The Quiet Darkness

Quiet Darkness • part 13

Lieutenant Evans sat directly opposite him in a small briefing room. This was the first time they had met, and Carroll didn’t feel he had the authority to make character judgements on his superiors, a youthful trait best lost quickly, but he knew instantly he didn’t like the guy in front of him.
    Evans thought very little about who he did or didn’t like, or who did and didn’t like him. For now he just needed this officer to learn quickly how to keep his mouth shut.
    ‘So, Officer Carroll, you didn’t see the detective and the escaped prisoner actually engaged in a fire fight, or exchanging any blows? Is that correct?’
    ‘That’s correct.’
    ‘Good. Remember that. So what did you witness?’
    ‘I heard the sergeant shooting-’
    ‘How did you know it was the Sergeant Owen shooting?’ He interrupted.
    ‘Well, Sergeant Owen was the only one with a gun.’
    ‘To your knowledge. Isn’t it possible that Jose Vasquez took a weapon from one of the officers who were guarding him, and who, let’s not forget, were brutally assaulted by him in his attempt to escape?’
    ‘I suppose so, I didn’t see the prisoner make his escape.’
    ‘I see. So you heard some shots fired… I presume with the confines of the tunnels, and your distance from the fight itself that there isn’t much chance you could determine what kind of weapons these shots came from? If there were more than one weapon for instance?’
    ‘I guess not.’
    ‘So you were just presuming before?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘So after the shots, what happened?’
    ‘I ran towards th… the sound of the shots. As I got closer I heard sounds of a struggle and when I found them the sergeant was on top of the prisoner with a knife.’
    ‘You saw Detective Sergeant Owen standing over Jose with a knife?’ Evans had a way of making all statements sound doubtful, a tone one must presume all lawyers had to perfect in law school before they could graduate. ‘Jose was lying down?’
    ‘Yes, Jose was down and the Sergeant was kneeling on top of him, holding him down.’
    ‘You’re sure of this? Wasn’t it awfully dark?’
    ‘Yes, it was, but Owen was definitely crouched above the prisoner.’
    ‘Mr Vasquez.’
    ‘Yes, pardon.’
    ‘So this time he was crouched above Mr Vasquez?’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘At one point, you said “on top of” and then you said “crouched above”. Which is it?’
    ‘I’m not sure.’
    ‘It was dark?’ Evans took a pause in his berating. While he may currently hate the job he was in, he did take a guilty pleasure in making people squirm. ‘Couldn’t it be that Sergeant Owen, after shots were exchanged and the ensuing melee, neither of which you witnessed, that he was kneeling over the escapee to check his condition?’
    ‘It’s possible.’
    ‘I assure you it is, as Sergeant Owen has reported. He shot at Jose Vasquez after the escapee had fired upon him. In a dying rage the escapee charged at the Sergeant who defended himself with a knife. Blows were exchanged and Mr Vasquez fell to the ground dead. You, Officer Carroll, entered the scene at this point to see Detective Sergeant Owen checking the condition of the escapee to find him deceased. Does that statement sound true and correct?’
    ‘Yes.’ But its not what I saw.
    ‘Yes?’ Evans stressed the question mark.
    ‘Yes sir.’
    ‘Okay, go file your report with the staff sergeant.’
    Carroll left and Evans sat for a moment replaying. Fat Captain Fitzsimons came in a moment after to exchange some whispers. ‘You think he’ll be okay?’
    ‘Yeah, he’ll be fine. It was dark. He’s not a strong witness and I don’t think any of the press will make trouble.’
    ‘Family?’
    ‘They want nothing to do with it.’
    ‘Then we’re done with Vasquez.’
    ‘Yeah, we’re done. Onto the next one.’
    ‘Yeah. Okay, I’ve given them both a couple days off. Good job Lieutenant.’ Fitz exited.
    That was odd. Minor praise. Evans felt so touched he was violated.

