Unmade: A Neo-Nihilist Vampire Tale (13 page)

            “Now
I know that rats aren’t no gourmet meal, but they’re a lot easier to get up
here than an unconscious person. You need your strength, so don’t complain.” He
opened his bottle of whiskey and took a swig that made him gag just looking at
it. “Go eat. We got a lot of work to do and the nights are short at this time
of year.”

            He
grabbed his bag o’ rats and walked into the kitchen, where he found a nice serrated
steak knife that only had a little rust on its edge. He then began to wash the
rats, one by one in the sink. After he had washed all of the rats off, he
picked up the plumpest one; it must have weighed two pounds, and cut its throat
with the knife. He held it upside down so that the blood would drip into his
mouth aided by the still beating heart of the rat and gravity. It was all a lot
neater and nicer than his last attempt had been. The taste was the same
however; old gutter refuse and shit flavor. It still invigorated him.

He looked over
at the old veteran sitting on the end of his bed, reading a book about vampires
and pausing every now and then to steal a draught from his bottle. He wondered
what he would taste like. Hell, he’d probably taste like old cigarettes and
whiskey. Who knows, maybe there would be even more flavors inside the old man
than he thought. He had been to faraway, exotic places. There could yet be some
surprises in the old man. He banished the line of thinking from his thoughts as
he opened up another bottle of rat and drained its lifeblood down.

“So what do
you say there, chief? What’s the plan?”

“Well, besides
you suckin’ down that rat brew, the first order of business is to build your
vampire ass a coffin.” He took another swig from his bottle and smacked his
lips. “You any good at carpentering?”

“Carpentering?
Is that even a word?”

“I don’t know.
Do I look like a dictionary to you?”

“No… you look
like an old bum who is getting drunk and reading a book about vampires on the end
of my bed.”

“Ha ha ha…
well at least we know your eyes are working properly,” he took another swig
from his bottle and produced one of his handmade beauties from his jacket
pocket. He lit it and continued reading the vampiric tome.

“Why do I need
a coffin? I’ve been sleeping in this room since I was bit and I haven’t been
burnt up yet?”

The old
soldier took another drag from his ever-present cigarette and looked him in the
eyes. “You don’t know what’s going to happen. What if one day, you’re sleeping
and all of the sudden you start sleepwalking. You’re in a dream and you want to
look out the window so you walk over to the window and lift the shade. Next
thing you know, no more you. It could happen. I’ve seen people do some weird
shit in their sleep. Did I ever tell you the story of my friend that could channel
the devil in his sleep? He was this old bum that would go to sleep and…”

“No, please,
not another story.”

“I suppose
you’re right. We do have some work to do.”

“I still don’t
see why I need a coffin. I’ve never sleepwalked in my life, and I don’t see how
being a vampire would change that.”

“Fine, fine,
you don’t sleepwalk, but it says here in this book… let me find the page.” The
old soldier riffled through the pages of the red-bound book that had the title
McGinley’s Vampiric Encyclopedia emblazoned in gold letters across the front
cover. He finally found the page and said, “Ah, here it is. ‘A vampire must
rest in a receptacle for the dead, or coffin, every night in order to obtain
the true potential of their vampiric powers. If a vampire does not rest in a
corpse receptacle, then their powers shall diminish to that of the weakest
humans.’”

“So you’re
saying that if I want to be a strong vampire, I have to sleep in a coffin.”

“Exactly.”

“I can’t believe
this shit.” He began to pull the wood from the landing into the tiny space of
his apartment. There were a handful of two by four’s and three large planks of
plywood that took up as much space as the base of his bed. He had to lean the
large planks on the bed to have enough space to move around. “Where did you get
all of this stuff?”

