The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

“The site address is mem4u,” Mark told me over a vodka and coke. It was his third and the overflowing ashtray paid testament to the amount we had smoked between us: and Johnno on the couch, was well out.

“So what is it?” I’d quizzed.

My glassey-eyed friend grinned at me.

“Something different,” he assured me, in a conspiratorial aside.

“Porn?” I’d enquired.

It was a reasonable assumption: it was a site that had my friend enthused about, so it had to be porn; the fellow was truly obsessed.

Mark finished his drink and passed me the mirror. I lifted it with my left hand and picked up the small tube with my forefinger and thumb, as I surveyed the last two lines left.

“Are you sure?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he grinned, “go ‘ead. Enjoy!”

Zappa was playing and they’d just got to the pickaxe in the forehead.

I snorted mine, and then passed the remainder to Mark, as I drew in a breath and held it. Then as the tingling began at the back of my nose, I slowly exhaled.

“Nice?” My friend asked.

“Oh yess,” I sighed, as my eyes widened and pulse quickened.

“Straight off the block fella,” Mark confided, just prior to finishing his own line.

Well, I got home a few hours later, having caught the last bus.

And, knowing I’d not sleep for several hours, I went into the backroom with a whiskey and a well-laid smoke, then switched the pc on and found the website that Mark had been telling me about: and sipping on a long glass of the real thing, I read the blurb at the top of the front-page.

‘By using a digital recorder set into stylish shades, (readily available) each person uploading onto the site is able to share their memories with others. A monthly prize will go to the clip with the most hits.’

The list of memories available seemed endless. I was fascinated.

The first page you came to had twenty-four small thumbnails on it, with descriptive text below, acting as a link to the uploaded clips. Some were short, seconds only, just a few mb; while others were up to 700 mb, the length of a feature film.

It transpired that if you wanted to view more than two minutes of a clip, you had to join the site. Membership was free, for the first thirty days, so I’d joined the site.

Checking out the search functions on the top line, I’d found the drop-down menu, giving you a choice of, ‘member’, ‘subject’, or ‘district/area’.

“Very interesting,” I’d mused, bringing up the menu for ‘subject’. The list seemed endless, ‘abseiling’, ‘bricklaying’, ‘canoeing’ and so on. Alphabetical and extensive.

Time passed easily, as I trawled through page after page of thumbnail images of one subject, then another.

Still flying high from the Charlie, I took pleasure in abseiling down a dam; standing firm before a charging bull elephant and, running from a raging fire.

As I continued my search, through one clip after another, I was captivated by what I’d seen and hours passed quickly.

Then I went trawling, the memories of others.

The picture of a hand reaching out to a child caught my eyes: and soon I’d been holding that child, as it were, as it looked up at me and gurgled.

Although it hadn’t lasted long, the clip had touched me greatly.

“What was that?” I wondered, looking at the text beneath the thumbnail.

“Ah, ‘F’, for ‘Father holds child’, that explains it…” It’d seemed from the clip, that there’d been a real connection between the two. The light in the child’s face, as it reached upward, toward loving arms. There’d been a genuine bond there.

Then I got to ‘G’, for ‘Girl on Train’, to find myself on a train, looking between the seats ahead of me at a small child.

Drawing her fingers back from covering her eyes, the young blonde in a pink top exclaimed, “Eyeee see!” to the young child in the pushchair before her.

With eyes of blue, the child looked like her mother I thought, as she looked at me with evident curiosity. I saw ‘my’ hand wave and was delighted to see the child grin back, at ‘me’. It was touching to see such warmth and to share it, just for a moment, albeit vicariously.

I re-lit the smoke, sitting in the ashtray and sat back, as it slowly dawned on me that through some sort of morbid fascination, my curiosity had led me to looking at the memories of others I could relate to, or wished were mine.

But, it was still early in the morning and with hours to go till I’d feel tired, I’d continued my trawl through the sites pages, curious to see what else there was.

So I went back to the search engine and pressed for district/area and went local, just to see what I might see.

There were escorts for hire locally and several members; one of which I’d not really expected to see, a profile pic of Virginia the Latina. I knew her as Virginia Elizabet Diez. We’d been together four years, till the younger model came along; and like the ex before her, she’d told me, ‘I don’t want to have kids.’ But I had.