‘Good morning all, I’m Reginald Rex and welcome to Yesterday’s News.
    ‘An unbelievable turn of events yesterday after the Vasquez sentence was handed down. Breaking free from the authorities subsequent to receiving ten consecutive life sentences he broke through to the sewer system under the courthouse and was chased down by his original arresting officer, Detective Sergeant John Owen.
    ‘Jose Vasquez was killed resisting arrest.’
    Rex turned to camera two for the more sincere sideways lean forward. ‘So, Jose the Ripper gets life after all. And rightly so it seems, as the mountain of evidence suggests he could now be officially acknowledged as this nation’s most prolific serial killer.
    ‘I’m Reginald Rex, and we’ll be right back after these messages with a detailed rundown of yesterday’s events and interviews with witnesses.’

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Quiet Darkness • part 12

Inside, Owen and Carroll took seats in a small ante-chamber beside the courtroom, watching through a tinted glass wall and over the video-feed on the wall mounted TV.
    Jose sat calmly throughout the sentencing procedure, more fascinated by the things around him than the proceedings. He twitched and followed the movements of the cameras as they twitched and followed his.
    He had that same simpleton look on his face when Owen bagged him finally.  Jose had been preying on the subways, taking his victims and disappearing into the warren of disused tracks and tunnels. Owen had been stalking him for months and developed a rough feeling for what it was like to live down there and always suspected it was the tunnels that had pushed Jose over the edge.
    Of course, Jose could see much better in the darkness than he, but it was a maddening search and ultimately fruitless. At the time the humid twisting labyrinth had suited him, but that sort of environment gets to one after a while and Owen had been claustrophobic since.
    It got to Jose eventually. Once he’d gone that step too far, one victim wasn’t enough. He’d pick a whole carriage and commit a slaughter between stops. The first time was a test. The second time he got bloody and redecorated the interior. The third time he ran into a gang that was traveling the rails for their own misdemeanors and he ran into trouble. The gang shot Jose up pretty good, but he made his escape, leaving a trail of blood for Owen to follow back to his lair.
    The tunnels were dim, lit only by slants of light that pierced from above and ricocheted off the scatter of surfaces, and occasionally with the strobe of a passing train. It was dark, but not dark enough to hide its contents.
    Jose had become an animal, a rabid and insane king of the mountain. Owen found him astride a decomposing collection of body parts, still bleeding from bullet holes and grinning out of his mind. Holding a rag over his nose, Owen approached shooting. He unloaded one cartridge after another as he climbed a step at a time up the soft forgiving pile.
    Carroll shook him roughly to break his spell, holding his arm down with an unshakeable grasp to stop him from withdrawing his weapon. ‘What are you doing?!’ he whispered fiercely.
    He’d missed the sentencing. He’d blanked out over the whole bit. ‘What did they give him?’
    ‘Multiple life-sentences. What did you expect?’
    ‘Let’s just get out of here.’
    They followed the guards as they led Jose out. Wearing irons and a full-body orange jumpsuit, but still grinning.

    The phalanx of police officers bulged out of the rear exit of the courthouse, keeping the prisoner centred between them. He could just see Jose’s head bobbing in the center of his retinue. Motherfucker was loving it. The throng crashing and shouting towards him, protected behind a wall of publicly donated bodyguards who copped most of the physical abuse and pelted objects. Fuckin’ loving it.
    They opened the back doors of the paddy-wagon and were lifting Jose in under his arms when he suddenly changed. He was like an explosion, one moment he was placid and co-operative, then he was a spray of movement that shot out in all directions. He snapped his chains and twisted free from the men holding him. Reaching down he plucked a man-hole cover from the street and swung it in a blur of motion through the circle of men surrounding him. Most took only a few broken ribs and were knocked back, one got his arm broken, one was slightly worse off.
    Owen just managed to push through the guards to see Jose’s exit. The vamp looked up with a growl, wrinkling his nose as if smelling him approach, his eyes a shaded green amidst a bloodshot lattice. With a snarl he dropped through the manhole.
    The detective rushed forward and began climbing down after him. Carroll was only a few hesitant steps behind.
    ‘Stay here,’ he shouted up at the rookie from the bottom of the ladder. ‘He might need to double back.’ He stripped off his trench coat and unhitched the Magnum he’d chosen for today. He wished he could have brought his proper gear but court security may have lifted some eyebrows. This place stinks, it stinks of shit and air not meant for breathing.
    It was like this before. Jose sure liked the tunnels, but this one didn’t lead far, not far enough for him to get away. This time, Owen swore to himself, this fucker isn’t getting away from anything.

