Ninety-Nine Years

The ambulance takes a right turn off one of the main streets into the Scotch 80’s, a classic development from the 1960’s. Although ranch and mid century homes dominate, this is no bland pre-planned development.

As Wes drives, Alastair gazes out the window, dwelling on the redhead and her stepfather, “You realize we’re just going around in circles.”

“I know you’re not talking about my driving.” Wes immediately regrets his sharpness. “What?”

Alastair hopes talking about it will somehow make it better, “Someone gets hurt, they grow up to hurt someone else, on and on it goes.”

Wes vents, “I don’t buy that hopeless cycle bullshit. There’s always a choice.”

Alastair shows his age, “Yeah and most of the time people make the wrong one.”

“I just try to stay out of other people’s drama as much as I can.”

Alastair sighs, “I try, believe me, as much as my nature allows.”

As the ambulance pulls to the curb, Alastair watches Wes curiously.

A fire truck follows the ambulance. They pull up to an elegant, well tended ranch-style house. Vintage charm mixes with swanky luxury.

A firefighter helps Wes and Alastair with their gear as they walk up the front walkway. Wes walks slowly, taking his time to admire his surroundings, “I think I found my dream home. Just need to work for the next hundred years to get enough coin to buy it.”

Alastair sighs, “I’d need two hundred years, I’m not good with money.”

They reach the main door and hunt for a doorbell, but there isn’t one. Instead, there’s a large, circular brass knocker featuring a dragon and phoenix chasing each other around.

Anne answers. She’s waifish, with dark blond hair and skin that hasn’t seen the sun in ages, her delicate features are twisted by worry. Saying nothing, she props the door open and motions for the medics to follow. Wes lights up the moment he sees her.

As Alastair and Wes enter the living room they’re startled by the unique decor. Tasteful contemporary furniture is upstaged by crucifixes, Native American totems, laughing Buddhas; anything and everything religious decorates this room. The room is crowded from floor to ceiling with items collected over many years. It’s the kind of collection that would make a museum curator drool. Alastair moves through the room confidently, unafraid and unaffected by the display. He runs his fingers along a large golden crucifix displayed on an end table.

Anne’s voice echoes off the high ceilings, “My grandmother’s having a hard time breathing.”

Wes’s concern shows, “For how long.”

Anne struggles to separate the days, “A week, maybe a little bit more.”

They take a left turn down the hall, into a bedroom. Monastic simplicity, basic clean furniture, punctuated by an oil painting of Lucifer’s fall from heaven and a statue of the ever changing, though destructive, Hindu goddess Kali.

Helen sits in a reading chair next to her bed breathing uncomfortably. Her long silver hair is neatly arranged in a bun, framing the face of a lady who has seen it all. She wears an elegant blouse with a collar that covers most of her neck with khaki pants fit for an explorer.

Helen eyes the medics and firefighter warily as they enter. She reprimands Anne, “I told you I don’t need help.”

The firefighter, bored of medical calls, sets his gear down and heads for the door, “I’ll be on the truck.”

Alastair’s the last to walk into the room, as he gets closer Helen’s discomfort grows. Her change alarms the medics, they break into their gear.

Wes tries to keep it professional, “We need to monitor her heart rate.”

“On it.” Alastair starts to loosen Helen’s blouse but she’s uncomfortable.

Anne steps in, “They’re here to help.”

Alastair watches as Anne helps her grandmother loosen her blouse. She backs away, giving Alastair room to move. As Alastair attaches the electrodes for the heart monitor, as he works he notices something odd… Two small wounds on Helen’s neck, open yet somehow bloodless. Alastair instantly recognizes the handiwork of another of his kind.

Wes breaks Alastair’s concentration, gently pushing him away to fit an oxygen tube to Helen’s nostrils. The heart monitor activates with a familiar beep, monitoring her rapid but steady beat.

Stunned, Alastair backs away from Helen. As he does, Helen’s rhythm gets stronger and slows to normal.

Wes looks to Anne. “We should get her in the hospital. You want to ride along or follow in your car?”