I felt like a voyeur, going to see what she’d put up. But she had seemed to know me so well and till this moment, I’d thought I had known her as well. Even if her and the young-un proved I hadn’t known her that well, at all. But I still had to look, just had to. So, I pressed a button, for ‘show all video’ to bring up a list of all those that she had uploaded.

The list had been quite a long one: and before I clicked onto any of the images, I read the details beneath each of them: ‘Alan, forty, married and seeking a divorce, he says’; ‘Brian, twenty-two, single and a proper lads lad’; ‘Colin, loving, but boring’; there were several more, like these, and then I came to ‘Kevin, lives with his parents, needs mothering.’

That’d made me stop. It was me. There was a video of me, let alone all the others.

She had me there, a memory for others to share. Would I look to see what was there?

I have a thing about tenses, they don't like me. **Grins**



Past.. ? blech.. future .. you got to be kidding. Present .. aw c'mon !?!



My fingers had danced over the keyboard, as I poured my thoughts into memory.

The room was dark and the room’s only illumination was the monitor, as I’d been typing away on my daily journal on vampirerave.



Reading back what I’d written I had felt a tad dissatisfied that I could write it.

It didn’t read well of me really.

I mean, it had made it sound as though I dwelt in the past and had no consciousness of a future for myself and that was pretty dismal, to say the very least.



Yet, having written it, I had re-read that sentence again and again, hoping that within the words was a way out for me. Unfortunately though, no such get-out existed for me. So I went to bed and with my mind in a whirl and, I did not sleep easily.



Come morning I sat up and opened the curtains, then looked out at a really grey day. Yet, irrespective of the promising rain, I decided to get up and out, having already wasted too much time over the last few days: So, no more.



With that thought in mind I lathered my face fully, looking at my reflected image whilst I drew the blade downwards through the soap.



I had to remember the tickets: and, that much was for sure.

There was a destination and, a journey to be had.



Smiling at myself and deciding, I was not too displeased with my visage I decided what to wear. Now, that was a good-one, as I wanted to look smart; yet not overly so.



But, a coffee was needed first, a fresh one: not like the one by my bedside: and a cigarette, a fresh one, not a dimp from the ashtray. So yes, I had my priorities finally in order; coffee, then a smoke. In that order.



And, as the kettle boiled, I turned the radio on, “…soldier dead in Basra.” Radio off.

Hmmm… ‘Back to bed?” No, that wasn’t an option. Not today.



So, I returned to my bedroom and began the long process of deciding what to wear.

It was difficult, it always is. It’s not like I follow a fashion, or a group or something.

I don’t. But, I do like black, boot’s pseudo leather jacket, trousers, all black, my sliver Ankh draped down, held by a leather boot-lace worn around my neck, that looked pretty good with a few buttons undone on my white shirt with button-down collar.



Over the shirt, I wore a wait-coat, with a light pin-stripe, that had come from a suit.

Finally dressed, I looked at myself in the long mirror in the hall. I looked good.



I found my keys, checked the windows, found my travel pass; checked the windows one last time, then left the house.



Having run for my train, I slowed down nearing the base of the stairs, as I watched the damn thing disappear down the track into the distance.



“Ah,” I exclaimed loudly, before resuming my usual stoic poise. It was only then that I became aware of the two young men crouching by one of the station signposts.



One looked up briefly from the roll-up he’d removed from his wallet. The others face was obscured by the peak of his cap, as he peered intently at his friends hands.



I continued to walk, a light grin on my face, which lasted until I’d reached the bit of the platform where I like to stand.



“Now I know the difference, between Moshers and Goths,” I muttered, as I looked back at the two young men I’d passed, their complexions a testament to a sugar-rich diet and a lack of soap.



Both of them had reeked of sweat and their clothing looked as they smelt, ill-kempt.

“Yep,” I’m sure Goths at least wash,” I muttered, lighting the doobie I’d waited the walk for, ‘coz judging by the electronic display, I had enough time for the smoke and the opportunity to write some more.



As drizzle fell on a sunny day, my train eventually arrived and, I boarded and sat in the window seat, behind the drivers seat, continuing to write of the way of the day.



People sitting near with their mobile phones didn’t bother me for a change, as I had something to write about and rolling thoughts that continued to roll, as I arrived at my destination, where I disembarked.