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Quiet Darkness • part 11

It wasn’t just the press at court today. The diligent crowds that swarmed the station houses must have relocated, Jose being the only suspect for the thousands of missing people, pardon, missing relatives they all sought.
    Carroll followed a few paces behind Owen, having decided on the drive over that conversation with his new partner wasn’t as much fun as it was with other people.
    The detective hadn’t really dressed for court, wearing a battered mud-grey trench coat, black jeans and a white singlet which was the only seemingly fresh item he’d put on. He walked with a stoop and squinted uncomfortably at the daylight, casting furtive habitual glances backwards, forwards and sideways that Carroll tried to follow to see the objects of his constant suspicion.
    Owen caught sight of a Channel 4 Landrover, and Kate Greenaway squatting on the roof with the camera-man. She was always easy to spot with her wide brimmed race-course hats protecting her northern skin. They both pointed round and about, working out shots. He went over and knocked on the rooftop, calling out her name.
    ‘Stranger?’ She asked the air, before looking over the side to see him.
    ‘Hardly a stranger.’ He grumbled
    ‘Well, one week out of the news and everyone forgets your name.’
    ‘I’ll have to cause a new ruckus then.’
    ‘Is that a promise?’ She arched an eyebrow at him. ‘Today’s the day then.’
    ‘Yep. It’ll be quick.’ He assured her.
    ‘Who’s the puppy dog behind you?’
    ‘Oh, that’s Carroll. He’s part of my outreach program, get back in touch with the rest of the force you know?’
    ‘You got time for a statement?’
    ‘Sure do, but Evans has closed down on all public comment.’
    ‘Such a shame, the public love it when I get your ugly mug mouthing off. How ‘bout you meet me later, we could re-new our acquaintance?’
    ‘Probably not.’ Owen nodded at the courthouse. ‘They’ll be bringing him in and out at the south gate, no point hanging out front here.’
    ‘Thanks for the tip.’ Katie smiled and watched the pair as they muscled through the crowd.

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Quiet Darkness • part 10

Perhaps the tranquilisers were finally fading, or it was the difference of the first full night’s sleep he’d had in a while, but either way Owen felt as if he was awake after years of restless dreams.
    He let the rookie drive, and sat back, detached behind dark glasses, watching the passing buildings and avenues of summer trees. The light was just beginning to encroach, gilding all edges in a silvery gold.
    He looked his new partner over while preparing a cigarette, seeing a young man bordering on handsome, with an unruly lawn of low-lying sandy curls above blue eyes that scanned the road ahead, flicking back and forth in observant saccades.
    ‘What’s your name again?’
    ‘James Carroll.’
    ‘Are you straight out of the academy?’
    ‘No sir, I’ve been doing the beat for three years now.’
    ‘In a quiet country town somewhere?’
    Carroll answered by not answering.
    ‘What has Fitz told you about the work you’ll be doing with me?’
    ‘Not very much. He said a lot was confidential and I’d have to learn on the job.’
    ‘Not very much at all.’ Owen agreed, licking his rollie closed and sparking his lighter to excitement.
    ‘You know this is a department vehicle? You’re not allowed to smoke in here.’
    ‘I’m allowed to, for reasons that must remain confidential. What did Fitz tell you about me?’
    Carroll looked sideways, hoping it was a rhetorical question. ‘He said you were a hard case and I’d probably have a lot of trouble working with you.’
    ‘Well, that’s not too bad. What’d you feel about that?’
    ‘I guess I felt–’
    ‘Tell me later. Pull over here. I’ll head in, you park.’ Owen got out at the curb and began to wade his way through the throng outside the courthouse.

