Disaster

From the perspective of Chase Cringle.

The journey to St. Louis was suspended for a night in Mt Vernon, Illinois. Night was nearing and twilight was ending. The crew and I searched the outskirts of the city for a cheap motel.

We found a motel, but it was deserted and dilapidated, many of the doors were broken and the windows shattered. We all got out.

Within seconds of exiting the truck, I experienced a severe, abrupt pain in my abdomen, probably from not drinking any blood since I became a vampire. Instantaneously I began to gush jet-black blood from my nose which lasted for about a minute. The black blood appeared thicker than normal human blood and flowed more slowly. The group stared at me, concerned, as if I was a crippled horse. "Why don't you take a picture?" I asked the others.

"Never seen such a dank, dark nosebleed before," Jeriah remarked as he repeatedly drove his pocket knife into the soft, hydrated earth by the asphalt of the parking lot as he sat on an upturned five gallon bucket.

"I'm violently hungry," Brandon acknowledged.

I concurred as my stomach grumbled. "So am I." I rubbed off the black blood from my face with the bottom of my shirt.

Brandon replied, "There's one sandwich remaining for each of us."

"I haven't even had a sandwich yet!" I shouted, upset.

Brandon shrugged. "I guess Jeriah ate more than his fair share."

Brandon and I glared at Jeriah, oblivious to the conversation.

"A turkey sub will suffice," I said.

Milton took it upon himself to build a campfire with river rocks from a creek behind the motel, then erected the stones in a circle. He then placed dead branches in a pile at the center. Jeriah offered his pocket knife to Milton, then Milton plopped down in front of the circle of stones and made a bundle of kindling from the shavings of a cedar branch. With the cedar shavings in place, Milton took a piece of flint from his pocket and struck the edge of the flint over and over with the blade of the pocket knife, and, eventually, Milton ignited an ember.

"Fabulous work, Milt." Jeriah acknowledged Milton's survival skills, hovering over the fire, his hands absorbing the heat.

I noticed in the corner of my eye a blue cooler flipped on its side, so I retrieved the cooler and closed the lid, then I returned to the campfire with the cooler in hand. I placed the cooler upright by the circle of stones, then I sat on the top of the cooler.

Jeriah heaved a great sigh. "Where's the sandwiches? I'm starving."

"Look alive," Brandon warned as he tossed a turkey sub to both Jeriah and I, both wrapped in foil. I ate the sub hastily. When I was done I stared blankly into the rustling modest campfire.

We had all eaten the last of the sandwiches, except for Milton, who was still nibbling on his, perhaps due to a lack of appetite. But my hunger was not quelled and my stomach roared, demanding more than just food. I thought of the possibility that I may be starting to get sick because I haven't been drinking any blood. But I knew I couldn't get any blood, not now.

Milton bit into his sandwich and subsequently made a sickened face. "Dammit, Brandon! You know I hate mayonnaise!" Milton shouted, disgusted, while sitting on the concrete in his greasy navy blue dress pants.

Brandon bitterly replied, "Why can't you eat mayo?"

"I can't stand the taste of it!" Milton countered. "You could have at least remembered to make some sandwiches without any mayonnaise."

"Sorry," Brandon admitted. "I was in a hurry when I was making the sandwiches. I had no time to worry about your staunch dislike for mayo."

"I'm ready to burst," Jeriah said nonchalantly. "Who cares what Milton says. You can craft a fine sandwich, Brandon." Jeriah proceeded to rub his belly under his faded Iron Maiden T-shirt.

Brandon feigned a smile, then sighed. "Jeriah. Can't you drive?"

Jeriah passed a steely glance toward Brandon. "I could drive us as far as Kansas, if that's what you're asking."

"You're okay with driving until we reach Kansas?" Brandon questioned Jeriah.

"Sure. I've never ventured outside Kentucky. I'll drive for a while, and I'll be able to take in all the scenery while I'm at it."

Suddenly the four of us were spooked by a rumble in the distance. Scores of crows fled from their perch in the trees. I put my index finger up to my mouth to notify the others to be quiet. The rumbling grew louder and my friends began to notice, rising to their feet. The heavy thundering of a few dozen motorcycles encumbered me.

Brandon darted for the trailer's cabin, and he retrieved his katana tucked inside its sheath. Before he could produce his weapon, to his horrific surprise, his hand was shot, his flesh like butter, leaving a hole a quarter inch in his right palm, his hand gushing red. Brandon dropped the sheath and his katana fell out. Brandon stood appalled as he stared at the wound, unable to produce a sound or gesture. After a moment Brandon finally released a deafening shout, "WHAT-in-THE-HELL was THAT!!"

A large company of bikers appeared from the misty, murky black highway, coming to a complete stop in front of the Mt. Vernon Motel, all of them clad in faded, distressed black leather chaps, black leather jackets, and hefty black leather boots. The bikers were clearly vampires, their eyes brighter than fire. Each of the vampire bikers proudly wore a large, single insignia that depicted a bloody skull with fangs, which I guessed had to be their logo, that was etched onto the back of their leather jackets.

