|Etherals: The Survivors
Author: Under the Apfelbaum PM
When one of the last remaining Vampires is recruited to join a government scheme protecting endangered 'etherals', she had no idea of the extent of the price she would have to pay in return... Title subject to change, rated T for languageRated: Fiction T - English - Supernatural/Suspense - Words: 1,115 - Reviews: 3 - Follows: 1 - Published: 07-27-09 - id: 2701776
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I'm kind of unsure about this style, it's new to me, so reviews would really be appreciated ^^
Shit. Blood. From packets. Tastes. Like shit.
That's my first thought as I rip open the offered bag with my teeth, some of the liquid already spilling messily into my mouth. It's dry, all hint of the vitality it should give off completely drained by its prolonged absence from flesh and veins, and, seriously, had they managed to create a type of plastic that could slowly dissolve into the substance it contained? It definitely tastes that way: disgusting. Still, as I voice my opinion to the provider, I keep an angelic smile on my face, not that he can see me in this dark.
"This tastes like shit," I inform him brightly, draining the packet and throwing it carelessly to the floor, "After keeping me cooped up in this van for four weeks and taking me to breaking point in terms of blood deficiency, it's really quite saddening that the substance to quench my thirst is this pathetic excuse for iron," I pout at the man, who is staring slightly to the left of me, trying to locate my voice. Ah, I do love night vision, "Then again, I don't suppose I could have afforded to be picky, hm? Not unless I felt like feasting upon my escort." The last sentence, I say dramatically, just to hear his heartbeat increase and that oh-so-entertaining gulp of nervousness: it's really hard not to scare humans when their reactions practically beg for it. My smile widens, and, when he coughs, I prick up my ears, stopping my attention from drifting to that small patch of light underneath the van doors.
"Before we arrive-which we will, shortly-I have a few verifications that I have been instructed to make," he begins, and I nod solemnly before remembering that he can't see me and making a small noise of affirmation to let him know to continue. His voice is awfully monotone. I hope this doesn't go on for long, "You are aware that you are one of the last surviving 'Etherals' on this Earth, and that you are about to enter into a protection scheme established and run by the United Nations, correct?" Etherals. I love that name. The name humans have given to a collection of dying species; we almost sound like ghosts already. Ghosts or Saints, and they've grouped us in a manner that makes us all seem the same-I'm sure many of those 'Etherals' will have objected to this speech.
"Yes." I reply shortly, doing my best to match my tone to that of my escort.
"And you are aware that, I exchange for this protection, you are to grant the UN certain favours, sometimes working with the Etherals also involved in this scheme?"
"In the form of bumping off people they don't like, yes." I confirm, my voice still bland, but growing bored. If all he's going to do is repeat information, it's not worth the effort of listening.
"That is good. It's also my duty to remind you that…" Oh, the van's stopping. Are they switching off the engine? Yes…does that mean we've arrived? I hope so. If we have, I can shut him up. Oh, I don't give a damn-that voice is torture.
"What's your name?" I stop him mid-speech, and notice him blink, turning his head yet again to face the wrong direction.
"Mine?" Yes, yours. Why wouldn't it be? There's no one else in here, is there? I smile.
"Oh…John." I raise an eyebrow. A boring name for a boring man.
"I see. How plain…You see, John, I just remembered, that the government contacted me before I was collected, and went through everything you told me…and I think you left something out…" Not that I was listening, but I doubt they would have told him anyway. He looks nervous-I bet he's only used to pencil pushing.
"O-oh? And what might that be?"
"I have been informed that no one is to know of my transportation here. Not those I left behind, not those in the town until they have come up with a suitable back story…and most certainly not those who aided in the transportation." Now he's confused, I can almost hear his mind trying to work out how he could forget taking me here, but just one heavy step towards him helps him to realise the implications, and he begins to back away, somehow forgetting that we're in the back of a locked vehicle. He looks around him in the darkness, clearly fumbling blindly, his expression of fear worthy of a photograph, and I pounce quickly, bloodstained fangs aiming straight for the vocal chords-a screaming meal never fails to give me a headache, and this long in confinement surely wouldn't help.
I stand slowly, my senses dulled from blood consumption-and it is, so much better fresh-and leaning on the metal wall for support, readjusting to my surroundings. I can't remember when the driver entered, but the van door is flung wide open and his corpse is lying on the floor, even more torn and bloodied than John's beside it-I must have really lost it by then. It was a messy killing, and I turn to face the wall I was leaning on, examining my reflection in the metal surface with a terrified look in my eyes. I wipe the blood from my face with my sleeve, grateful for my dark choice of clothing and that the liquid is still fresh, before gently removing the unshed tears from the corner of my eyes. Because the guilt is strange. I don't mourn the life, and I certainly enjoy taking it, but the wrenching I feel afterwards is something I'll never get used to, even after all these years; after all that slaughter. The smile returns before I even realise, that brilliant, confident smile that I am determined will one day reach my eyes. There, all better.
I step outside the van door, staring up at the tourist attraction in front of me. There's no one visiting now, which is surprising, though it was probably prepared. A castle. What a clichéd place to house us. I take a deep breath, starting up the hill.
"Lancaster Castle," I mutter to myself, rolling my eyes as it begins to spit, weather I had heard was typical of England, "My new home…"