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Quiet Darkness • part 09

His eyes woke first, finding the time beside him in red faded figures. 5:43am. His mouth is dry and a long low rumble vibrates from his belly. Feeling thick and frozen at first, he begins gently swaying his limbs, trying to get the blood moving.
    That early morning show was on, Yesterday’s News; the only window on current events Owen ever saw. All the major stories from the day before digested and presented by the insipid Reginald Rex. His cheery derision of world events and the viewing public every weekday morning until 6 am. ‘Hello all you night crawlers. In case you missed it shelf-packing and pleasing the customers, the stock index plummeted a whole two points after United Shipping’s second cargo-ship got waylaid this week. Delaying the arrival of the new…’
    Christ, if that was the main story, he would switch it off now if he could lift his arms. Then they cut to it. Jose’s sentencing was today, they showed repeated footage of Jose being led from court, focusing on the defendant’s carefree expression as he was man-handled through the press gaggle outside. What is Jose playing at? Letting them push him around in hand cuffs, listening all day with that dull smirk. The death-sentence wouldn’t kill him, so he had nothing to worry about, but what was he doing letting himself be incarcerated and paraded about like that? Had he flipped out again?
    Peeling himself from the sofa, Owen begins a habitual checking of his equipment, filing down nicks, oiling the shifts and gears. Most of the equipment he had built himself, or adapted from consumer gear and fortunate acquisitions. He lingered over the modified spear gun, reloading while trying to conjure the events of the previous night. Was that a knocking at the door? Why did it feel like he was dreaming?
    The grappler was too big and indiscrete to carry around most times, but it packed a disabling punch and kept a line on them so you could drag them in. It was good to keep an anchor on them, they recovered too fast, even from a shotgun, so you had to keep them pinned to finish them off. Whoever was knocking at the door had to have gotten past the security entrance and he was known around the building as one who didn’t fraternise with the other residents.
    As he cleaned and arranged his lethal inventory, he began to establish the gaps in his memory, turning back the pages to see where he’d lost his place.
    The weapons were not laid out as he normally left them, even on nights when he did fall heavily to the couch for rest, he always kept a strict if imperceptible order. So he hadn’t gotten himself home. The last thing he remembered was preparing to kill a leech, there was blood…but that was always the last thing he remembered. There was a pounding at the door but whoever it was soon desisted.
    Now that he thought of it he couldn’t remember getting home at all.  Nor could he remember the clean up squad, the cremators, his rendezvous with the chief, all the things which normally follow one of his “arrests”. Suspicions up, he collected his Mauser, checking it was loaded before starting a room by room check. His dingy apartment seemed empty and besides the ill-arranged weaponry, as he kept it.
    His kitchen was more a make-shift chemistry lab, where he prepared his ammo and other surprises.  He checked the fridge but nothing had been taken, nothing touched.
    The bedroom was in similar disarray. An unframed mattress amidst a tumultuous sea of clothing, it was beginning to look like laundry month.
    Quickly checking the bathroom, the only thing he noticed was himself passing before the mirror — he avoided looking, choosing to snub his own visage. Slowly he felt out a small hole in the backside of his trousers, and a tender bruise beneath.
    Again the knocking started at his door and once more abated.
    The Mauser was a stout little bastard with a fat muzzle, good for close fighting and Owen cocked it ready before moving to peek through the peephole.
    A youngish man was pacing outside his door. He was thin faced and without much in the way of distinction. Lips slightly plumped in an unconscious expression of docility. He wore a cheap two piece suit and was holding a mobile to his ear, talking to no one but hoping to.
    ‘Who are you?’ he growled, pushing the door open to the limits of the short security chain.
    ‘Sergeant Owen?’ the young man spun around. ‘I’m James Carroll, I start with you today.’
    Owen physically experienced that sinking feeling.  He was a forty year old man with nothing left but his hunt — and they send him this kid!
    ‘What are you doing here? It’s early.’
    ‘Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Captain Fitzsimons asked me to pick you up. You’re needed at the Vasquez trial.’
    ‘It’s a sentencing. I don’t need to be there. Fitz just wants me nearby in case…’ His mind caught up with his tongue and he bit off the end of the sentence.
    ‘In case of what?’
    ‘Doesn’t matter. Look Carroll, come back a little later, the sentence won’t come down for hours yet. Come back at 9am.’
    ‘I understand sir, but the captain was explicit that he wanted you there are as early as possible.’
    Owen used the captain’s name for a swear-word. Shutting the door enough to pull the chain free, he opened it to his new partner. ‘Wait here, I’ll just be a moment.’

