Tonight, I wake without the tones. It is a bitter awakening, opening my eyes and knowing quite certainly that I am dead. The hunger is constant, the daily need to feed the only reason to continue this existence. That, and I kind of like it, once I make my daily peace with my being. A vampire can only tolerate a few moments of self loathing a day, before nature takes over, and our egos dominate.
My hole is just that, a hole, at the end of a narrow passageway, some half mile long, one of scores that web through the underground of The Outpost. I do not think of those who used these catacombs before me, I am all that matters, the others dust, or apparitions in somebody else's nightmare.
I'm cold. I'm always cold, except for the moments of ecstasy when fresh blood enters my withering veins. It matters little whose blood, or the age of the victim when it comes to sustaining what I refer to as life, but now and then a vampire needs a little change of landscape, if you will. Tonight, I hunger for Scotch, a single malt preferably, but a nice blend will do. Considering I no longer drink, I need to find an inebriated person who has tipped a few too many.
Crawling from the dirt, shaking myself off and moving into the corridor where I can stand things come into focus. I find my way through the maze, and come upon the main artery. A wrought iron gate waits at the far end, I make my way toward it. Angus joins me, shaking dust from his uniform.
"Tonight, we prowl, my young friend! The waterfront awaits!"
"You truly shouldn't drink," says Angus. "It makes you crazy."
"I like being crazy. It keeps me young!"
As we approach, the gate opens, it's hinges creaking, squeaking and crying. We step through into a box car elevator, and Angus grasps the ropes that are attached to pulleys, and raises us fifty feet to the sleeping quarters.
My room is empty, as it should be. The day shift has cleaned my uniform, it hangs in my closet, freshly pressed and smelling faintly of starch. Excellent job, I must tell Tim. The shower room is just outside the door, I strip yesterdays' clothes from my dead body and deposit them into a hamper, where they will sit until tomorrow.
Showers are fabulous things, and I love the feeling of scalding water as it runs through my hair and down my body. Soap isn't too bad either, I lather up, and prepare for tonight's festivities. It does not take long.
"Rescue 1, respond to Route 66 for a motor vehicle accident, possible tipover."
The apparatus floor is deserted. Engine 13 sits quietly next to the Ford, which flickers, fades and rematerializes into the Cadillac. Angus joins me, taking the driver's seat as always, the overhead doors rise and the night is ours.
Highway 66 runs east, twisting through our little town, many turns and hills, treacherous to navigate, but quite fun as well. Angus takes the road as if it were alive, and in need of taming. The Caddy roars, tires squeal, skid, fishtail and straiten. I roll down the windows, and let the Federal siren mix with the Stones, Sympathy for the Devil as we speed through the misty mountain toward our victims.
"There, up ahead," says Angus, and slows us down. We approach the scene slowly, creeping forward until we stop just behind a disabled Tahoe, with a U-Haul trailer attached. The trailer appears damaged, a man in his forties is crouched next to it, inspecting the rear axle. A teenaged girl looks bored, and stands on the side of the road, twirling her long, blonde hair. She perks up when Angus approaches, and looks away when I draw near. Angus approaches the girl, I approach the man.
"Good evening, sir, what seems to be the trouble this fine night."
"Looks like a broken axle. I called Triple A, they should be along soon."
"We had a report of a motor vehicle accident on this very road," i say, masking my disappointment. There will be no meal here, lest I take some unnecessary risks. The hunger must wait to be abated, but the lake is closer now, i can smell the festivities, miles away.
"My apologies," says the man. "Some cell phone ranger slowed to a crawl when he saw us on the side of the road, he must have called 911,"
"His mistake. What brings you to Essex?" I ask, noticing the New York plates on the Tahoe and the IAFF sticker adhered to the rear window.
"Starting over. Leaving the city, getting back to my roots."
"Are you a firefighter, sir?"
"FDNY, twenty-eight years. Called it quits last week. I might be interested in joining your ranks if you'll have me."
Great. Just when things were going so well.
"You would have to meet with Sid."
"Sid?"
"Yes, Sid. He's the Chief of the Department now, going on six years."
"What happened to Charlie?"
"Old Charlie? He's around, gone senile. Tells crazy stories, stuck in the old days. I'd stay away from him if I were you."
I looked for Angus, and found where I expected, as close to the girl as he could get. The Triple A van appeared on the horizon, and quickly closed the gap between us and him. We bade the newcomers farewell, and retreated to the Cadillac.
"To the Lake, Angus, and forget about the girl, she's a baby."
"I was a baby when I died, then, Malcolm."
"Forever enshrined in a twenty year old body. It must be torture, all that testosterone clouding four hundred years of undead living."
"Four-hundred and twenty-three to be exact."
"Ah, to be young again, but enough of that, it's time to feed!"
We left them, unscathed by their first encounter with The Outpost. I knew then and there it would not be their last.
with a penchant for beheading the Rangers and stuffing them up their noses.
