Vampyros XII Descisions

"You seem to know where you are going, Angus. How is that so?"

"Crissy is tweeting me."

"Tweeting you?"

"One-hundred and forty characters at a time."

He shows me his latest gadget, an I Phone or something.

"What did I tell you about that thing! Learn your streets, what happens when the satellites go down and you are left with no technology, and have no idea where to go!"

"Do you know where Crissy is?"

"I do not," I say.

"Then let technology work, Malcolm! Man, you are a stubborn old coot."

"Remember, I was forty-nine when I was made. You were just a lad of twenty-three."

I do not know where Crissy is, and loathe to let Malcolm use his little gadgets while working on the ambulance, but these are drastic times. I don't have a clue. All I know is we are speeding through the mountains, on a dark roadway, the glow of my new acquaintance, Bob's barn burning out of control behind us, the ex-fire chief unconscious on our stretcher and Bob leaning into the drivers compartment from the back of the ambulance.

"Do you know where she is?" he asks Angus, strain in his voice barely containing his rage.

"I do. She is able to send me tweets every ten minutes or so. She's been taken by who I believe to be Tim and Billy, two volunteers who guard the Outpost during the daylight hours."

"Where are they taking her."

"She is not familiar with the landscape, but from what I can tell from her tweets they are heading back to the Outpost."

"It will be crawling with Sid's minions," I say, more concerned as the seconds tick.

"It will," agrees Angus. "But if we are clever, we can use Crissy's tweets to lead us right to Sid's lair."

"The passageways under the Outpost are vast. Without help we would never find him. This is a good thing," I say.

"The hell it is!" says Bob. That's my daughter you two are so happy using as bait. Catch the assholes that have her before they get to the Outpost or so help me this alliance is over!"

"Bob, I understand your concern. If we could catch them, we would. I have the ability to fly, Angus does not.

"Are you a Vampire?"

"I am."

"Are Tim and Billy Vampire?"

"They are not."

"Then get the fuck out that window, catch those assholes and wait for us!"

"We may never find Sid's lair, or Charlie's granddaughter."

"We may never see Crissy again."

I sat for a moment then, stewing on that. If I flew toward Tim and Billy, and caught them, and liberated Crissy, I would have to take their lives. They want to become Vampire, this I know. I have no intention of creating another such as me. The pain is too much to bear. And I really have no patience for children. On the other hand, Tim does an excellent job cleaning my uniforms.

"Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a person who knows how to do shirts?" I ask.

"What?" Bob responds.

"Never mind. Angus, are you okay with this?"

"Her tweets have stopped. They have tied her up. They are in the reserve rescue, she's tied to the stretcher.

"Okay then, I'll do it. But so help me, Angus, you had better learn to iron! I'll need some fuel. flying takes a lot out of me. Bob, I drank your blood yesterday, no offense, but I'd rather not do so again. What is wrong with Charlie?" I see the old chief, sleeping on the stretcher., oblivious to the happenings around him.

"I took him to the ER in Hendrix," says Bob, " and left Crissy at the cabin. They cleaned up and sterilized his hand, I think they gave him too much morphine, he was supposed to be awake by now."

"Morphine? Excellent!"

In a flash I'm in the rear of the ambulance establishing an IV. Bob tries to stop me.

"Bob, I cannot fly without energy. I cannot drink Angus's blood, because he has none. I drank yours yesterday, you need all you can get, long nights and days are ahead of us. Charlie can spare a little, and I'm a much better flyer with some narcotics on board."

The IV is easy, Old Charlie has some pipes. I attach the tubing, and cut the end, and let his lifeblood pour into my mouth. The morphine is wearing off, but there is enough of it to give me a much needed feeling of well-being.

"They should put that stuff in the drinking water," I say. "There would be less war."

At just the right moment, I pinch the line, and take the IV from Charlie's arm, putting a band-aid over the hole.

"That has got to be the most fucked-up thing I have ever seen," says Bob.

"You have never seen him drink the blood of a drunken man," says Angus. "Or worse, the blood of a drunken college girl."

"Talk all you like," I say, wiping my lips with the back of my hand, "I have work to do!"

I'm gone. Out the window and moving through the night air, alone, no vehicle to encumber my sensations of the world around me. The morphine seems to make everything more alive, colors brighter, sounds more pleasant. The simple act of flying is even more fun, the subtle movement of the planet giving me just enough lift as it continues its journey through the solar system and beyond. I'm fortunate to be able to harness the antigravity produced by the continuous motion in the constellations, and flying to me is as easy as walking is to most.


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Michael Morse

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