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Quiet Darkness • part 08

Every morning near dawn, at the end of the all night patrol of match-making ads, baldness cures and exercise machine informercials, tinny speakers tuned to Channel 4 around the city of Adamstown summon up a synthesised version of Grieg’s Morgenstimmung and, with too much enthusiasm for 5am, the announcement: Yesterday’s News.
    ‘Good morning city dwellers!’ A wide smiling, just-a-regular-joe thirty-something fuckface declares. ‘It’s just after five, the sun will be rising soon and I’m telling you from up here on the mountain it’s looking like another hot day, though not as hot as yesterday. In case you missed it, it was a smarmy 31 degrees with the humidity of a kettle.
    ‘I’m Reginald Rex, and now it’s time to catch up on yesterday’s news.
    ‘Today’s the day of course that Jose Vasquez’s sentence will be handed down. With closing arguments wrapping up early last Friday the jury announced after only two hours of deliberation a verdict of guilty.  This morning Judge Reynolds will be announcing what many expect to be multiple life-sentences.
    ‘Of course, the other top story over the weekend is what appears to be a similar pattern of crimes to the Jose subway killings. Here’s some highlights from the press briefing.’
    The vision cuts to the police bureau press room. At the front is a strict podium with a trim well-dressed man in his early thirties standing behind it, answering the bicker of questions that leap from the journalists before him.
    ‘Lieutenant Evans, in light of the similarities of these new crimes to the Jose killings, do you think you’re putting the wrong man behind bars, or do you think there is a copy-cat killer now on the streets?’
    ‘What I think isn’t relevant here, but I can assure you while there may be some coincidences in the nature of the crimes, namely the brutality, there is not enough similarity to consider a copycat, and we have no doubt of Mr Vasquez’s guilt, as confirmed by yesterday’s verdict.’
    ‘Are you concerned over the rising murder-rate in the city?’
    ‘Extremely concerned, but these are trends not just within our state, but across the whole country. These problems are not localised despite what you write in your editorials. Katie.’
    ‘Lieutenant, what are the chances of a straight answer to my next question?’
    ‘I’ll have to refer you to my superiors. What’s your question?’
    ‘I’m hearing reports of fighting on the streets between gangs of youths. Are the increased numbers of missing people directly related to these conflicts?’
    ‘I can’t accept your first premise, we have no record of an increase in assaults.’
    ‘These are more than assaults Lieutenant, are we in the midst of a gang war?’
    ‘We have no evidence and no reports of that nature. Check your sources and get back to me.’
    The vision cuts back to Reginald Rex, caught sipping a mug of coffee.
    ‘Pardon me.’ He apologises, pushing the mug off-camera and resuming from the prompter. ‘Will this recent spate of midnight killings declare Jose’s innocence? Not if the Chief Prosecutor has anything to do with it, declaring the current crimes as irrelevant and inadmissible. You can have your say — raise the numbers boys — we’d love to hear what the public think. Guilty 800 935 666 or not guilty: 800 935 555.
    ‘And now we go back to our ongoing investigation into the missing person phenomenon that is gripping our nation. As the numbers of missing people still rise unabated, paranoia is gripping the country with explanations as far fetched as secret epidemics to death cults. The only group without an opinion seem to be government officials. Joining us after the break will be Jerry Farmer, local branch head of the League of Lost Loved Ones, who are united in their battle to raise awareness of their campaign against the city. We’ll be right back.’

