December 17, 2010
It's an older but modern house, out in a suburb on the edge of town. A little out of the way, a few steps further from the street than the other houses, but not so much as to make it a chore to travel to and from. A little brick wall, ungated, surrounds its yard; within, a few small steps lead to a wooden porch and the front door. It seems promising.
The girl and the boy are walking down the sidewalk, illuminated by lamps along the street, close to one another. They can't be older than 12, but they walk with a confidence that belies their apparent age. They're smiling and talking quietly to one another in the frosty, snowless December air. Quick jokes and excitement, the childlike thrill of exploration in a new city.
It's a cold winter's night, several degrees below freezing, but the two are lightly dressed - the girl in a Metallica hoodie and a skirt, sneakers with no socks, and the boy in a knit gray sweater, pants and scuffed shoes. They both carry backpacks, somewhat bulky with clothes and blankets stuffed inside. Neither have jackets, but neither show any sign of being bothered by the cold air.
The girl and the boy look around - although a few of the houses have light shining out of their windows, inhabitants backlit as they go about their evenings, the streets are empty. It's just after 10pm.
"What do you think? Wanna give this one a try?" asks the boy.
The girl nods.
"Yeah, looks nice and big," she says as she looks up at the modest two-story house. "I hope this one has a big bathtub and lots of hot water."
The boy laughs and smiles at the girl, and she smiles back. He wonders if this house will have a nice, windowless walk-in closet with a carpeted floor. It's always more comfortable waking up together on a carpet than in a bathtub or on the bathroom floor, blanket or no blanket.
The girl takes the boy's hand in hers, and the two kids begin the walk up to the front door. They've done this so many times they've lost count, but the boy still feels a memory of butterflies in his stomach each time: it's a brew of excitement, anticipation, and something dark, like hunger. The way a predator might feel just before beginning the hunt.
As they walk onto the porch the girl takes the lead, the boy a step or two behind her. Sometimes it's the other way around and the boy leads, although in the early weeks and months, as the boy became accustomed to this life, the girl often led. This time, again, it's the girl's turn.
She presses the door bell, and the comforting tune of Westminster Quarters rings inside the house, audible from the porch. The pair waits, holding hands. Their touch reassures the other, lets them know that neither is alone anymore.
Miles wakes to the sound of his doorbell chime.
He dozed off on the couch again, the Christmas special on TV reduced to background noise. Miles hesitates. He can't be sure of what he's hearing at first - age has taken a lot from his senses, and he doesn't get many visitors. It's been years, in fact, since anyone who wasn't a delivery person rang his doorbell. After a few seconds, the doorbell rings again. Impatient fellow. Miles throws a robe over his t-shirt and begins walking to the front door. He passes from the living room through the hallway, toward the front door. It better not be the neighborhood kids messing around, he thinks. Playing ding-dong-ditch or whatever it's called these days. But deep down, he knows it's an idle, wishful thought.
The kids avoid his house, even on Halloween. He never puts out candy or turns on the porch light.
The two children wait outside, patiently. The girl rings the doorbell once more. After a few minutes the faint sound of footsteps becomes audible, accompanied by a faint scent of human life entering their sphere of awareness. Had anyone else been present and waiting, they would have heard only the sound of the cold winter wind and smelt the smoky scent of the wintry air.
An elderly man, dressed in plain gray sweatpants and a bathrobe over a Simpsons t-shirt, opens the door. He looks down in surprise at the pair of children, still present and so lightly dressed for the weather. A blonde-haired girl is just beyond the door's threshold, holding hands, fingers intertwined, with an equally-young dark-haired boy just a step or two behind her.
The boy looks like he's about to say something, but the girl is the first to speak. She looks up at him with green eyes.
"Excuse me, can we come in? My phone's dead, and I want to call my parents and let them know we're ok and they can pick us up." She holds up her phone, a newer model smartphone with a dark screen, to accentuate her question.
