring over vampire stories, medical
information, the Surgeon General's booklet on AIDS and other AIDS
pamphlets and sorting through other things that weren't even
related. The vampire stories were, for the most part, silly and
downright insulting. Most of the human authors were ignorant
about the realities of being a vampire; there were no serious
writings on the subject, and certainly no indications anywhere of
the possibility of vampires getting human illnesses. The medical
information had been entirely useless and had taught him nothing
he had not already known about AIDS. Pamphlets on AIDS gave only
basic facts on the disease, concerning the various methods of
transmission. Intravenous drug usage with shared needles was
mentioned, along with sexual contact with an infected person,
babies born to infected mothers, and exposure to the body fluids
of a person infected with AIDS. Michael believed that the
hospital's policy requiring the workers to wear gloves when they
were exposed to body fluids probably protected him from that
risk, but he felt his stomach knot and twist when he read the
sections on the possibility of the HIV virus in the blood supply.
He also knew that the supply the brochures were referring to was
the one in which the blood had been tested before it was given to
people, the safer way to take blood. Michael knew absolutely
nothing about his victims's actions or lifestyles. He had no
idea about their identities, and he had never found any reason
why he should care. He had no way of knowing whether or not the
blood he took from the humans had been contaminated by HIV, the
AIDS causing virus. The AIDS pamphlets had also given an
extensive list of symptoms of the disease, which Michael knew all
too well from his hospital experience. He had seen the pitifully
thin bodies of the AIDS patients, the continuous fatigue they
felt, their recurrent infections and fevers, bouts with pneumonia
and the ugly purple lesions on their skin. None of it had really
fazed Michael; these people were only patients, just a part of
his job. Their suffering had not mattered to him, until now,
when he thought there might be a chance that he could get AIDS
and go through the same thing. Many of them went in and out of
the hospital for awhile. In time, their stays got longer, the
patients growing weaker and sicker. Some of them dwindled away
rather quickly, some seemed to be real fighters and stayed
healthier longer than many people with AIDS, but the worst ones
were the patients who seemed to linger on in endless agony. They
begged for death to come, sometimes lasting weeks longer than
anyone thought it possible for a body to remain alive in such a
condition, seemingly rejected by both life and death. Some were
hooked to monitors, respirators, feeding tubes, and all manner of
life-preserving equipment while their bodies refused to die.
Sometimes, if they were yet conscious, they were no longer lucid,
their brains having been invaded by the AIDS virus.
Michael clenched his eyes shut and curled up in a tight ball
at the thought of himself becoming like that. Providence had at
least enough mercy that ultimately, the patients died from their
affliction.
A new thought slowly formed and imprisoned Michael's mind,
paralyzing him by the implications that came with it. Had he
become so human by living and working as one of their kind that
he could catch AIDS from blood as they did, and if he had, was he
human enough to die? Michael knew that there was only one sure
way to kill a vampire. As horrendous as AIDS was, if he caught
it, he knew that he could not die from it no matter how sick he
became. The full impact hit him squarely now; he could only keep
getting weaker and sicker, until he could do nothing but lay in
his coffin and worsen throughout eternity. He would not be able
to get the blood he needed, and he would have no one to help him.
He would be completely alone and isolated forever, unable to even
move.
Michael sat curled in the floor among the heaps of books and
magazines with his head tucked between his knees. His thoughts
were unbearable. He wished now that he had gone into work; he
had not accomplished anything except to make himself more
miserable than he already was and mar his record for perfect
attendance. He raised his head, opened his eyes, and looked
around at the mess he had made. He slowly rose from the floor,
and began picking up his scattered materials and putting them
away in their proper places. When he had finished, he looked at
his clock. He still had enough time before sunrise to find a
human for his needs, and he knew he would pay for it the next
night if he didn't go out hunting. Michael felt empty and
desolate, and he didn't care how he would feel later. He walked
over, switched off his lamps and his ceiling light, and locked
the door. Then he turned and went into his bedroom to his
coffin, raised the lid, and crawled inside to wait for the next
night.
contact lshafer@aye.net if you are interested in this story