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Quiet Darkness • part 07

Lex watched the rest of the scene from above.
    A giant dark-skinned man with a rifle moved forward to drag Lex’s attacker, the man in the trench coat, off Simon’s twitching body.
    Another man, younger but needing a cane to walk, came hobbling from the shadows. He carried with him a medical bag from which he took a gallery of syringes and began drawing blood samples from Simon.
    The giant spoke into his wrist and soon after, what looked very much like a street-sweeper turned into the alley, yellow lights flashing across the wet scene. It stopped at the curious gathering and two more men, in city-services uniforms, exited and moved to the the rear of the vehicle where they then removed what appeared to be metal coffins.
    As the city-services pair took away the victim’s body, the giant wrapped Simon in loop after loop of wire, until he was trapped like a spider’s catch. He crimped the ends and then, with help from the two uniformed men, hoisted their catch into the metal tray and pushed it back into the rear of the street-sweeper. The hatch was closed, locked and latched.
    The doctor was now beside the slumped body of the trench coat man, checking his pulse and then lightly slapping his face to rouse him. The giant approached and for a moment they consulted before deciding to take the unconscious man with them. The giant had little difficulty lifting him to his shoulder and depositing him on the back seat of the sweeper.
    Their last act revealed the vehicle was not only disguised as a street-sweeper but could also perform the perfunctory functions. Its brushes spinning, water spitting out, it moved awkwardly but thoroughly over the area of the fight, removing all traces of the event.
    They then departed, lights flashing and beeping proudly.
    Curiouser and curiouser, Lex pondered from above.

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Quiet Darkness • part 06

How quickly the familiar streets turn to jungle.
    Behind the parade of the living, lies the hidden violence and terror in waiting. A tall black-bearded man in a bulky overcoat watches the movement of the crowds, looking for any slight deviation from the usual patterns, looking for that too-fast walk, that focused attention of a hunter following prey.
    Owen’s face was a grievous texture of old scars and scrapes, overgrown by the dark beard that had gone to seed on his cheeks. He had one of those black beards you could never shave off, dark enough that it was always skulking just below the surface, waiting for its first chance to sprout again. His misty grey-green eyes pursued subjects around corners, into restaurants, down alleys until they were out of sight, always calm on the surface but lurking with brutal intent when called for.
    You see, a vampire always has someone they are hunting. Like any criminal they have a modus operandi, or a type of victim they prefer. Maybe people came in different flavours, or their selection was bound by some left-over human fetish such as blonds, brunettes or young boys. Today he was after the one who liked the junkies, not too far gone with their habit and fresh with their fix.
    Owen’s case files, of which there were hundreds, consisted of scrap notes collected into folders of commonality, profiles of an ad hoc kind. Whether there was one leech or many for each folder he couldn’t say, but his only way of catching them was to watch the victims.
    It was nights like this Owen writhed in most. Stinkers with no reward. Randomly patrolling the streets for any signs of a vamp. He’d started tonight at a lack-lustre street fair, but too many people were afraid to come out these days, and those that did huddled in groups, nice and safe. Then he walked around the usual haunts, through the alleys and to Chinatown for some noodles. Then he hit the clubs district, a place of easy and eager victims, but it was a quiet night. Not a bite.
    Time and events become blurry if you repeat them often enough. After two years of this game, sleeping and eating had become the dreams and this hunt the reality. He felt as if he had never blinked, and the pursuit of these victims was unending and somewhat futile.
    The sun was coming up, throwing orange on the square-edged scene, and then his breath caught in his throat. There were two of them dining around the next corner. Busy enough not to have seen him duck back out of sight. 
    It was a humid alley, stacked with overflowing garbage cans, erupted by the day's heat, putrid lava sliming the dented metal. He took a few shallow breaths, trying not to let the smell of par-boiled refuse turn his stomach.
    Keeping a thick tubular weapon pointing forward, his left hand idled under his bulky overcoat checking off the arsenal and eventually selecting the Opus. What had started as a shooters rifle and had been steadily worked upon since. Barrel shortened, a quick reload attachment on one side and re-handled with a rubberised gauntlet that curved over his forearm. If it came to the worst, which it often did, he could club and block while still being able to fire. Loaded with special cartridges he prepared in his spare hours, the Opus was a weapon that could never be perfected enough.
    Time to move Owen.
    Launching his weight off the wall, he sprinted a few short steps to be in line of sight, firing both weapons at once and screaming a rough battle-curse. The two crouching figures startled like vultures, jerking their bloodied beaks toward him. If Owen hadn’t shot first, he might have been shredded before he closed the distance, but his primary weapon took the closest one in the back, the grapple flowing through his stomach, just as the pair were struck by the Opus’s cocktail — buckshot with a little something to make flashes and sparkles that addled their vision. He quickly fired off two more star-spangled sprays, keeping his last shot ready in case the other closed in.
    Luckily he held back, instead the vamp straightened slowly to show his height, a lean rigorous figure topped with a ragged crop of white hair. Unconcerned for his companion who was struggling desperately to pull the forked-hook from his abdomen, he casually wiped the blood trails from his chin with a precise finger and licked it clean. The detective and vamp faced each other, noting the others’ face and each silently promising to meet again.
    With a curt nod, the white-haired one pivoted on his heel and walked casually from the alley towards the street, leaving his dining partner pleading with him to come back. ‘Lex? Lex!’
    Owen gave him a tug, pulling his catch off balance and drawing a battered machete from his belt.
    He didn’t complete two paces before a bright feathered dart dived into his buttock. Instinctually he grabbed at it but fog folded around his mind as more yellow darts flew past, hitting the vamp he had pinned. A giant’s shadow loomed over his closing eyes.