Then leaving the station behind me, I crossed the road, with the old by-pass above me, the roundabout to my left.



I walked on toward where I’d cross to my first point of call, before continuing onward to the bus-stops. All of a sudden I felt someone just behind me.



Turning my head quickly, from the neck, not the shoulders, so they won’t notice, till I’ve done so, only to see that it is a man; tall, with little hair, and long legs in faded blue-jeans: and, as I watch, he crosses the road.



So I turn back and walk just a little further on, when I become aware of yet another presence behind me.



I turn and immediately feel very foolish; it’d been a girl, anywhere from fifteen to seventeen. She’s got long bleach-blonde hair, a little dark brown showing through.



She wears a zip-up light-tan leather jacket; hipster blue-jeans and quite beautifully embroidered, Chinese-style, light pumps. The zip on the jacket is half-way down, showing off the light sea-green coloured tee-shirt, that she fills so well.



I slow down a little to let her catch up, then pass me and am glad I have done so…



Between the hem of the hem of the green tee-shirt and jacket and her jeans was about 2-4 cm of bare flesh showing. Besides which, some women are just meant to wear blue-jeans: and, she is one of them.



She passes me, walking ahead and for a little while, my gaze follows that vision of her buttocks swaying as she walks down the road and stops at the crossing where I need to cross myself.



So I stop by the kerbside, the yellow tubular and Perspex covered bus-stop to my right, watching her cross the road, but don’t follow her across.



Instead, I wait until several cars pass and there is a break in the traffic and I cross the road; mildly amused by the fact the ‘blonde in blue-jeans’ is walking the same route that I was going to follow. That makes me grin somewhat.



I go to the small sweet shop, get my tobacco, then walk on passed the kebab shop and step across the looped chain between some bollards, then across the cinder path car park toward my first destination, ‘The Firemans Arms.’



I’ll say one thing for Jayne: she has good eye-sight. No sooner had I got to the bar than my house double was on the bar waiting for me: the much-needed pick-up that I’d needed, ‘specially with what I had in mind.



I down my amber treat, then leave with a smile and a nod of my head to the manager, Brian. Nice fellow.



I make my way to the bus stop and pass through the crowd, toward the 401 bustop and my bus to New Brighton.



The bus isn’t too packed, but the smell of liquor permeates from two irritant youths in the seats at the back, so I choose to sit near them, for the sheer fun of it.



My annoyance factor is times ten by the time we get to Seacombe, but I’d decided to be a goodboy today. So I leave temptation alone, then smile to myself when they got off at the next stop. From there, we continue down King Street, where the attractive blonde in tight dark blue jeans gets off.



‘Good boy, remember?’ I tell myself and I listen for a change, so I look out the window to my right to watch the world go by, instead of thinking what had been.



So it was I travel peacefully; until we reach New Brighton and the stop on the front. It wasn’t far from there, about five minutes or so. I recall.

Finally I arrive at my destination, filled with trepidation...



It is a large house, several stories, a Victorian build, or perhaps Edwardian.

Oh, I’d been there before, but not for years. Several in fact.



Full of apprehension, I walk up the steps to the front door and press the bell.

Nothing. No sound.

So do I go?



‘Nah,’ I tell myself, ‘I’ve come this far.’



So I walk round the back, via the crazy paving path and there she is, Mandy.



I call her name and the slim brunette turns.

“So you got here at last!” Mandy scowls.



And I look down at shoes, well black boots actually.

She has that effect on me.



“I brought the money I owe you. Is Sarah about?”

Her Irish-smile returns a moment, “Your daughter? She’s upstairs, getting ready to go out with ‘Daddy.’ Where are you taking her Kevin?”



‘The tickets? The tickets? Oh-God, where had I put them?’



Panicking, I check my jackets inner pocket, only to find them quickly enough.

I’d put the cinema tickets in my wallet, like anyone else might.

‘Definitely a day of firsts,’ I muse, with a smile.



Yet after all, I had got up and decided to make a change and, done so...



Looking at Mandy, with as warm a smile as I can muster, for someone I’ve tried to dislike since she left me, I think of Sarah upstairs and my smile widens.



“We’re going see Dr Seuss’ Horton Hears A Who…” I tell her, with a grin.