Helen steels herself, looking at Alastair with anger and fear, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Anne pleads, “You need help. Better to play it safe.”

The old lady is unrelenting “I’m not safe anywhere.”

Wes sees Anne’s concern, guides her into the hallway for a privacy.

“She can’t refuse help.” Anne asks desperately, “Can she?”

Wes tries to get his facts straight, “She’s still considered mentally competent, right?”

Anne sees where this is going. “She’s not senile.”

“Then it’s her right to refuse transport.” Wes brushes his hand along her shoulder, she responds to his comforting touch.

***

In Helen’s room, Alastair keeps a polite distance between himself and his charge. Her vitals have stabilized. She examines him with a wary curiosity.

Alastair whispers, “You shouldn’t take your life for granted.”

“Do you even remember what it is to be alive?”

Alastair looks out the bedroom door, Wes and Anne are out of earshot. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

Helen’s fear is overwhelmed by curiosity, “How long since you were changed?”

He recites the answer, “Ninety-nine years.”

She knows the deal, “That explains why you’re still running around like a mortal. You can’t face immortality, and can’t give your powers away.”

Alastair’s stunned by her knowledge. He quietly stares at Helen trying to put the thoughts racing though his mind into words but before he can ask anything more of Helen, Wes and Anne return.

***

The fire truck pulls away, leaving Wes and Alastair to struggle with an overload of supplies as they make their way back to the ambulance.

Wes takes a look back, “I hope they’re all right.”

Alastair keeps his mind on business, “I’m sure we’ll get a call if things change.”

Wes responds eagerly, “I’m keeping a copy of her book in the ambulance from now on.”

“Her book?”

“Don’t you know who she is” Wes rolls his eyes, “Helen Nolan, ‘The Zen of Monstrosity.’ It’s kinda like Jung but more fun to read. Helped me to understand my dark side.”

Alastair smiles as he considers what Wes’s deep dark secrets might be.

Wes squirms, suddenly uncomfortable, “What?”

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce

A round casino bar invites visitors to enjoy a drink before squandering their money on the gaming floor. The place is filled with the usual mix of honeymooners, conventioneers and college kids looking for a good time. Alastair sits in a booth with a commanding view, a low table separates him from a man and woman who are making out frantically.

Alastair’s day off clothes, a black button down shirt and jeans. A woman in a micro mini, tank top and a bridal veil passes with two girlfriends. The women give Alastair the once-over, appreciating the goods, but aren’t inspired to stop. He doesn’t need a watch to tell him what time it is, the patrons tell him everything he needs to know, it’s currently “slightly buzzed and drowsy from a heavy dinner.”

A rock song with primitive drums plays. As he taps his foot to the beat, Alastair’s mind drifts. The beat pounds into his soul, past the memories he’s gathered in his ninety-nine years, unlocking the knowledge of his predecessors.

***

Drums announce the arrival of a group of early human settlers walking in a blissful, green savanna carrying the corpse of an animal freshly killed by stone spears. A boy following the hunting party stops, calls out to his elders and points to the horizon. The tribe watches helplessly as a wave of darkness slowly washes over the lush countryside.

Enveloped by darkness, an elder holds out her hands collecting ash as it drops from the sky.

Later, darkness continues to rule the skies, a distant campfire dims burnt down to its last embers. Nine adult members of the tribe surround a young boy as the child struggles for life. Both the young and old are gaunt from starvation. A tear falls down the cheek of one of the elders as she runs a razor-edged basalt rock along the boy’s skin releasing a stream of blood. The woman leans down, tastes the boy’s blood then backs away. The other eight members of the tribe follow, ritualistically repeating her actions.

***

The song changes, startling Alastair back to reality of the hotel bar. Ancient hunger gnaws at him as he scans the crowd.

The bartenders and servers stop what they’re doing, climb on the bar and various platforms and begin a dance designed to lure more customers in for a drink. Alastair watches the four women and one man as they dance. They’re sexy enough to be on display but lacking that extra “something” that might get them into the cast of one of the big production shows. He watches the crowd hungrily searching for the weak in the herd.