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Quiet Darkness • part 05

Lex loved the windy twists of Chinatown lanes, packed with weak plywood crates and stranded cabbage leaves.
    The first one is always the hardest for a young vampire, still thinking too much like a human. Lex and Simon watched from above, three flights high, waiting for a stray to wander where they shouldn’t.
    ‘There goes one.’
    A short woman with a short future hustled hurriedly through the cross lanes. Lex dropped before her, landing with a spider’s aptitude and clamped a hand over her mouth. Her scream was stifled into his palm and he squeezed his fingertips around her jaw line to add pressure and to shut her up.
    ‘Simon, get down here.’ He shouted up, the boy still hesitant at such heights. Simon jumped, landed on his feet then fell straight on his ass.
    ‘Do we have to kill her?’
    ‘We don’t have to, and generally I’d say not to unless you’re in the mood.’
    ‘I can’t.’
    ‘Simon,’ he looked at him with flat rationality. ‘You can do whatever you want now.’
    ‘I don’t want to.’
    ‘You don’t want to feed?’ Lex stared at his useless protege for a moment longer. ‘Fine. Let me show you.’ And he shook the woman like a napkin, snapping the neck and dislocating the jaw. ‘Like so, and then, while still warm…’

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Quiet Darkness • part 04

Simon floated like a bubble, like a crazed bubble, he didn’t feel the ground beneath his feet as he grooved and spun his way across the city. He was alive, alive, how good to be alive.
    For a moment it was just his head spinning, free of his body, making him slop into a dopey stance to stabilise, and he giggled in the clumsy manner common to drunken teenage boys.
    Something like a fever was upon him. He sweated, he chilled, he didn’t give a shit. Sound and light rushed around him and all were barely overpowered by the thump of his heart. He felt like he was gliding, on a moving walkway, faster than light with only the effort of breathing. It was all so easy and in no time he was home, familiar walls and corridors folding in around his vision.
    With joy and ecstasy he smiled hugely to Josie. Josie, Josie, Josie. He danced with her, the world spinning with them. Together they mingled red with a new intimacy. She begged him to stop, but alas he could not. He took her again and again and drained her until she was silenced.
    Lifeless.
    Some part of him must have remained sane while the rest was spinning in circles, as he woke up washed, in fresh clothes and with the sugar jar money in his pocket.
    Stumbling out of the old brick apartment block, Simon walked into the trailing afternoon sunlight and gasped. It felt like his skin was imploding, each nerve sucking backwards into his flesh on needle points. He reeled into the neighbouring alley, curling into the first shadows he could find. The pain was gone instantly. He looked down at his hands, pulling his sleeves up to reveal perfectly normal skin, a little pale perhaps but otherwise unblemished.
    ‘Simon isn’t it?’ The boy looked up and found the kooky smile and spray of white hair.
    ‘Lex?’
    ‘Well met. How’s your first day going? Excruciating pain, nausea, clumsiness?’ Simon nodded to each. ‘It will pass.’
    ‘The sun…?’
    ‘The sunlight, yeah. All in your head I’m afraid. Wish I could tell you it would stop, but it doesn’t. You just have to cope, and remember it will pass.’
    ‘What’s happening to me?’
    ‘Good question — but I think better answered with a demonstration. You up for a little walk? In the shade of course?’
    Simon rose as if commanded and followed behind the lanky young man, meandering together through the interstice of alleys and lane ways, the back channels of all grottos. Lex didn’t seem to him as full of life as last night, acting more callous and carefree, but perhaps he was just as hungover as himself.
