There is this last thing you remember when you die, except that in his case he remembers the first and the second time he died. The first one happened in a dismal French wood, at a time where generals could foolishly use their own soldiers as cannon fodder. Not that made a difference the second time around when he died, the generals were as stupid while young men carried on dying under different skies. It had been cruel, lonely, frightening the first time, a decision taken on the spur of a moment; but the second time, he had begged for it, pleaded for it. The gift of eternal youth had been a curse. He had lost so many friends to Death, a role he has taken himself on so many souls. A scourge was what he had become. The terrified young man, who was looking for a glorious death as a way out for forgiveness, had been the mean of an un-glorious way to die. No family, no love, no children, an empty lonely life. If that was life at all? Until about one hundred years later, he had found a friend. A real live friend and that friend had finally freed his soul. One instant, he was terrified to become again a murderer. What did Wyndham say: an attack dog? That was even worse than his last stunt. Yet his friend, tearful, anguished, had overcome his refuse to kill him and done the deed Kaiser Wilhem had not been able to do. Free at last, he was free.

He knew from having witnessed it many times how his "departure" must have been from George point of view. Now, he knew what happened front line. He was like being suddenly drowning into a fog. A very dense fog, his friend features being quickly swallowed by the grayness. The chest pain becoming more intense every second.
One can bear so much grey, up to a point. After a few minutes, hours, he started getting impatient. Was that Death, a vast nothingness? Was that a most cruel joke, where a lonely life was better than a lonely death? Then he felt a push and the fog lifted.

A queue. He was standing in a queue, a very long queue. Numerous queues, to endless booths, in a hall which made New York Grand Central Station look provincial, shabby and microscopic. The people in front of him were in a right state of panic, the people behind him, also. Mind you some were serene; some were even joking, holding hands. He turned his head further behind; every second more people were coming, but about as many were seen and sorted at the booths. There was no fog at all, just lifts, countless lifts. The men with sticks, he had seen in 1917 were noticeably missing. No corridor, nothing, just queues. Young, old, some very old helped by pristine white assistants, some so cringing young, they were carried in the arms of similar staff. People in different costumes, different languages, race, and age, all mingled. He recognized some uniforms, US marine chatting with Taliban. Elegant cover-girl, standing demurely in mine after a homeless vino.

Overall, the global feeling was tense. All around him were like him, technically dead. Proper dead. Waiting for what? He was going to walk closer to the booth, not planning to jump ahead of the queue, just to see what was happening when one of those white-clad assistant seemed to appear out of nowhere by his side

- Take the booklet, all is in the booklet. Do not forget to complete the form at the end of the book. A pencil is attached to each booklet, answer all the questions, your DOD has been stamped as the hour, second and dodecasecond. Do not worry; just be truthful in your statement. If not properly completed, the management denies all responsibility of what happens next.

She left jus abruptly as he has turned up. The queue was like a very long snake. He could now figure out what was written at the top of his line booth. March 23, 2011, 21.59 pm, 03sec, 12 docsec; he was queuing between 11docsec and 13 docsec. Great. Nothing to do but fill the form. Annie had told him about changing rooms and form to complete; it seemed that Annie place was not his, no purgatory, just a fucking queue and no chairs. Could have been worse. Until he heard the music. Music and balloons, a group of assistants for lack of a better word were singing, carrying flowers for some, a champagne bottle and fine crystal glasses, that plus a ridiculous birthday cake with candles?

The recipient of this show was a tanned ONG nurse, still in her Doctors without Borders pajamas; she was hugged, kissed, and led to one of those posh glass lifts, the group disappeared behind the doors, moving upward and upward until, it literally disappeared from human or dead sight.

That was when it started to gain on him, that his fate had not yet been decided. Slowly but surely fear was taking hold of him. Looking at his boots, he tried to get his obsidian eyes, did not work, fangs out of order. No vampire here. All humans, all in the queues, all in line waiting for the booth. He felt compelled to open the book, endless boxes to tick, complete. Boring. He knew deep inside the officer behind the glass was going to have a regular go at him when he would read vampire on his form.

What really, really frightened him was the man in another queue, upon handing his completed form, and reading, reading what? A siren, a long bellowing siren had exploded and two surly policemen had sided the man, pulling him to a dodgy looking warehouse lift and the trio had disappeared, though not without the vision of the poor lad being manacled.

OK, that was it, they were all on triage. The book had to be complete. Let's start the fun! Date of birth, below, his date of death, name, so far so good. Name of mother, name of father. They had to accept the unknown. Not that he did not know his history. For all he knew, he had the name of his father, the father who had died before marrying his mother. She had carried her love child without a wedding ring, the shameless strumpet; she had loved the child who brought her shame, the child who was his father spitting image, working day and night to make ends meet, to give warmth, food, a roof, to her bastard love child. Quickly, he had learned that his mother was not an "honest" woman, what it meant not to have a father, a man in the house; the other men who tried to impose on his beloved mother, the tears she silently wept in the night. He also learnt to love his father; for despite being branded as a fallen woman, she loved as fresh as dawn, the man who had brought her disgrace.

The book carried on probing the man Mitchell John; the man who grew up without a father, who lost his mother, the orphan, the musician, the rebel, the revolutionary, the traitor, the soldier, the man who chose to be a vampire.