“Well, I
scrounged around some of the more notorious bridges in town and found the wood.
Most bums don’t like to sleep on plain old dirt or concrete. It makes them feel
like animals, and if it rains, a piece of wood is usually enough to keep the
wetness from reaching you. The rats were easy enough to find underneath my own
bridge. The nails and this hammer,” he pulled a shiny silver hammer from the
other bag that he had carried in, “had to be borrowed.” He laughed a little
bit, took a swig and a smoke and then said, “By borrowed, I mean stolen.”

“You stole all
that stuff?”

“Sure, kid. I
got the jacket. I got that old grizzled look that people can’t look at for too
long, and I got the smell that most people won’t even stand next to for longer
than two minutes. It’s not that hard to steal anything when people don’t want
to look at or be around you. I would almost be insulted if it didn’t work out
to my advantage so often. Besides, it’s not like I’m stealing TV’s or anything.
I’m just taking a little here and there, the type of shit that no one’s going
to miss. The only thing I regret is that I couldn’t find a construction site to
rip the wood from. I know a couple of hard drinkin’ winos that are gonna be
more than a little pissed when they get home from panhandling, but hey, if I
could find some wood, then they can find some wood.”

“Alright,
let’s get to work.”

            The
work started out good. They put his bed up against the wall, like a cheap
imitation of a Murphy bed, so that they would have more room to work. The old
soldier produced a saw from the bag that the hammer had come from and they
began measuring out and marking the pieces of wood. He laid down on one of the
large piece of plywood as the old soldier marked out his general dimensions on
the wood with a black Magnum marker that they had found in one of his as of yet
unpacked boxes. It was a bizarre experience to be measured for a coffin while
he could still walk and talk.

            Once
they had measured out his dimensions on the plywood, they began to cut the wood
to size. The two-by-fours were easy to cut. They were dry wood and the powder
that they left on the never-been-clean carpet piled up quickly. The plywood was
a different story. Each stroke of the saw simply tore away little chunks of the
plywood creating a ragged edge.

            They
had a little meeting of the minds which was quickly becoming the meeting of the
mind as the old soldier sank deeper and deeper into his bottle. His usefulness
was quickly becoming suspect. In the end, they decided to leave two of the
plywood sheets intact which would make for a bed-sized coffin.

            They
stood the plywood on its side and placed a cut piece of two-by-four up against
it. He hammered the nail home as the old soldier wobbled to and fro with the
plywood in his hands. After each two by four was attached at the corners of the
plywood the laid it down and tested out the supporting piece of two by four.
Now came the hard part. They had to cut one of the sheets of plywood into the four
pieces that would make up the sides of the coffin.

            When
they were finished, they had four rough rectangles that stood approximately two
feet high when they were attached to the coffin. They had to top off the two by
four pieces of wood that made the frame of the coffin when they were finished.
Neither of them were very good at math and they had miscalculated how tall the
coffin would actually be.

            In
the middle of the carpentering, one of his previously unseen neighbors appeared
from downstairs, pounding at his door. They ignored him and tried to continue
with their work, but the pounding only became more intense and insistent until
they thought the door would fly off the hinges.

            He
lost his temper and flung open the door to be greeted by the shocked but
furious face of a man with dark rings under his eyes. He stood there waiting
for the man to speak, to explain why he had been pounding on his door. He was
afraid to speak first lest he start a brawl on the stairwell.

            The
man in the stairwell looked at the two seemingly crazy men that had been
creating the noise that had kept him up for most of the night. The heat of the
apartment assaulted his face as did the reek of whiskey and cigarette smoke. The
neighbor decided to be a little more diplomatic in his criticism of the two
men’s actions once he spied the silver clawed hammer, the sparkling teeth of
the saw, and the crude wooden object that lay in the middle of the apartment.

            He
spoke in a deliberate manner, trying to keep the edge that he still felt from
infiltrating his voice, “I was wondering if you two gentleman could keep it
down. I’m trying to get some sleep, and I live downstairs and all I’ve heard
for the last two hours is sawing and hammering. Some of us do have to work in
the morning, and I would much appreciate it.”