At the head of the group of ruthless ruffians was the backbone and muscle that wove the fleet together. A repulsive terror completely new to me, I almost fainted when I witnessed his menacing face, his unforgiving green eyes, his scarred head riddled with enlarged veins, and his chrome-plated chopper splattered with the blood of his innocent victims. The leader was built like a eight-foot ripped giant on muscle-enhancing steroids. He appeared to not have any hair on his body.

The leader shut off his bike, kicked his stand outward to greet the blacktop, then he arose from the motorcycle in a swift motion, towering over his comrades, domineering and supreme. His comrades all shut off their bikes and stood as well, glaring menacingly at me and my friends.

"Chase mother-fucking Cringle. Let's get a good look at you." The giant's voice boomed and echoed throughout the premises as he stepped forward to get a better view of me, the gravel underneath his feet crackling.

"Let's get down to business. I've heard there's a new recruiter for the Hart Clan. You must be the new recruiter. I pulverized the last one. I had seriously thought we had put an end to the Hart Clan's operations. To think a few survived. It's unacceptable.

"Did I fail to mention my name? I'm sorry. I'm Orrus. Commander of the Flesheaters. My superior? Only one. Lord Jaeger, Emperor of the Vampyr Empire that spans across ten states. Jaeger wants you alive, and I'm authorized to cripple you if you try to escape. Now, Mr. Cringle, come with me. I will not repeat myself."

I was hesitant, but I knew Orrus meant serious business. I dared not refuse the brute's request. "Okay, Orrus. I'm walking toward you." I sauntered toward the big oaf when Milton skittishly beelined for the creek behind the motel; a grave mistake that I did not condone. I innately sensed Milton was in grave danger, and yet, I knew I couldn't stop whatever was coming.

"Where the hell is that sumbitch running off to?" Orrus rumbled.

"I'll get him, boss. Don't get flustered." The monster that made the suggestion wore a cracked, gold-plated eyepatch over his right eye as a strange yellow glow emanated from behind the eyepatch.

"Fine then. Take him out, Micah," Orrus ordered nonchalantly.

"Sure thing, brother." The subcommander slung his scabbard over his shoulder and produced a long scope bolt action rifle. He looked down the sights of the scope and within seconds he pulled the trigger, the bullet piercing Milton through his back. Milton screamed, and down he fell.

I couldn't stop myself from rushing toward Milton. I owed him my gratitude. "Don't you dare stop me," I said as I passed Orrus and his thugs. No one got in my way.

I obligated myself to help Milton, but by the time I had reached him, he was already dead, shot through the heart. I was saddened, yet furious.

"Peace be with you," I whispered over Milton's body. But no one heard me.

I threw Milton's body over my left shoulder and I hauled it back to the motel, a very short walk. I dropped his body on the asphalt for everyone to see. Orrus snickered a great snicker, and I gathered he was a complete and total scumbag just by the looks of him. Jeriah could only muster a stunned, terrified gaze. I, myself, was also still astonished and grief stricken. Silence reigned for a good twenty seconds.

Orrus hopped back onto his bike and said to me, "Climb aboard, piss-ant."

I relented, I did as I was told, before someone else got hurt. "Fine."

Brandon seethed with controlled fury, cursing under his breath. The whole time he was holding his wounded hand, bound and covered by his jacket. He exchanged nasty glares with Orrus who displayed zero empathy.

Orrus started his bike, and plumes of smoke pulsed from out of the exhaust pipe.

As I climbed onto the back of Orrus' chopper, I informed the lug-nut, assuring him, "You'll rue the day you fucked with me and my comrades."

"Listen, kid. I'm in a generous mood, so I'll give you a fair warning: Don't try anything dumb. You can imagine what will happen to you if you don't listen to me."

With the entire pack of monstrous bikers anxious to leave, Orrus assumed the lead, his fleet trailing close behind. As I stared back, the perplexed faces of Brandon and Jeriah behind me faded into darkness.

The chopper gained pace and the wind blew past my silver shoulder-length hair. Soon we were flying down the highway.

"Yo, big guy, you're going seventy in a fifty-five. Plus, it's night. You might wanna--"

"Shut the fuck up and enjoy the ride, pipsqueak."

I was so anxious I couldn't keep quiet. "So where's your HQ?"

"I told you before. St. Louis."

"I've never seen the gateway to the west."

"Don't get your panties in a wad. We'll arrive there within the hour."

"This is the nicest ride anyone has ever given me."

Orrus snickered. "My loyalty to my master has its limit. Shut your mouth, before I stop on the side of the highway and I blow your brains out with my revolver."

