This is a rewrite. I want to send massive thanks to my friend/beta/almost coauthor, ScarletRaven21, who helped me outline the new version of this story as we drove from Jekyll Island to Covington, GA. Yep, the place where they film TVD. And yep, we ate at the Mystic Grill. Anyway, for those who were following the old version, I hope you agree that this one is better. New readers: hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
ELENA
I'm speeding down the highway because I just had the day from hell at work. What is it about putting on a fucking apron that makes people think they can treat you like absolute shit? I hate serving on Sundays. Sunday diners are the worst. I take a deep breath and try to dissolve the stress of my day with a real-life game of Mario Kart, dodging and weaving in and out of lanes, ignoring the incessant honking of the sore losers I'm passing (if only I could eject banana peels from my exhaust pipe), just counting down the minutes until I get home. I need a drink or ten.
Eventually the Atlanta city scape, with its pointed towers and Olympic Flame that looks more like a golden chicken, fades into the background, leaving me to the quiet tranquility that is the rolling, scenic road that takes me home to Covington. I relax a little. Almost there. I do, however, have to pee something fierce. Why did I chose to move so far out from the city center? Oh, right, money. That thing you need to pay for things. I pull into a gas station that appears to be under construction, but it's still open.
"Sorry darlin', ain't workin', what with all the construction," replies 'June' (as her name tag tells me), the sweet natured elderly lady behind the counter. I always feel sorry for these people. She looks like she should be retired, sitting in her rocking chair telling stories or knitting for her grandchildren. She has a kind face, laced with wrinkles, coarse grey hair that she's clearly tried to mold into a perfect bob and eyes that twinkle when she smiles. What happened in her life? Why is she working this job? What has she lost? "We been usin' that there porta-potty," she announces, lifting a withered and liver-spotted finger to the corner of the lot to point out the monstrosity.
I shudder. I'll hold it.
"Y'all be careful out there," she remarks as I exit. That was a strange thing to say. I remember that as I walked in she was glued to the tv, the announcer droning on about some 'serious threat'. Nothing new. This is the south, after all, where FOX News abounds. Probably a storm rolling in. No big deal, I can beat it home. Wait, why did she say 'y'all'?
When I get back to my car I see why. There is a disheveled and distressed redheaded woman trying wildly to open my passenger door. Both her arms are covered in tattoos and she is visibly drunk. The attendant must've thought we were traveling together. "Can I help you?" I ask, because she doesn't seem like the crackhead type. More like she's having the worst day of her life.
"Can you get me the fuck outa here?" She asks, not a hint of a drawl. Not that I've got one. Most of my generation doesn't, but she seems a few years older than me. Maybe in her early thirties, but she's still really pretty, if you discount the smeared makeup and fear in her eyes.
"What happened?" I ask.
"Just PLEASE!" She shouts at me. I get in my side and press the button to unlock the doors because apparently I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress. She clumsily slides into the passenger seat and half mumbles a hurried "DRIVE!" before trying (a little too hard) to affix her seatbelt. Well, at least she has that presence of mind. I peel out of the gas station, half expecting some guy to come running towards us with a gun. As I make the turn back onto Route 23 to head north, I glance in my rearview mirror and see a group of people lumbering towards us, dressed as zombies.
"Is it zombie walk time already?" I ask. "I thought they only did that in big cities."
"I'ss not zombie walk..." She slurs and starts crying. She's clearly upset so I decide to give her a few minutes to compose herself. Someone had too many on a Sunday...
Once we come out of the rolling green hills of suburban mansions and are getting close to my town of magnificent ex-plantations and loads of history, as they like to brag about, whilst ignoring the squalor in which the poor live (me! I mean me!) I finally nudge her and ask, "Is there somewhere you want me to take you? The police station, maybe?"
"NO!" She shouts, winding her head in a circle and collapsing it back on the window, her sweat-drenched red hair clinging to the glass and the porcelain skin of her neck and cheek in equal measure.
