After the Fall – Chapter One: Mordecai is the Name

 

My name is Mordecai. I am a Vampire, and this is my story. Throughout the ages, I have seen many wars and catastrophes. I have also seen the greatest advances of civilization leading to its end. My present location on the world is a mystery to me. I’m not even sure of the current date. Most Vampires (and people as well) stopped keeping track at some point or another. Staying alive was a bigger priority. 

If I had to guess, I would say the present date is around December of 2084. It feels like December anyway, but not in the way it used to, with all the cheery people running around yelling “Merry Christmas!” There is nothing cheery about Christmas in this new world. The greatest gift you can have is another day to live.

As you can tell, I’ve tried to piece it together many times. There are so many conflicting accounts out there. Can you believe one guy actually told me it was June 11th of 2056? Well…he’s not saying it anymore. I ripped his throat open and drank him dry. You’re probably scowling as you read this, but I don’t care. A guy’s got to get his meals somehow.

I realize that some of this may not make sense to you. Maybe I should take it from the top. Once upon a time, this place was known as Earth. At the time of the Fall, it was home to eight billion people, 150 countries, over 200 languages, and so on and so forth. I was originally born in our Lord’s year 1742. In the year 1766, I died—and was reborn. From that point on, I couldn’t die. My body could fix itself faster than it broke down. What could be wrong with that? Nothing. It was AWESOME. The downside? I couldn’t go out in daylight for a long time, until I became something of an elder, which was around the time the world ended. Just my luck. If you cut my head off or burn me completely, I would not be able to come back. That stake in the heart trick? Won’t work. It will just make me very angry, which might be the very last thing you do.

If you’ve ever read anything on my kind, you probably noticed I left something out, but I saved it for last. For the record—not that it matters anymore—yes, we are blood drinkers. Somewhere along the way, I lost all ability to eat normal food and was forced to turn to blood. It didn’t work out too well for a certain back alley mugger that night. Franz Frédéric, I think was his name. Anyway, I won’t bore you with the details. Many more followed in Franz’s wake. I tried to restrict myself to the worst people in society—robbers, rapists, murderers, lawyers. I would have taken politicians, but they attract too much of the wrong kind of attention.

I feed upon the blood of the living and I will starve if I don’t get it. Starvation is the slowest, least effective, but most painful way to kill a vampire. We can go on a long time without blood, but it is the most agonizing death your limited mortal imagination could conceive. Sunlight kills, at least it does our youngest ones. Fire kills, and so does dismemberment, but they are merciful compared to starvation. Our bodies, unlike yours, fight to stay alive to the last cell. A human can be brought down by something as small as a blood clot in the brain. The rest of the body simply gives up. Not ours. A Vampire body will fight and regenerate even vital parts like the heart—and before you try to say I’m lying, I’ve seen it with my own undead eyes. Starvation will feel worse than the most devastating cancer. We will shrink until we’re a pile of dry bones, and I have had the misfortune of having seen that as well. 

Having expounded on the agonies of starvation, I will go on to my next point. Our food supply is running dangerously low. Humans are growing scarcer by the day. Granted, it was their own fault, but I don’t see why we have to be punished. If it weren’t for those damn zombies, we would still have a plentiful food supply.

Yes, you read that right. Many decades ago, civilization as we know it ended. They didn’t know what hit them. I don’t know exactly where it originated. I’ve heard China, the United States, Africa, Europe. It’s hard to pinpoint because it seemed to affect every major city almost at once. Some say it was a large-scale biological weapon attack, but I still can’t think of who would be stupid enough to do that, maybe North Korea? It would be like sitting in a pool of gasoline and lighting a match. Others say it was the Wrath of God. Whatever. Tell that to the faithful that died on their knees and came back as Satan’s recruiters. 

There is yet another group that says it all started after a meteorite broke up over Earth’s orbit, scattering fragments all over Eurasia. Wormwood, they called it. You would think the virus, bacteria, or whatever the hell it is would be cooked off from the intense heat of reentry. Don’t ask me how a bunch of space rocks could cause 99% of the world’s population to become mindless eating machines. Oh, wait, that was already happening at the beginning of the century. It was called television and fast food. 

Every crackpot out there has a theory. Some people called it the End of Times. Others called it Armageddon, the Apocalypse, Ragnarok, etc. I just call it the Big Suck, because life has sucked ever since. It sounds stupid, but if you’ve been scraping by for as long as I have, you would understand. We could go on talking about theories for another century, but even I’m not sure if I’ve got the time to spare. It’s gotten that bad. The only thing that matters anymore is staying alive. If you lose that, there’s nothing else. You’ll either wander the rest of your days in mindless hunger or be left to rot.

The scourge—or plague, if you prefer—has almost completely wiped out our food source. Less than one percent of the world’s original population remains. Old age and sickness wiped out most, if not all of the original survivors, finishing what the plague could not. The comforts and technological advances of the 21st century all but vanished after The Fall. What’s worse for us, the zombie undead blood is poisonous to us, much the same way eating spoiled food is bad for humans. Even feeding on one of the bitten will affect us. That’s what makes it so difficult to get our daily food. We’re competing with those things for our daily blood, and they’re winning the race.

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Wreckage (a teaser from my new story)

Hi everyone! After finishing my story, I did not rest on my laurels for long. Actually, I was working on this new one while I finished After the Fall. It was Stephen King who taught me about writing every day. Many authors said it before then, but it was him who drove the point home. Before I digress for too long, let me get to the story. Enjoy!