    ‘I think I had a bit too much to drink last night.’ Simon commented, trying to engage him.
    ‘I guess we all did. I’m not feeling quite myself either.’
    Lex grabbed at a ladder and swiftly clambered up eight storeys to the rooftop, shouting down for Simon to follow. He was in a bit of a daze and the climb was difficult to manage. Towards the top he could see the last shafts of sunlight slicing over the top of the ladder. Lex didn’t seem too bothered, and sat in an angle of shade cast by the elevator block.
    ‘It’s okay.’ Lex soothed and held out his hand. ‘Just move through it quickly.’ He was surprisingly strong, practically tearing Simon from the ladder and perching him on the ledge. The pain of the sunlight was fleeting but still felt like a sharp nail was being dragged across his skin.
    ‘Just ignore it.’ Lex placidly ordered. ‘Don’t hiss every time the light touches you or you’ll give yourself away.’
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘Do you trust me Simon?’
    ‘I guess, yeah. Why?’
    ‘I have to tell you, that what you’re feeling isn’t the effects of a hangover.’
    ‘You drugged me.’
    ‘Ha!’ Lex barked. ‘No, no. But you did get something that is going to change your miserable life forever.’
    ‘What?’ he asked, a stupid half grin on his face.
    ‘I’ll show you.’ Lex smiled disarmingly. ‘Now Simon, I don’t want you to be alarmed, but this is all part of the demonstration. Look down.’ Simon looked down, the alleyway was brown turning to black without the sun. Lex put a hand on his back and pushed.
    Simon had no time to fight back and plummeted over the edge. He managed to twist around as he dropped, throwing Lex a bewildered expression before hitting the bitumen and blacking out.
    Lex waited calmly at the top, swinging his legs over the ledge and puffing away on a cigarette. He didn’t need to be so cruel, but there really seemed to be no better way to get the point across that being a vampire was a wonderful thing.
    Eventually he heard the rattle of someone climbing the ladder.
    ‘What the hell did you do that for? I could have been killed.’
    ‘But amazingly you weren’t. You see my young friend, you can’t be killed — not like that anyway.’ Lex offered him a smoke and Simon gladly took the distraction.
    ‘What have you done to me?’
    ‘Simon, I have given you an opportunity, a gift. Just as that gift was given to me once. You’re practically immortal now. You won’t grow old, you’ll stay the same age forever — though you will become much much stronger and faster. The oldest vampires are even said to be able to fly.’ He had given this little pep talk too many times, it was beginning to sound like a salesman’s banter.
    ‘A vampire? So that’s what I am now? That’s bullshit.’
    ‘As you wish.’ Lex shrugged. ‘Call it what you need to, but you are now part of a very select club, and you can’t go back.’
    ‘I didn’t ask for this.’
    ‘You were crying out for it.’
    ‘My girlfriend…’
    ‘She can join us of course, though I warn you relationships do change after you’ve been risen.’
    ‘I think I might…I might have killed her.’
    ‘Ah, probably not then. Regrets?’
    Simon paused, ‘I don’t seem to, but I should.’
    ‘That is the human in you talking. First you must lose the conditioning of being human, let your new self teach you. Let your body reward and punish you and you’ll pick it up quickly enough.’
    ‘And I can’t die?’
    ‘Not as easily as before.’
    ‘I’m not sure I can cope with this.’
    ‘Well it's too late for that. You can resist all you like, but eventually you must give in and embrace this gift. Fancy a bite?’

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