Page 13 of Evil Hearts

Nosfer-Meet-You

D.J. Russo

Looks like I’mdrunk off my ass again.

Instead of propping my sorry ass up in a corner with a bottle of warm O-positive, which is what good friends would do, they throw me onto the stage in front of hundreds of strangers. Someone shoves a microphone into my hand. Everything is blurry. I can’t make out individual faces in the crowd. Hell, I’m not even sure if my nose is still attached to my face thanks to all the liquor I guzzled down.

It definitely feels like it fell off, though.

“Sing, fucker!” someone in the crowd yells.

Sing? Seriously? I’m not even sure I can right now, but better give the public what they want, right? I clear my throat and nearly retch on my boots, but then swallow the bile back down. All right. They want a show, do they? Then I’ll give ’em a show. One they won’t forget. I lift the mic to my parched lips and…

Nothing comes out.

I look out at the sea of faces all muddled together in the liquor-soaked warehouse basement and try to remember where I even am. Which club is this? Nocturne? River Styx? Someone in the back of the room screams something that sounds suspiciously like “loser” mixed with an unfortunate string of insults so colorful even I wouldn’t repeat them.

And then someone wrenches the microphone out of my hands and slaps a palm on my back.

“Watch the leather jacket,” I mumble, but I can’t even remember if I’m wearing the damn thing at this point.

A tall guy built like a brick house shoves me away, and the crowd cheers again. My friends are nowhere to be found. They probably left once they realized my sorry ass was too far gone, like last night and every sodding night before that. As I push my way through the crowd, searching desperately for the nearest bathroom to puke in, I have a moment of clarity. A spark so brief it’s basically a lightning bug of a thought.

Maybe you should slow down, buddy. Sober up. Spend your undeath a little more wisely.

Hah. Yeah, right. Like that’ll ever happen. I was turned forty-one years ago, hot on the heels of my twenty-seventh birthday in Leeds. Those first few years were literal torture as I tried to navigate my vampiric infancy the best I could without my sire to guide me. He came, ate his fill, accidentally turned me, then left. I’ve had beer-soaked hookups more intimate than that. Didn’t leave a business card or a number, either, so I have no way of getting in touch with him.

I subsisted on transients and other invisible people for a few years. Not my proudest moments. Those people didn’t deserve to die. But I didn’t deserve to die, either. It’s not like I was what you’d call a productive member of society or anything, but I wasn’t a bad person, dammit. I had a life.

Even had family. A useless family who hated me, but still. Now they’re … are they even still alive?They went no-contact with me long before I was vampified, so it doesn’t matter much. It’s not as though they’d care what happened to me. Maybe they’d even be relieved, knowing I would never darken their doorstep again to ask for rent money.

But undeath? It’s just cruel, this existence, and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. You’re alive, but not really. Circling the drain for the rest of eternity until one of the Helsings finally stakes you or you desiccate in a crypt somewhere in Italy because you’re tired of living.

After stumbling around in the dark, smelly hallway for ages, I finally come across a door labeled asMen.Okay, I think to myself, this is probably as good a place as any to puke my guts out.I throw my shoulder into the door and stumble to the mirror to check my reflection, then let out a bark of laughter.

Bloomin’ ’eck, Scotty boy, you can’t even remember you haven’t had a reflection since the eighties. Never drinking this much ever again.

I step into one of the disgusting stalls and try to ignore the strange brown goo clinging to the corner next to the toilet. The throbbing of the bass outside reverberates, but within the confines of the stall it’s almost blissfully quiet. Thank god for that. My skull feels like it’s about to implode from this week’s bad decision parade.

But that’s all ruined when a chorus of screams pulls me out of my drunken stupor.

Instinctively, I jump onto the toilet and double-check that I locked the door as the screams grow in intensity. What’s going on out there? These aren’t fun screams. They’re rife with terror, the kind you only hear when—

The door to the restroom flies open, and a crescendo of noise smashes through. My eyes widen as a hoard of people stampede into the toilets. Their shrill screams are murder on my eardrums, but there’s no time to worry about that right now.

“Holy fuck,” I breathe, and crouch down on the porcelain rim of the toilet, placing my hands and arms over my head like I’m in an airplane safety demonstration.

My stall door rattles. They’re trying to get in. Thankfully, Sugardove City’s toilet stalls are like Europe’s—no gaps to crawl under, unlike the States, otherwise I’d probably have a bigger problem than the noise.

“Let us in! Please!” a woman wails.

For a second, I’m tempted to unlock the door and let her in. But then a man roars behind her, “Open the fucking door, you fucking moron! We’re going to die!”

Yeah, no. I’m not opening the door now. They’re liable to snap my neck the second they get inside. I shrink myself into apathetic ball and rock back and forth on the toilet as the screams become more frantic.

Someone whimpers as they drop to the ground. The sound of whistling air catches my attention and makes me lift my head. Then there’s a whooshy-woo sound, punctuated with cries of anguish.

Arrows—no, bolts. Crossbows.

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