Salt Fat Acid Blood

The studio apartment smelled of mildew and old smoke, wallpaper peeling in strips like dead skin. At the center of the room sat a table scarred by years of neglect, an empty plate and glass rested upon it. Sitting at the table, a knife and fork in each hand, he stared at the plate, licking his lips, waiting for a meal that will never come. Imagining the weight of sourdough bread, the steam coming off a piping hot bowl of tomato soup, the salty fattiness of a good ribeye steak. He remembers the warmth of food filling his belly, the simple pleasure of hunger answered. But memory was all he had now. The knife and fork shook slightly in his grip, not from weakness, but from the futility of the gesture.

Silence pressed in, broken only by the hum of a dying refrigerator, and the distant drip of a leaky pipe. Shadows clung to the corners of the apartment, thick and watchful. With a slow exhale, he set the utensils down onto the plate, the sound of metal against porcelain sharp in the stillness. Standing up, the chair scraping across the warped floorboards, he moved toward the door, grabbing his long coat off the coatrack before stepping out into the empty hallway. The plate and glass remained behind, mute symbols of a life abandoned.

Outside, the chilled wind clawed at his opened coat, snapping the fabric against his legs as he walked along the deserted street. Neon signs flickered above shuttered shops, their colors bleeding into puddles that mirrored a city too tired to care. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the sidewalk, each step a reminder of the endless nights he had walked, searching for meaning in a life stripped of warmth. Once, he had been a man with choices in his life, with mornings. Now he was only a shadow, drifting along from streets to alleys where even the rats seemed to avoid him. The wind carried whispers of memory. The taste of wine, the sound of laughter, a lover’s voice, a future he could never have. He pulled his coat closed around him, though the cold was nothing to him any longer. It was habit, a gesture of humanity he could not quite abandon.

A scream, sharp and sudden, slicing through the night. A woman’s voice, raw with terror, echoing from somewhere ahead. He stopped and tilted his head, listening. The sound vibrating through him like a summons. Every sense in him sharpened. The street seemed to hold its breath, and for a moment the city was silent except for that cry, still ringing in his mind. He felt his hunger stir, not for food, but for the pulse of life and sprinted forward, towards the cries of helplessness.

The scream led into a narrow alley, a single streetlight buzzed at the mouth, it’s glow too weak to fully pierce the darkness within. The walls were thick with grime, graffiti bleeding into shadows, the stench of rot clinging to the air. A middle-aged woman struggled, pressed against the brick, her breath ragged, eyes wide with terror. A gaunt figure loomed over her, his left hand pushing on her shoulder, keeping her against the wall. A junkie with hollow cheeks, a knife flashing in the dim light in his trembling right hand.

He snarled, “I’m not going to tell you again, give me your purse!” As he clawed at the handbag the woman clutched tightly to her chest.

Refusing to comply to the junkie’s demand, his desperation curdled into violence. The blade struck. A quick, brutal motion. Her cry split the night once again.

He stepped from the shadows, his presence sudden, immense, as if the darkness itself had given him form. His coat flared from the wind whisking through the alley, the fabric whispering like wings. The junkie froze, knife still in hand, eyes darting to the figure that seemed less man than apparition.

“Go away!” The junkie screeched, pointing the red glistened knife at the shadowed figure. “What ever she’s got in that bag is mine!”

Ignoring the junkie, his gaze fixed on the blood blooming against the woman’s clothes. The scent hit him like a thunderous storm. Iron, salt, life. Hunger surged, clawing at the emptiness inside him. He turned his stare at the junkie. Contempt for the fragile predator before him. This mortal who thought himself dangerous, and started to move towards him.

“Back off!” The junkie spat. Sounding defiant, though the grip on his knife faltered.

Ignoring the junkie, he moved closer, each step deliberate. The sound of his boots echoing off the walls like a tolling bell. Shadows bent around him, swallowing the alley until only he and the junkie, shaking in his wake remained in its center.

The woman slid down the wall, grasping at her wound, her eyes flicking between her attacker and the man advancing from the dark. She watched, sensing that something far worse than a knife had arrived.

He stopped a breath away from the junkie, his face pale, eyes gleaming with a hunger that was not quite human. The knife shook fiercely in the junkie’s hand, useless now, a toy before a predator.

Moving faster than sight, in an instant the blade was forgotten, clattering to the ground as cold hands seized the junkie’s arms in an iron grip. His breath caught, a strangled sound, before the vampire’s fangs found his throat, piercing flesh, the rush of blood filling his mouth. Hot, coppery, laced with the bitter tang of chemicals. It was sustenance, but tainted. A cocktail of despair and addiction that burned as much as it nourished. The vampire drank, tasting the ruin of a life wasted.

The junkie convulsed, his body trembling against the vampire’s grip. Somewhere behind them, a door slammed, footsteps echoing down the alley. The vampire’s head snapped up, senses flaring, the taste of blood still fresh on his tongue.

In that moment of distraction, the junkie’s desperation turned to defiance. His teeth sank into his assailant’s hand, tearing skin, drawing a dark stream of unhuman blood. He swallowed, eyes widening as the taste hit him. Ancient, potent, alive with a power beyond comprehension.

The vampire hissed, a sound like stone grinding against stone, and wrenched his hand free. But the damage had been done. Shadows recoiled, the alley itself seeming to shudder at the exchange. The junkie staggered back, falling on his ass, blood smeared across his mouth, eyes wild, fevered, as if the taste had ignited something feral inside.

The woman lay slumped against the wall, watching with terror as predator and prey blurred into something more dangerous. The vampire’s hunger roared, but in one small fleeting moment he had given the junkie a taste of eternity, and the night suddenly felt heavier, charged with consequences he had not intended.

Eyes closed, head swimming, the junkie finally opened them and looked around. He was alone, except for the woman he had stabbed, laying on her side against the wall. She was not moving. Good, he thought, that’s what you get for not helping me out, bitch.

Slowly standing, he felt sick, no worse than sick. He felt like he was at death’s door. Bracing against the wall so as not to fall, he stumbled through the alley, throat raw from the scream that never left his lips. The veins in his neck still burned with the memory of fangs pressing into them. Yet beneath the weakness was a strange fire. The taste of stolen blood. It coated his tongue, like ash, but it throbbed in him, a rhythm not his own.

The city blurred. Neon signs flickered like dying stars, shadows stretched. He followed them, until the darkness gave way, and the abandoned house he was squatting in rose up before him. Once a shelter, now a den of ruin. Windows cracked and broken, the walls tattooed with graffiti and despair. He dragged himself inside, greeted by the stench of smoke, sweat, and decay. He saw others sprawled on the floor, but their faces blurred. Were they friends? Strangers? Corpses? He could not tell. His mind clawed at the edges of memory, but everything slipped away. He collapsed, and the rotting floorboards beneath him seemed to breathe. His body convulsed. His breath rattled. His heart slowed. The taste of blood lingered, metallic and wrong, but it was not just on his tongue. The fire in his veins spread, searing, reshaping. He clawed at the boards, nails splitting, as the last of his mortal pulse ebbed away, and darkness swallowed him whole.

When his eyes opened, they gleamed with hunger. The junkie that hungered for his next fix was gone. A junkie that hungered for something else had risen in his place.

For weeks he had scoured the city’s veins, alleys, forgotten corners, searching for the one who had tasted his blood. A junkie whose blood was as toxic as battery acid. If the vampire had drank any more of it, he was sure he would have overdosed. It took him days as it was to come off the high he was on from drinking such poison. Each night ended in failure, the trail dissolving away and only silence remaining. The hunger gnawed at him, but worse was the unease. The knowledge that somewhere was a monster he had mistakenly unleashed upon the city. He had seen the reports of people that have gone missing, too many people in the past weeks for it to be a coincidence.

Tonight, the wind howled across the rooftops, carrying the scent of rain and rust. He crouched on the roof’s edge of some crumbling building, coat flaring behind him, like a comic book super-hero. But he was no hero. He was a monster as well, and he knew it. Below the streets sprawled in darkness, broken only by the occasional flicker of neon.

He saw her then, a woman drifting along the pavement, her steps uneven, her head bowed as though sleepwalking. Her hair hung in a tangled mess, her clothes soiled, the breeze carrying the stench of decay up to where he crouched. Something about her was wrong, that was obvious enough, but there was more. The way she swayed, the pallor of her skin, the faint tremor in her hands. It was the mark of corruption. He knew it all to well. Some how she managed to escape.

He stood up, silent, and stepped off the rooftop. The wind howled around him as he descended onto the street, shadows folding around him. The woman staggered onward, unaware of his presence. He watched for a moment from the shadows as she staggered under a flickering streetlight, her eyes glassy, her movements uncertain. He stepped from the shadows, and she froze as though the night itself had seized her.

“Where is he?” His voice was low, velvet edged with steel.

Her lips quivered, but no words came. He moved closer, the chill of his presence pressing against her.

“You reek of him. The one I hunt, his corruption stains you.” he whispered, nostrils flaring.

Her gaze darted away, but his hand caught her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. The hunger in them was not so much for blood, but for truth.

“Tell me,” he commanded, each syllable heavy with compulsion.

She shuddered, what resistance she had left crumbled beneath the weight of his will.

“He… he’s in the old house,” she stammered. “The Victorian… abandoned.”

His grip loosened, but his gaze did not.

“Take me there,” he ordered.

Her knees buckled, but he steadied her, not out of kindness, but necessity. She looked into his eyes, her own eyes pleading, not wanting to go back there. The fire in his eyes blazed, and she slowly nodded, compelled, turning around, heading back the way she came down the darkened street. The vampire followed, his coat whispering against the wind, his shadow stretching long behind them.