Chapter Twelve



Hair slick back, collar pulled up and blaster held in both hands, its weight taken by the shoulder-strap worn on the right shoulder.



Iron rich lay soil ran down with flood water from the high ground, as the intensity of the rain grew. And…



Simone continued to walk down the main street toward the end of town, where the asphalt ended and the badlands where all that there was; except for the entrance to Old City, which she found compelling.



Her mentor had taken her there, as he had taken his second ward Timothy Summers, many years later. The elder man had been the one constancy in the life of these two very disparate young people. His death had changed them both.



Still in grief since the death of her benefactor since the death of her benefactor, her journey had led her here.



Now the detective displayed grim determination: this was personal and, there was to be one outcome she believed and, that would be justice, for Jason and, those who had died since then, at the hands of those employed by Rueben Shield.



Eyes darting back and forth Simone tracked the barrel of the Dreadnought, she knew that she had to be cautious, as the clouds darkened above and the rain fell heavier still.



There were large puddles in her path as she approached the vast maw in the earth that led to the Old City.



Simone narrowed her eyes against the rain, which caused her to doubt them, when she thought she saw a figure appear amid the rocky entrance.



“Who are you?” Simone called out.



The figure neared. Then another figure appeared, to the immediate left wall of the hole in the earth and a third to the right wall…



Pulling eye-glasses to her face, Simone looked into the dark and heavy falling-rain, which she now saw as day.



The central figure was an aged Rueben Shield, wearing blacked-out glasses; eiher side of him, the other two were, or had been WildRiders in muddy colourful clothing, for with their opaque eyes, they seemed dead.



“There were a failures before the beta version can be corrected,” the old man told her, his arms sweeping wildly through the air, as he gesticulated with every second word.



Simone looked back to the empty town: “A few…” she muttered.



“My hosts were most welcoming after I offered them their dreams,” he explained.



“And?” Simone prompted.



“As I said, unfortunately there were a few failures,” he sighed.



Then as shadows appeared behind the three Simone felt her gut tighten, as she felt the need to act, somehow.



“Do you really want to hurt me…” the two WildRiders to her left and right sang, as they heard Boy George sing with Culture Club.



Suddenly the shadows behind the three became a crowd, of pallid, colourfully dressed young people, all sporting pustules and bled from many orifices, all with opaque eyes.



Simone noticed that each of them were armed, some with hand blasters, otherswith heavier weaponry.



“Do you really want to make me cry…” the crowd sang, as if a choir.



“The WildRiders are mine. The Muse is mine!” The old man cackled.



“One man seeking control over others, like this…”



“It’s business, no more…” Shield explained, in a voice abruptly calm, as his followers sang the refrain he had liked, so much.



Simone was incredulous. ‘All of this… business?’



“This is business, no more…” he added, his voice rattling, each word bitten.



“Business? No more?” Simone paraphrased and, her trigger-finger tightened.



“I tell you, the Muse is mine!” the old man bellowed, arms flailing wildly and his shades fell away, revealing eyes tat were opaque like those of the WildRiders.



And, the crowd of pustule seeping young people ceased singing and began to chant:

“The Muse is mine, mine, mine…”



Then they laughed, as the old man; a cackling rictus laugh, drawn from the chest of an aged off-worlder seeking oxygen.



“Eerie…” Simone muttered, as she searched with her thumb for a dial setting appropriate for the moment, ‘Incendiary.’



She snarled, “Fire!”



The recoil from the shellfire would be felt for days, Simone knew. ‘But it would be worth it,’ she mused as she watched it fly, then erupt into a ball of living flame, that consumed all flesh, before it would extinguish itself, as programmed.



She turned from the fire and the charred remains of Rueben Shield and his followers and muttered, “From Museheads to Deadheads, with but one shot. Now, how’s that for technology?” Simone felt… content.



Epilogue:



As Simone walked toward town she stopped and turned her head to look back at the results of her handiwork, soon to be cleansed by fire.



The water that ran down the iron heavy clay soil now ran as a red torrent of water.



Then she turned her head away from the scene and smiled sardonically.

“And the hills run red with his follower’s blood…”



And, momentarily Simone wondered whether she should tell Timothy, or not.

It was only much later, as her car rose into the rain-laden air that she concluded that it was best to say nothing. ‘After all,’ she mused, ‘Jason would not approve…’