"Uh, would you have a charger?" adds the boy, piping up. "Also, we're kinda cold. We didn't think it was gonna be this cold when we left."
Miles hesitates, but only for a fraction of a second. The two children look like something out of a Charles Dickens story, only with modern clothes and a smartphone. He half-expected them to ask for porridge.
He thinks about saying no, but they look so pitiful in the cold dark. Break-ins are rare here, and he feels calmed by the girl's eyes.
"Sure, sure, come on in," Miles says. He holds the door open for the children, looks outside. "Uh, I think I have a charger somewhere in the kitchen. Is that, uh, an iPhone or, uh, an Android?"
"Thanks!" says the boy. He doesn't answer the question. The two children smile at each other briefly - a mutual look of accomplishment. For a moment, Miles thinks he's made some kind of mistake, as though he's the butt of some kind of joke he isn't quite privy to. He brushes it off.
"Uh, what kind of charger do you need?" Miles asks again. He closes the front door once the children have entered, and walks past them into the kitchen on the left side of the hallway. The children follow close behind.
"Oh, it's an iPhone," says the girl, looking around at the kitchen. "It's my dad's."
"How old are you two?" Miles asks. "Where are your parents?" It's not particularly late, but it is dark, and he's not used to kids just walking up to his house. The questions, though, are perfunctory. Beneath the surface, Miles is glad for the company. It's something to break up the monotony of his day, takes him back in time to when the house was fuller with life.
"Twelve... more or less," says the dark-haired boy. He's also taking in the surroundings - glancing at the papers on the kitchen table, the fridge door, the little bulletin board next to the kitchen doorway. But Miles doesn't notice. He's opened the bottom drawer of the kitchen counter, rummaging through the bin he keeps there, filled with the electronics and cables and wires he's accumulated over the years.
After a moment, the girl speaks again.
"Our parents dropped us off at a friend's house and we decided to try walking home. But we got lost," she says.
Another moment passes.
"Wow, your house is so nice," she says. Her tone is matter-of-fact, inviting a response.
"Yeah, it's so clean," adds the boy. He hasn't seen any family pictures, any indications of other inhabitants.
"Well thank you. It's not too hard to keep it clean when no one's around to make a mess," Miles responds absentmindedly, still rummaging through the bin. Now where did he put that cable for that new phone he'd gotten? He's been meaning to get it set up for ages now, but he's never really had occasion to use it. Miles spies a white cable that looks vaguely like it might be related to a smartphone. He pulls it out and examines it.
"Don't you have any kids?" asks the girl. She's soft - innocent - but direct. She knows the question is almost rude - would be rude, coming from someone older. She hopes she's gauged the man correctly and that he won't take offense. That he won't recognize the questions for what they are, this late at night.
"Like a wife or something either?" adds the boy, following the girl's lead. He and the girl have put their backpacks down, just outside the kitchen doorway. Safe from any spatters.
This is just a printer cable, Miles thinks. It's got to be. The ends are far too thick to fit into a phone.
Miles sighs. He's too tired, half-asleep. Too many distractions swirling in his head.
"No, unfortunately," he says. He thinks back to the hospital visits and the medical care and the hope and disappointment and resignation. It's been several years now, but the scars are still raw. He thinks about the cables again, puts the printer cable back, and tugs on the end of a promising new candidate.
"Do you get a lot of visitors?" asks the girl. Again, direct. Verging on reckless, she chides herself.
She and the boy are watching Miles. They've moved closer to him, but not too close.
"None. Just peace and tranquility," he responds, back still turned to the two children. "When you get to be my age, you'll learn to enjoy it when you can find it." Maybe this cable will be the one. It certainly looks small enough.
He doesn't see the boy and girl exchange glances, quick predatory smiles. The girl gives a slight, barely perceptible nod.
In an instant, the old man is on the cold kitchen floor. The girl is on top of his back, her weight pinning him to the floor, her teeth tearing into the side of his neck. The boy is leaning with his arm on the old man's head, hand covering the man's mouth and muffling what sounds come out.