"Okay... Well, what do you wanna do? Where do you wanna go? You're not exactly being forthcoming," I reply. "What's your name, anyway?"
"Erin. Somewhere safe. He tried to kill me. Devin. He tried to fucking kill me. You know that?"
"Of course I don't know that, I just met you. Elena."
"No, ERIN!" She shouts.
"No, sweetie, I'M Elena. It's nice to meet you. Kinda."
"I was really drunk and we were having fun and then he just... He just attacked me."
I roll my eyes. Ok. This one might be high maintenance but my protective instinct is kicking in. "You can stay with me tonight until you sober up. We can figure out where you're going in the morning, ok?" Sometimes I'm too nice. Southern hospitality, right? It's ingrained.
"Thanks," she mumbles.
As I turn onto my street I see another group of the zombie walkers. I can't believe it's such a big thing this year. Some of the costumes are really well done. I even see one guy with fake entrails dragging on the ground behind him as he lumbers along with the crowd. Cool. They're everywhere. I guess the trend is spreading. Thanks, 'Walking Dead'. We get to my apartment and I help Erin's drunk ass up the stairs and onto my couch. When I throw a blanket over her, her huge, blue, drowsy eyes snap open and the fear I see in them sends a shiver down my spine. I need to help this girl. I hush her and tuck the blanket over her shoulders, telling her it'll all be alright, though, in her case, I have no idea if I'm telling the truth or not. I check my messages once I've got her settled.
Message from Mom: Where are you? Get here now.
To Mom: What? What's wrong?
Message from Mom: Obviously you haven't been watching the news, as usual. Just get your butt over here. NOW.
Awesome. So, clearly my mother is having some sort of crisis but still finds the time to make me feel like shit. That's just great. Just to spite her, I settle into the ugly pink armchair that I got off craigslist that sits next to the less-ugly, comfy leather couch that is currently being drooled upon by my new accidental friend. Fucking Southerners, seriously. Why couldn't I have been born a selfish Yankee douche?
I wish I didn't turn on the tv. I wish I just went to sleep peacefully and never woke up. I wish I never saw the images I'm seeing. Chaos in the streets. People screaming. People biting other people and literally tearing them apart. CDC alert: Uncontrolled Virus Outbreak-Stay Indoors. Transmitted through bodily fluids. Those infected might become hostile, violent, and may even try to bite the healthy. If you have been bitten, please report to local police at once, where arrangements will be made for your immediate quarantine...
Wait... Zombies?
I feel like that poor girl in that youtube video. This must be my brother pranking me. It's just like him to copy someone else's idea to try to be cool. Heaven forbid he come up with an original prank. And of course he got Mom in on it. Always the favorite. But... That doesn't explain the tattooed redhead on my couch who is currently bleeding all over my Grandmother's quilt.
Wait.
I quietly crawl across the floor to the couch, where Erin is currently lying prone, shivering beneath the blanket that has always provided me with warmth and comfort, whimpering in her sleep. Kneeling beside her, I gently brush the damp and bloodied hair off her neck and shoulder, wondering how I had missed the blood earlier. Jesus, she's burning up. I'm silently willing her to stop bleeding on the last piece of my Grandma that I still possess when I see the one thing that confirms for me that all sources of warmth and comfort are either frivolous or gone.
There is a bite mark. A bite mark on her neck. And it's leaking onto my quilt. My momentary rage is replaced with horror as I notice that her shivering had become trembling in my journey across the floor and is now near convulsions as her eyes snap open. The irises are the same shade of beautiful blue-gray as they were before, but they are being encroached upon by dozens of thick, deep-red veins, seemingly speeding towards the center. Her skin has become a sickly grey and her teeth are clenched tight, her jaw flexing against the strain.
"Elena?" She asks, fighting against the tremors that rack her body. "What's happening to me? I don't feel good."
"I'm not sure," I tell her in as soothing a voice as I can muster. I am sure, though. At least, I think I am. The look she gives me next nearly kills me. She knows. She's figured it out. She knows and she...