The child was not stupid, he tried to defend his mother; more than once came back to the little house, with bloodied lips or a black eye; not strong enough to defeat the bully, strong enough to fight anyway. That did not prevent her from death from exhaustion. The priest taking interest in the rebellious dark child had seen through the resentful eyes an intelligent mind eager to learn. The child loved music, sounds; from there, he was led to more academic learning. At the end, the orphanage school had brought too much pressure; given the choice between the blessing of the church, the assurance that becoming priest, he would be able to carry on his studies or leave school and become a soldier, he had thought that becoming a revolutionary was the third way , his real calling. Leaving the seminary, he joined the young men who wanted a free country. Easy to believe words, words do not carry weight, the repression was pitiless. Again asked to choose between being shot and giving names, he chose life and left abruptly his homeland. Shamed was his name, shamed like his mother, shamed like the father he missed so much. A soldier would die an honorable death, finally the shame would be washed by his own blood and the story would end.

The questions were straightforward, until he noticed a little question down the line: are you human, tick A are you else, tick B. OK, we tick else. The book letters reordered themselves: are you alive, are you undead? Ticking again the right answer, he saw 3 boxes jump under his eyes: are you a ghost, a vampire or a zombie? Vampire, what's next? More questions: they wanted to know who, when, why, how, what was he thinking, did he regret it etc etc .This was turning into a bloody university essay.

Herrick has changed the game. Finally, he was given a choice between humiliation and power. And he rejoiced at the power, he rejoiced at the fear he was reading in their eyes, the man who had drunk so many years at the bitter taste of shame and humiliation; he killed mercilessly, he killed for his parents, for every back hand turn he had suffered, he killed for the sake of killing, to forget, he killed because he loved it. At the end, he killed because there was nothing else he could do.

Killing was a chore, a prison, nothing else to do but kill. He would invent the most grotesque way to snatch a prey, the most cruel, like a child inventing games. A lottery of death, a competition of how many kills today, how many in an hour, in how many countries. Becoming a daredevil in the art of death was another way to escape his destiny. Kill the prey and kill those who are supposed to protect it. Kill the lovely red riding hood, the grandmother and the wolf hunter, kill till blood became like alcohol for an alcoholic. He got drunk with blood, more and more, till the abjection; killing till it meant nothing. Till he got disgusted of himself, gone was his reflection, but he did not blame the mirror; the creature he had become bore no resemblance to what he was once. The shame he carried was of his own making; he started to muse if he could turn the tide.

That Sheffield Christmas, he tried simply to have some company, he swore to himself, no drink, no sip, just a girl, just some fun, just company, real company. Next morning, a dead body welcomed his revulsed gaze. He was so addicted he could not even stop himself. He was a blood fiend, the last degree in humanity.

I am better than that. To start focusing, to try to grab piece by piece his shredded humanity was a very long exhausting battle; how many times one fails, climbs again, and fall , stumbles, walks a bit steadier, falls, bit by bit, inch by inch, crawling, but human he wanted to be again. Possibly, probably, regarding the vampire gene it was too late. For the rest, if he could limit the blood hunger for as long it could be, that was a first step. Climbing on the wagon became his goal, his Shangri La, his Heaven if there was a heaven for vampire, it would be a place where finally the need for blood would stop forever.

The book asked again and again what was he thinking, the tone was inquisitorial. At the top of the pages, he could read: we have all your actions and thoughts on tape: do not lie, you would pay the consequences.

He wrote his guilt, his despair, how he was sorry after each kill; how ashamed he felt. How wonderful had been for him the day he met Josie. Someone who actually helped him, loved him, and protected him again his own evil genius, from his own self made Hell. How she had gone after his plea to turn her to make her like him so they could be lovers forever; she wanted to get old, she wanted a family, but she was happy to sacrifice that and stay by his side as long she remains human. Left without her compass, he had struggled to stay clean, but relapsed again. Ups and downs, Vienna and the waltz of the Millennium, and one day when he was seriously contemplating some form of suicide, he met him. His friend, not a Josie, but a friend, a real friend; as usual the unexpected place to find a friend, a lyco, a werewolf for God sake. After that, he had felt stronger, thanks to good, faithful, wonderful had tried to stay on the wagon, with the sorry Lauren episode along the way. Stupid John, and his need for company, his physical need for a woman to love and be loved by. Annie, the ghost, so much like, like this blasted book was not going to be told; some secrets were his, some pains were strictly personal, some things are better left untold. Then Lucy, her treason, and his spiral down to madness after his blood shopping spree in the box tunnel. Killed Graham, killed Herrick, killing again and again till he was physically sick of it. Trying to save Annie, saving Annie, did that count? Probably not would say Lia. So no use of mentioning it. He wrote all his long life down, the booklet never seeming running out of paper, yet always asking more questions. Herrick, McNair, Annie learning his role in the death of those 20 innocents, Annie , losing her trust, her love, losing it all; back to Hell. It was a good thing George has decided out of pity to stake him, his soul was long gone; he was just an empty shell and now was judgment day.

The person before him was directed to what was looking like a double-decker, while other queues were shown to more buses with different directions. Some went down the lifts; some went up the posh lifts.

"Your book, please"

He pushed the booklet under the glass; the assistant seized it and processed it in a weird looking computer. In a few seconds, his eternity would be revealed. Deep inside, he suspected he knew the answer.