I shut my mouth as I was told to do, and I proceeded to immerse myself in the southern Illinois scenery. The night was quite dark, but my vampire eyes could see everything with crystal clear accuracy.

I began to ask myself some critical philosophical questions like why was I riding in the backseat on a motorcycle with a giant vampire escorting me to his lair? I realized I couldn't let myself be taken, to allow my life to be in the hands of flesh eating vampire atrocities. I devised a radical plan to escape.

Orrus' gang and I were barely outside the city limits of Mt Vernon when I delved into my right pocket and grasped my hidden pocket knife. With all my might, I drove the knife into Orrus' right eye, who gasped and shouted in an eruption of anger. "Ahhh! Motherfucker!"

But Orrus didn't stop the bike, as I had intended. So I pulled the bloodied knife from the giant's right eye, then I placed the blade of the knife between my teeth and I pushed myself upward and placed the soles of my shoes on the back seat. I winced, tasting Orrus' unsavory black blood. Time seemed to slow to the point where I could sense every little detail, every little twinkle of the stars overhead, every clanky sputtering of the choppers behind me. With extraordinary power I didn't know I had, I launched myself off from the back of the motorcycle in a spectacular backflip, and I landed on the tail of a chopper behind Orrus.

I don't have a choice, I thought. I grabbed the driver by his hair and pulled his head back, then I slit his throat. The bike swerved back and forth, the driver unable to take control. I tucked the pocket knife deep into my side pocket. The driver screamed frantically like a wild baboon, then, suddenly, his body instantly vaporized into a cloud of ash and embers that flew back into my unsuspecting eyes, into my nose, and into my mouth and down my throat. Gasping for air, I rubbed the ashes from out of my eyes with my left hand. I was barely able to see the road ahead of me. I instinctively grasped the throttle of the Road King. I sped faster and faster as I ducked my head to avoid the wind which stung my eyes and blurred my vision. I had never driven a motorcycle before. "It's a good time to learn," I said to myself.

I surpassed the entire group of bikers, surprisingly. A yellow sign on the right side of the road notified me of an intersecting highway. I took a right on the intersecting highway, and I continued driving until I noticed a suburban development of townhouses, completely abandoned. I had to decide to continue straight on the highway, or to retreat to the suburbs. Continuing on an unknown highway at night seemed like a recipe for disaster. I ultimately chose to retreat, and I slowed the pace of the motorcycle slightly so I could drift into the entrance, then I sped through the neighborhood. I lost myself on a dead-end street, then I dimmed the headlight and I parked the motorcycle in an open garage in the cover of night, stars twinkling overhead. I then shut off the motorcycle.

I heard Orrus' fleet roaming the neighborhood, their engines roaring. I held my breath, and I focused my thoughts.

"Search every last street!" Micah's voice thundered throughout the neighborhood as he throttled his ghastly engine.

"Remain calm, Chase," I whispered to myself. I shut my eyes and prayed that none of the Flesheaters would be able to detect me in the darkness of the garage.

When I opened my eyes, a group of Flesheaters were driving by. I sat, slumped forward, on the Road King, holding my breath. Amazingly, the group of bikers completely overlooked the garage that I was in, and they exited the premises as one entire pack.

I opened my mouth to breathe, but nothing came out. My legs and arms were as heavy as lead, as were my eyes. It took incredible persistence to clutch the throttle. I felt drained and exhausted, not even able to lift my leg, but I started the motorcycle and I creeped out of the garage and into the luminescence of the streetlight nearby. Something darker than the darkest nightmares was hiding in the shadows with me. I felt a sinister presence behind me, so I ever-so-slowly turned my head to peer into the garage behind me, and my eyes attempted to discern a pitch-black silhouette standing in the darkness. My heartbeat was non-existent. I was beyond afraid of what entity stood in the garage. I could not stay any longer.

I gripped the throttle and turned, then listened for the motor to start, but to no avail. "Shit, no, don't you dare do this." I thumped the side of the bike to see if it would help, but, nope, thumping the motorcycle did nothing.

The black silhouette stepped forward, then again, and again, until it hovered over me, and the alien sound of static encumbered me, filling my head with nauseating pain, warping my thoughts and vision. The black silhouette had no physical form. I knew that it would do anything to prevent me from leaving. It wanted me. It wanted my body.

The static grew more potent, paralyzing me and slurring my speech.

The dark figure whispered inside my head, "GIVE YOURSELF TO ME."

"NEVER!" I shouted back.

I turned the throttle one final time. The engine started. I was never more glad for anything in my entire life.

I fled the premises, realizing then that my mind had been violated by an invisible, ancient entity, but I did not dwell on the thought. I traced my way back to the Mt Vernon Motel in search of Brandon and Jeriah.

The night was cool, but comfortable, with a bright waning gibbous moon overhead as I sped down the highway, the wind whipping my hair. I couldn't stop, not even for a second. I was determined to reunite with my new comrades.