"I don't want to die." There it is. She knows she's going to die and she knows there's nothing I can do about it. There will be no comfort, no peace, only fear and pain. I grab her shaking hand and squeeze it, looking deep into her eyes and try to imagine loving her so that hopefully she feels it. She stares back at me as she gives up on fighting the tears that begin to cascade down her cheeks. As soon as her pitiful whimpers begin to be punctuated with brief snarls and her terrified gaze with angry glares, I know that this is real. I know what I have to do.
I get up and calmly (outwardly, anyway) walk into my bedroom, grab the 45 from under the bed, undo the safety and head back into the living room. Erin looks up at me and her eyes widen even further. I'm not sure if I can do this. What if I'm wrong? What if she just has the flu? What if all the stuff on the news was something else? I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs because I just don't know what to do. I mean, just looking at her, she seems so innocent and scared. I just want to hug her and tell her everything will be alright. But she keeps randomly snarling like a rabid dog.
"Why do you have a gun?" She punctuates the question with a snap of her teeth and a growl.
"I... I don't know. I'm not sure yet."
"Not..." snap "sure about..." snarl "what?" It's like she's got some form of undead Tourettes. I mean, I know what's happening. It's been spelled out to me and I'm no dummy. I can put two and two together. But... What if I'm wrong? What if I shoot this poor girl who just got drunk with her boyfriend and had a row? Then her life is over and all the people who love her are left devastated. And I go to jail for the rest of my life. I look at her pleading eyes and I nearly fall to the floor, my knees are shaking so bad. God, she's SO scared. But then I notice something about her eyes. The whites are almost completely red now and her irises have turned a sickly grey. This is not natural. No flu in the world does this to a person. She begins to shake her head violently back and forth, punching the couch with both arms at her sides while her teeth repeatedly clack together. My mind is made up.
Just as I raise the gun and point it at her with a shaking hand, she calms enough to look at me and I nearly lose the courage to do what I know I have to do. Nothing will be the same after this.
"NO! Elena, please! I'm not ready! Pl-"
BANG!
I shoot her in the head.
My Grandmother's quilt is ruined.
DAMON
This is fucked. So totally fucked. It's like every awesome movie I've ever seen grew a real life pair of tits and smashed through the screen. I want to fuck it and kill it at the same time. I mean, I don't want to fuck these drooling degenerates, I just mean the whole danger aspect is sexy as all hell. You get what I'm saying, right? Nevermind. I can't think about that right now. I need to get to my brother. He's like a turtle in a half shell. Notice how I didn't say 'hero'. I've spent the better part of my day realizing that this is really happening and then figuring out what they're capable of and what can stop them. Part of me wishes I never got out of bed this morning. As far as I was concerned, everything was fine until I left my apartment and saw my neighbor being eaten alive on the sidewalk. My brother is probably painting his nails and writing emo in his journal, completely oblivious to all of it. My Dad, who's probably with him, won't be much better. Sipping his fucking hoity-toity fucking cappuccinos and reading yesterdays fucking paper because, heaven forbid he be troubled by the present.
"We can look at the past to find wisdom, son. But when faced with the present we cannot see clearly."
What a crock of shit. What fucking difference does ONE day make? Even if it did, go see the fucking Buddhists! Jesus fucking Christ, does that man ever piss me off! Past, present, who cares? Today it fucking matters! I'm making all kinds of illegal maneuvers on the highway, just trying to reach the fucking Fortress of Solitude that my Dad keeps Stefan secluded in. Seriously, it's creepy. He couldn't wait to get me out but he keeps my brother around, clinging to him like a goddamn teddy bear. Always the fucking favorite...
I give up on roads. Every road is blocked with cars trying as hard as they can to stall their way into fucking oblivion, but I'm close enough to my Father's house that I peel off into a field, hoping to make it across to the dirt path that serves as the back road around the property. Yeah, our family owns a plantation. So what?