            Before
he could say anything in reply to the man on the landing, the Old Soldier
blurted something out, “We would appreciate it if you would keep your goddamn
mouth shut.” The Old Soldier got up our of his chair waving his two-thirds
empty whiskey bottle around like it was the mace of a medieval knight. He moved
to intercept the Old Soldier before he could brain the tired man on the
landing.

            “Get
your fucking hands off of me! That son of a bitch comes up here banging on the
door like the goddamn Big Bad Wolf, and he’s going to get what’s coming to him!
We ain’t no little pigs, you fucker! I’m a Vietnam vet. I’ve killed better men
than you’ll ever be! You want some quiet? Then bring your ass in here and make
us be quiet!”

            The
man on the landing looked at the old man with fear in his eyes. He had been
expecting a confrontation, but not a confrontation with two apparently drunk
carpenters out of their minds. “I’m just going to leave now…” He turned to go
before the old veteran could get his whiskey bottle within swinging distance.

            The
old man fought his way back to the landing with his vampire friend in between
him and the sleepy man that was now making his way down the stairs to the
assumed security of his own apartment. “You better get the fuck out of here. If
you got the balls to complain, then you should have the balls to fight, but you’re
just a chickenshit nancy boy. Run home to momma, little girl!”

            The
old man lobbed the whiskey bottle down the stairs. All the parties involved
watched as it flew in a straight line and smashed against the railing, bouncing
off and spilling its rage inducing contents in a pitiful puddle on the landing
below theirs. The old veteran shouted one last thing as the man from downstairs
ducked inside his apartment, “Don’t call the fucking cops, boy. Or it’ll be the
last thing you ever do! Me and my boy Ratula here, we got ourselves a mighty
mean streak, and it’ll be the last thing you ever do!”

            As
the man disappeared into his apartment all the strength disappeared from the
old man’s legs and he collapsed, spent, into his friend’s arms. He walked
inside and laid the old man on the floor, still spouting his tirades, weak
pitiful arguments and threats rained down upon his dirty carpet missing their
target by an apartment or two. He faded off into darkness muttering about being
a veteran and kicking ass. He was deaf to the sounds of sawing and hammering
that continued on into the night.

            His
first day in the coffin was anything but comfortable. The particle board that
he was attempting to sleep on had an annoying habit of getting slivers of wood
in his skin. He got up in the middle of the day and pushed the Old Soldier off
of his blanket so that he could spread it over the splintery inside of his
coffin. The Old Soldier mumbled something unintelligible and rolled on his back
spouting whiskey-sodden breath like an invisible geyser.

            Luckily
the shades of the apartment were closed so that no morning sunlight could get
into his apartment. It wouldn’t have mattered; his apartment window faced north
and no direct sunlight could reach the dank humidor that his apartment had
become. A box of Cuban cigars would have no problem retaining moisture in his
apartment. The presence of two bodies, smoke and alcohol had all combined to
create a twisted greenhouse effect in his humble little abode.

            It
wasn’t any better inside of his box. The blanket had taken care of the splinter
problem, but trying to sleep inside of the box was like trying to catch a few
Z’s while reclining on the hot, summer blacktop in the middle of the day. Each
breath he took seemed to billow and hang above his face until he was sweating
like Shaquille O’Neal during the fourth quarter of a basketball game.

            To
make matters worse, his coffin was almost completely useless. The faded light
of day was blocked by the shade of his window; however, it did have a
lightening effect on the darkness inside his apartment. He could see the
lightening effect through the corners of his coffin. Even though the coffin
felt airtight, it was clear that him and the Old Soldier would have to do a
little more work if they were going to protect him from daylight.

            There
was one thing that he knew for sure, sleeping in this little box certainly
didn’t seem to be making him any stronger. It was more of a sweatbox than
anything else.

            Despite
the uncomfortability of his new bed, he soon found himself drifting off into a
sweat-soaked sleep, punctuated by the farts and snores of the Old Soldier who
lay passed out on his floor separated only by cheap, poorly cut plywood.