How did I get here?

Lying face up, buried in a pile of wreckage that was once his ship,

he could only wonder. He looked through the gaps in the canopy of rubble that enveloped him. Beyond lay the night sky, its stars a smattering of diamonds on a blanket of rose and violet. He looked at the sky, overcome with a sense of longing for home. But where was home? Did he live in the stars? That was a ridiculous notion. Even in his condition, he knew that. People could no more live on these giant balls of fire any more than a flame could live in the ocean.

He tried to move, but he was immobilized. His limbs pushed against the wreckage, but it was unyielding. It was frustrating to feel so powerless. He felt he should move that pile of debris to the side as if it were a mere inconvenience. He had no further basis than a belief, a voice whispering to him from the depths of the dark well that was his mind. The wreckage outweighed him at least tenfold, and still he believed he could move it. He thrashed about, screaming, but the wreckage did not yield, not one inch.  With one desperate spasm, he sent a scream ripping out into the quiet night air. Then he froze.

Something had yielded. The movement was minuscule, almost imperceptible, yet he felt it. The ship had moved…or had it? He squirmed again, but the rubble had regained its hold on him, maybe even tighter than before. The boy had had enough. He was tired, he was hungry, but most of all, he missed home, wherever that was. Whether it was among the stars or somewhere beyond the horizon, he would rather be there than here. Home meant warmth. Home meant comfort. These two things seemed as far away as the stars up above.

All he wanted to do was give up. His body cried out for relief, yet he knew rest meant death. As the sun disappeared, the night air filled with the sounds of the desert fauna, scurrying and scrabbling every which way. The boy listened to the cycle of life taking place outside. They were feeding, mating, some becoming food, and many dying. How fitting that he should think of that when he was so close to the end of his own cycle. His strength exhausted, he relaxed and prepared for whatever fate awaited him.

“Let them take me,” he said.

No, said a voice from deep down the well.

He was as shocked as he was angry. Why should he have to keep going when it was clear it was the end of the line for him? Yet the voice would not relent. A sense of urgency surged from within. Soon he was overflowing with it and fighting to get out. The rubble did not give way, but he was determined. He struggled fiercely, depleting his meager energy reserves even faster. When he collapsed, he could not will himself to move. That was when the scratching sounds became louder.

They started crawling through the many crevices, hairy spiders with long limbs, sporting pincers at the end of each one. Their mandibles were so large they could have been mistaken for another set of arms. He could hear them clicking and clacking in anticipation of a delightful meal.

He opened his mouth to scream, but only a feeble and ragged sound came out. That was all he could manage. His visitors were not deterred. Some of them paused for a second before continuing their approach.

Now was the time, if there was ever one, to fight his way out. He would fight his way out, had every desire to do it, but his energy was gone. Not even willpower could make him move now. His muscles twitched feebly to no avail. If the rubble had not budged before, why would it move now? He wanted so badly to just close his eyes and let them do as they may, hoping they would finish him quickly. Yet he knew they would not. Those little pincers would tear at him in small bites until he was dead.

The first ones reached him and began to pinch and pull. Once more, he could manage little more than a whimper. Their claws felt like needles stabbing every bit of exposed skin. Some of them started to crawl down his sleeves. His wounds were starting to burn, a liquid fire spreading through his insides.

If the claws felt like needles, their mandibles felt like serrated knives, cutting and slicing their way into him. He still did not surrender, but it was clear to him that this was the end. He could at least leave the world with dignity. He wished he had someone dear to remember in his last moments, but his mind was a blank. Did he have a mother? Surely he must. He wondered if she was out somewhere searching for him. He wondered if she would mourn his death, if she would ever know that he died.

No, said the voice. It was no longer a small, still whisper. It thundered from within. Even though it made no sound outside him, the creatures recoiled for a moment. They tried to resume their feast, but they would not get to finish it.

“What is happening?” he asked. The whole place was lit with a golden glow. It came from him. The glow intensified, vibrating his entire body. The spiders started to run. He heard a humming sound, something like the biggest tuning fork in the universe ringing right in his ears. The sound and the light increased until that was all he saw and heard. He felt a warmth, something different from the burning poison. He felt safe. He felt at home.

Then the ship exploded.

The wreckage scattered in every direction, pieces landing far and near. The golden glow flared one last time before disappearing. The humming was gone, so was the warmth. All he felt now was the emptiness. Cold, inviting emptiness. All was well.

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The beginning

I have no sage words or clever phrases saved up for this occasion. My name is Alejandro J. Martinez, a.k.a. Alex Martinez, a.k.a. A.J. Martinez. Welcome to my page, threadbare as it is. I am a writer, composer of stories, or my favorite – wordsmith. I mercilessly pound words into sentences, which will fold into paragraphs, chapters, and eventually a full-fledged story that I plunge into the editor’s cold water bucket for its final tempering. This journey is not without its pains and frustrations, but it’s well worth it in the end.

To all of you that know my work, welcome back! I look forward to regaling you with more tales. Those of you who are only beginning to tread the waters of my world, I welcome all the same and wish you a happy trip. It’s a great world, so great I loathe to leave it every time.

I hope you enjoy my stories as much as I enjoy writing them. Each one is a wild ride!

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