My precious Camaro, though... She wasn't exactly meant for off-roading. Her tires start to slide and then spin uselessly in the muck. Fuck. Fuck muck. I swing the door open without even bothering to cut the engine. As much as I love this car, I don't have time for this. I start out at a sprint towards the house, the tall grass tickling my arms with every stride and the crickets quieting as I pass. I can't help but worry about my car. I mean, shit. I built her nearly from scratch. She was a pile of rusted old junk when I bought her, but with a few years of gentle love, faith and attention to detail, she became the gleaming baby-blue princess that she is now... Stuck in the mud. With the engine running and the keys in the ignition. I'm a bad boyfriend.
But I seriously can't be thinking about this right now, so I pick up the pace. There's a creek that divides our property from that of the Lockwood's, whom, I suppose, are the proud new owners of a one-of-a-kind '67 Camaro, that I have to traverse. I make the jump at full speed but still fall about a foot short and my $200 boots get soaked in the process. Well, isn't this just peachy. To add insult to injury, my sopping-wet boots cause me to slip on a patch of dry grass about 100 yards later and slide down a hill into a swampy little pond. Awesome. There goes my $900 fucking jacket. Thank you, universe!
Finally I reach the house and crash like armageddon through the doors. Little did I know I was bringing armageddon with me.
"Who's there?" My Father's voice. Well, he's alive. That's... Something.
"It's me!" I shout.
"Damon! I'm glad you're here. I was just reading this interesting article about some strange outbreak in Haiti that seems like it may-WHAT in the WORLD happened to YOU?!" Ah, so he's noticed me for once. Great.
"Nevermind, Dad. Where's Stefan?" Please don't say it, please don't say it, please don't say it...
"Well, unlike you, son," Yep, here it comes, "your brother is attending to his studies like a responsible young man. And what have you been doing? Mud wrestling with bikini models on the Music TV?" He smirks at me like he's got me pegged. I've always hated that look. He looks so fucking smug with his perfectly quaffed salt and pepper hair and his high cheekbones that, trust me, for whatever reason, women adore. And I never got that, because if you take one look at his beady little green eyes that always seem to have a conniving, evil little glimmer about them you would run the other way. But maybe that's just how he looks at me.
UGH! What am I doing? I don't have time for this!
"You know what, Dad? Eat shit." Ignoring his shocked expression, I gallop up the stairs to Stefan's room and barge in the door. He gasps and quickly hides something under his desk. Yep. He was writing emo in his journal. His laptop is also open and asleep on his bed and there are tissues everywhere. Gross. Oh, man, do I ever wanna exploit this opportunity, but there's no time... Well...
"Dear diary. Today I just couldn't ignore the curiosity anymore so I touched myself down there and it felt SO good so, diary, don't tell anyone, but I kept doing it and then when it felt so good that I thought I might explode, this weird sticky goop came out of me! I think I've been cursed by Satan for my sins!"
"Shut up, Damon!" He shrieks. He looks embarrassed as all hell and that makes my day, as the big brother. Until I remember why I'm here. God, why does picking on him distract me so much?
"Great come back. Anyway, we need to leave. Like fucking yesterday." I look around his room and realize that it's even more cluttered than the last time I was in here. There are odd knick-knacks and figurines and collectibles of all kinds dotting every fucking square inch of the sparse and dusty space. This is not gonna go over well. "Don't bother packing, let's go."
"What? Where are we going?"
FUCK, sometimes I just want to punch him and hug him at the same time. He looks so much like my father; with strong, high cheekbones, green eyes, thin lips, defined chin, noble brow... You know, all those things 'The Little Women' fucking worship, which makes me want to punch him... but he has the countenance of my mother, all innocent and loving, loyal to a fault... which makes me want to hug him and pinch his cheeks. But, AGAIN, no time for this! I go with a compromise. I slap him.
"STEFAN," I bellow, using my Moses voice. "We are not SAFE here! We need to leave! NOW!"
That seems to have done the trick. He grabs his fucking emo journal from under his desk (because, heaven forbid he live without it, fucking little princess) and follows me down the stairs. When we get to the foyer, what I see pretty much cements in my mind that things are about to get a hell of a lot worse.