The city seemed to recoil as they moved, the silence deepening. Ahead, the silhouette of the Victorian house rose against the night, the windows, hollow eyes staring back at him.

“At last.” the vampire whispered, his lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl.

The woman halted, quickly sobering up from her ordeal, staring at the looming Victorian facade. The spires clawed at the sky. Recognition struck her like a blow to the stomach, her dazed expression turning into a deep seated fear. She started backing away.

“No, I won’t go back in there.” she said, her voice breaking.

He turned to her, but she was already fleeing into the night. Her footsteps fading into silence. He did not try to stop her. She showed him the lair of the monster. That was enough.

His gaze returned to the house, and moved toward it. He lingered at the door, the paint blistered, hinges rusted, as if to ward off any entry. With a slow push, the door opened and he stepped inside.

The air was thick, stagnant, heavy with the stench of rot. Wallpaper sagged, the patterns obscured by mold. Floorboards groaned beneath his weight, each step stirring dust that glittered faintly in the moonlight seeping through cracked panes. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint scuttle of unseen vermin.

He moved from room to room. In the parlor, broken furniture lay scattered, cushions torn open, their stuffing spilled out like entrails. In the kitchen, rusted pots hung from hooks, the sink clogged with brackish water that stank of decay. Every corner reeked of death, the scent clinging to the walls like a curse.

Opening a door, he descended the staircase to the basement, each step creaking beneath him. The deeper he went, the stronger the stench became. He paused at a second closed door and listened. A faint sound drifted from the other side, a wet rasp of breath, a shuffle of movement. Turning the knob, he pushed the door, letting the momentum open it. The air was thick, almost suffocating, with the copper tang of blood and the sourness of decay. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, some were slumped against the walls, each sprawled in grotesque positions, like they were discarded after use. lifeless and pale, their eyes staring blankly into the dark. Each body in some degree of decomposition, going back weeks.

There, amid the carnage, he stood, the junkie, that used to be human. His skin was sallow, his eyes a feverish glint, his mouth smeared crimson. He looked up grinning, the expression twisted by hunger and madness.

“You came,” the creature rasped, a sound of both triumph and ruin.

The vampire’s gaze locked on him, cold and unyielding. Shadows pressed closer, the basement seemed to shrink around them. The hunt was over. Time to end this, he thought.

Without warning, the junkie vampire lunged at him, a feral snarl tearing from his throat. His movements were erratic, and the vampire met him head on. Their collision shaking dust from the rafters.

The basement became a storm of shadows and broken bodies. The creature fought with desperation, clawing, biting, his strength unnatural, but undisciplined. The vampire’s blows were precise, each strike carrying decades of predatory instinct. Yet, the thing did not go down easily. Each time he was thrown aside, he rose again, grinning through blood and madness.

They crashed against the stone walls, splintering wood, scattering lifeless bodies across the floor. The air thickened with the stench of death and the metallic smell of fresh wounds.

Being thrown through the basement door, the junkie roared and hurled himself up the stairs, fleeing onto the main floor. The vampire followed, boots pounding, shadows chasing them both. In the parlor, broken furniture became weapons, the junkie wielding jagged wood like a spear. The vampire tore it out of his hands, and snapped it in two. The house groaned under their struggle. Windows rattled, plaster crumbled. The junkie’s laughter echoed, manic, defiant, even as the vampire’s grip closed around it’s throat.

“You gave me this. I am what you made.” the creature spat, eyes flaring.

The vampire’s silence was colder than any denial. He dragged the junkie through the ruined hall, each step inexorable, the fight reduced to a predator hauling prey. The junkie clawed, bit, cursed, but the vampire did not relent.

The front door burst open, as night was giving way to dawn. Pale light spilled across the street, the horizon bleeding into a golden hue. He forced the junkie outside, into the rising sun.

The creature screamed, a sound that split the morning, his body convulsing as sunlight struck him. His skin blistered, his strength faltered, and the manic laughter died in his throat. The vampire held him fast, watching as the stolen immortality burned away, leaving only ash.

The street was empty and silent, save for the vampire, standing there in the new day, with ashes of a tormented soul drifting away on the morning breeze. He lifted his face as the sun climbed higher, its pale fire spilling across the rooftops, as he waited for the inevitable. But nothing happened.

The light pressed against his skin, warm, but not consuming. By all rights the sun should have burned him to nothing, should have ended the endless hunger, but the fire was slow, delayed, as though reluctant to claim him. He closed his eyes and thought of the lives devoured, the faces forgotten. He thought of the junkie’s laughter, the corruption because of his carelessness and wondered if this was his punishment, to linger, to wait, to feel the sun hesitate.

The warmth deepened, creeping into his bones, but still it did not consume. He stood, not moving, coat torn, hand bloodied, a relic of hunger staring into the dawn. The world was changing, and he was caught between the light and the darkness, uncertain if there was any true end, or another beginning.