Alastair’s drawn to a redheaded dancer working the platform closest to him. Her henna-dyed hair is faded from too many washings. Although her body moves well, her face is dead.

As the song ends the redheaded dancer returns to work taking drink orders. At the next booth over a group of frat boys flirt with her, admiring her slender body. She takes their drink orders quickly, efficiently, ignoring their attention.

The redhead approaches Alastair, carefully avoiding looking him in the eyes, “You need anything.”

He smiles, “I’m all right. How about you?”

“Same as always.” She slips away.

***

Later, Alastair has relocated to a slot machine with a view of the round bar. He patiently plays the machine, allowing a web of thirty pay lines to devour his quarters.

Finally, new waitresses and bartenders come in to help with the after-show rush. The redhead dancer leaves, Alastair follows. Excitement races through her body as she heads for the exit.

***

Burnt out street lights help Alastair as he carefully approaches a two level apartment building. Overgrown hedges keep visitors from noticing the paint peeling from the wooden siding. As he approaches one of the front doors, Alastair slides on a pair of exam gloves. He touches the doorknob, discovering that it isn’t locked.

Fast food wrappers, empty gallons of ice cream and other food debris litters the beige-on-beige-on-beige interiors. Alastair walks, careful not to shift any of the litter. He grabs a steak knife from the kitchen counter. The sound of retching leads Alastair to the bathroom.

Another open door, as the redhead dancer hugs the toilet a wooden spoon falls from her fingers. Alastair stands directly behind her, patiently waiting for her to finish puking her guts out.

Empty, she crawls backwards, pulling away from the toilet bowl. She breathes heavily, sweat drips from her forehead. Wiping the tears from her eyes, her vision clears, allowing her to take a look at the doom standing just inches away from her.

Alastair scratches her forearm with the knife blade. Five short, shallow cuts along her arm punctuate her old, self-inflicted wounds carefully covered in makeup. He drinks.

***

A younger version of the redhead dancer sits on her bed crying.

Feminine hands paint an address on a mailbox.

A steel-haired man walks into a bedroom, locks the door and drops his trousers.

***

Alastair drags the redhead dancer’s lifeless body into the hallway, laying her to rest in a graceful pose.

Urgency fills Alastair as he backs away. Grabbing a pen from his pocket and a fast food napkin, he forces himself to focus. The address painted by the young redhead dancer onto her mailbox manifests itself on the paper.

***

The hand-painted mailbox is the only sign of individuality in a twenty year old development filled with identical houses. Trash bins line the street, it must be pickup day.

Alastair’s car is parked a discreet distance from he house he’s casing. There are no garbage cans in front or other signs of life. Alastair sits in his car, keeping his focus on the mailbox as he nervously taps his fingers on the steering wheel. The first rays of dawn trace their way across distant hills.

Just as Alastair’s fingers drift to his car’s ignition key, the front porch light of his targeted house flips on. The steel-haired man shuffles out his front door, tying the belt on a thick bathrobe in a useless attempt to ward off the early morning chill.

As the steel-haired man moves to the side of his house, Alastair steps out of his car. A supernatural burst of speed eliminates the gap between predator and prey. Running at full speed, Alastair hits the steel-haired man, sending trash bins to the ground before they slam into the side of the home.

Alastair scowls, “You know a redheaded young woman, who is she?”

The steel-haired man’s in shock, “My stepdaughter?”

Alastair pounces, smashing the head of his prey on a bit of exposed cement foundation.

***

Seen from the assailant’s eyes, the young redheaded girl backs away from the door as her stepfather locks it.

Suddenly the image shifts, the stepfather’s mind reveals a moment from his childhood as a sun-beaten construction worker walks into a boy’s bedroom, secures the door and drops his jeans.

***

“Shit.”

Alastair drops the stepfather’s body. He quickly backs away, fleeing both the rising sun and one family’s cycle of pain.

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce