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Flash Fiction: The Last Vampire


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And so, the last vampire stood alone.

There had been hundreds of his kind at one time; enough to feel a sense of family, and society, yet small enough to go undetected by their prey.  Or so they had thought.

He surveyed his surroundings, his cell, and pulled against his restraints.  He was so weak, the movements were futile. He could not move, but had to do something rather than embrace the madness that was trying to engulf him.

His brothers, his sisters, all his brethren were now gone.  He could no longer hear them, they made no calls.  Surely the humans had lied.  Surely he was not the last one.  But no other vampire answered his silent call. Outside of the roar his rage his mind was silent. No voices called.

They were clever, those bastards.  The brave victorious sheep.  Gloating over their victory.  They had poisoned their blood.  All of them.  Then entire species.  They had poisoned their blood, and the vampires fed, and the vampires died.

It took awhile before the vampires had caught on.  Most never did.  Vampires would just up and die after a fresh kill.  There was no movement, and no turning to ash, or changing of features, they would just stop drop, and start to rot like any natural corpse, like they should had already done long ago.

But he had caught on, he knew something was wrong.  He stopped feeding, tried to steal blood from hospitals, tried to feed on animals, but none of it was enough to sustain him.

He had discovered a religious community that abhorred outsiders, and kept to themselves.  They refused to embrace the enhancements that modernity had brought, and stayed stuck in a time of their own choosing.  They were righteous, vigorous, healthy, and most importantly - pure.  They were also quite tasty.

But the contamination spread to them too, eventually.  He didn't know how it spread, or how it worked, but it spread still.  Something must have been put into the food, the fertilizer even?  It couldn't have been a shot.  These people he fed on were afraid of modern medicines.  Some systemic change had to have taken place.  But what?

And it had almost got him, this poison.  It had almost got him.  So close.  He killed a young girl, barely nine, ripped her flesh open... and noticed the odd smell.  It was not right.  He had flung her body into the air behind and, and crashed through the wall of her house.  He killed everyone there, slaughtered all, bits and pieces were cast about everywhere, but the smell was always wrong. Always wrong!

So he ran! He ran out into the open! He ran out into the town square.  He yelled, he screamed, he roared, and people looked at him, most curiously.  There, in that opening, covered in blood and rage, people approached him.  He reached out to slaughter them too. To spill their poisoned blood on the ground, and make them pay the only way he could.  He wanted to punish them for their treachery! He reached out, as far as he could, but found could not move.  The sun had came up, caught him unawares, and he could not move.  Slowly, his body had hardened, as the hated sun twisted his flesh into stone.

Men, government men he had assumed, showed up, and carried him away.  Carried him to here, here where he had been for years, bound and unmoving.

In the bowels of this dungeon, away from the light, his skin became normal again.  They punctured his flesh with needles and probes, and pumped strange fluids into him.  Animal proteins and odd chemicals, nothing that could help him.  He mused it must give some sort of substance, enough to keep his dead body living, but weak enough to keep him trapped in his bonds.

All around him he was surrounded by strange machinery and moving lights.  The buzzing of the devices caused a low rumbling pain in his head that would never go ahead.  And odd smells surrounded him when the humans were away.

Every day they came to visit him.  His body, paralyzed with malnutrition, could not do anything to them.  How it tormented him so.   All these warm, delicious bodies, surrounding him, and filling his nose with their taste, just right for drinking!  It drove him mad!  But he knew that they’d be poisoned too.

They probably made the poison.

But that was ok, the vampire thought.  He’d over heard someone speak; the poison was killing the humans too.  Something about eggs being rejected and spewed from bodies.  The poison killed them.  No babies were being born.  Humans would die out.  In killing his society, his family, his kind, they had killed themselves.

Which was their due.  The sheep had culled themselves, had taken over the vampires role themselves.  They were the monsters now.

He laughed, he wanted to laugh. And as the two agents looked down at him, he curled his lips into a smile.

Doctor Fulbright said, “Look, I think he twitched his lip.”

Doctor Norris looked down at the catatonic patient unconvinced.  “I suspect this dim overhead light is playing a trick on your eyes my good man.”

Doctor Fulbright looked down again, and wasn’t sure any longer.

“What do you think happens to a mind of a man who’s been catatonic for all these many years?”

“I dunno.  I’ve always figured it was just a long empty sleep.  The lack of stimulation would give his brain hardly anything to dream about I imagine.  Could be nothing at all.  The mind numb.  You hardly ever see people waking up from these conditions like you do in the movie.”  Norris answered. “No, I’m fairly certain nothings going. Blackness, unawareness, no one’s home.  We just keep checking the plumbing and make sure the lights are on until they find a way back.”

Norris motioned towards a monitor.  “Look, hardly any change on the pattern of that line.  They’re nothing alive in that mind.  It was dead.”

Doctor Fulbright nodded.  “You know, I bet he’d like some sun.  I think I’ll have one of the orderlies roll his bed over next to the window.  Warm sun on his skin.  I’m sure he’ll like that.”

And as the doctors stepped out of the room, somewhere down the hall, in another room, the last werewolf howled at the moon.

-BA

TheMadPoet