The man's eyes dart around in panicked non-comprehension. For a moment, his eyes meet the boy's eyes, the boy's irises now small and yellow and his face eerily pale. If he could see the girl, hers would be the same. The boy licks his lips in anticipation. There's a low growl, like an animal's. His tongue is too long, thinks Miles. Or maybe I'm just out of it from the fall. I'll need to see the doctor about that - I really have been getting behind on my checkups anyway. Absurd, stupid, dizzy thoughts plodding through his mind.
Then the blood loss sets in, and Miles's vision and thoughts fade fully to black.
Owen turns the man's head further to the side, pressing the man's cheek against the kitchen floor. Even in the throes of feeding instinct, it's the prey's eyes that make him uncomfortable, even if just for an instant. He knows Abby feels the same way, and it makes him feel better.
Abby is almost done drinking her fill, trickles of blood running down her chin and spilling on the floor in little rivulets. She rang the doorbell this time, so she gets first dibs just like they agreed. They've made a game out of it long ago, to ease the hunt. Next time, when they move cities and begin the search again, it will be Owen's turn.
After a moment longer, Abby's thirst is sated. A pint and a half, more or less. She moves out of the way with animalistic grace, and Owen hungrily moves in. The old man's neck muscles and sinews had begun to move back into place by dint of their own elasticity, narrowing the opening, once Abby stopped drinking. Owen bites down, using his tongue to reopen the wound and expose the arteries and veins. He begins drinking, sating the hunger he felt building up in his veins and stomach.
It had been hard, when Abby first turned him all those years ago, after they'd gotten off that train from Los Alamos just after sunset. It had been hard to keep the urges under control, the feeling of something hungry and squirming coursing through his veins when he'd gone too long without blood. Hard to control the ecstasy of drinking. Abby had helped him on his first hunt - some man walking alone in a park after sundown. They'd waited in the barren tree tops, hidden by the glare of lamplight. They'd both dragged the body into some bushes, had a tender, heartfelt hug afterwards. He'd felt a mix of emotions, chief among them a feeling of belonging. True happiness. He knew she felt the same.
It wasn't long before he'd learned to turn his fingers and toes into claws, to grow wings and fly. Abby taught him.
Hunting was easier now for both of them. There was no longer a go-between, no proxy to shield them from the reality of their food. None was needed. The hunts had grown easier with repetition, for Abby emotionally and for Owen as he learned the techniques. Owen was used to it now, even though he knew he'd never be able to fully control the urges - just as Abby still had trouble. But Abby was there for him, and he was there for Abby. They had a system now for their hunts, watching each other's backs. They were hunting once a week, usually. One adult had enough blood for both of them. Sometimes, regrettably, they had to make do with a child. Sometimes they took down pairs, couples walking in the dark or in the confines of their homes. And sometimes he or Abby would get in the mood, and they'd hunt more frequently, twice or even three times in a week, drinking to a comfortable fullness each time. But that was rare and only when the opportunity arose. Neither felt guilt.
This house is remote enough, and the nearby city large enough, that they'll be able to stay at least a few months this time, taking late-running trains in and out. They'll disguise the victims as stabbings and robberies - or maybe just simple disappearances, time permitting - and burn the house down when they leave.
After another minute or so, Owen's had his fill. He gently places one hand on top of the man's head, and the other beneath the man's chin, slightly offset. And with unnatural strength he snaps the man's neck in a quick, practiced motion. He licks the blood off his lips, licks it off his fingers. Abby's already washed her hands and grabbed her bag from the floor. She's now waiting patiently for Owen in the hall, affectionately watching him as he finishes up. Owen stands and heads to the kitchen faucet, rinsing his hands and leaving another set of dull red smudges on the handles. He wipes his hands dry on a paper towel, crumples it, drops it. They'll have plenty of time to clean up later.
Owen grabs his bag and joins Abby just outside the kitchen, smiling. The two children, hand-in-hand, begin to explore their new home.