Turned

next day I awoke in a stale sweat, my face hot from sunlight streaming through a window, my air passages clogged and my vision blurry, in disbelief that I had slept well into the morning. The bed creaked and rubbed against the wall as I got up grabbed my backpack from the floor and headed back downstairs.  The journal lay on its spine where I had tossed it, its pages looking freshly mangled as if a rodent had appreciated the gift of fresh bedding. Back in the kitchen I took all of the cans out of the pantry and sat them on the table, hoping for a can of pineapples or peaches but was disappointed with only soups, tomatoes, two more cans of span, a can of beans and three cans whose identity had faded into oblivion.  I sat my pack on the table and carefully took out socks, a shirt, pants, matches, a metal cup, and my can opener, then I lay all of the cans in neat rows along the patched leather bottom of the sack and then repacked the contents back on top of the cans.  I went through all of the drawers of the kitchen and came back with two knives and a can opener which I held up in the light with one hand and compared its blade to my own can opener’s blade before tossing mine into the rusty sink.  The knives I wrapped in musty and stiff towels I’d found folded in a drawer beside the dishwasher and put them in my pack as well.  I tested a chair found it acceptable and sat down.  As I drank another can of soup I wondered if not only this house had escaped looting but perhaps the surrounding houses had as well. If that was the case I  there may be more provisions than I could carry on my own, unless I  could find a cart but after I finished the can I decided to search the closets for any acceptable clothing or shoes instead.  After finding nothing but wet and moldy clothes I lay down on the small bed again and slept.

That second night there, sprawled out in a food induced sleep I awoke to the sound of a branch tapping at the window in a slight breeze.  It made a small high pitched clink that happened a few times in rapid succession, tap, tap, tap and then paused for a moment but as soon as my eyes opened I heard beyond the tapping the sound of an unmuffled engine and the whine of tires on pavement.  How had they discovered me?  Had they seen me somehow?  I sprang out of bed snatching my canned food laden pack off of the floor with such force that I almost popped my arm out of its socket and then I leapt down the stairs no longer concerned with their structural integrity.  The sound of the engine had grown louder by the time I had reached the tree trunk whether only because of my mind’s inability to focus on anything else or because it had actually grown closer, I did not know.  It was like the roar of an animal hidden in the trees that could pounce anywhere at any time.  I fought to force my mind to focus despite its constant presence.  The cans stuffed into my backpack rattled horribly but I wasted no time in adjusting them as I slung the pack on my back and drew my pistol looking out into the night.

My weapon was large and blocky with a cavernous bore disappearing into a rectangular hunk of silver metal that glinted alarmingly in the night.  It was warm from sitting close to my body in the rigged leather holster that hung from my belt.  The handle was pebbly and dry, and it felt solid in my grip.  The pistol was manageable with one hand but only just barely which was preferable as the weight absorbed most of the recoil. It was a large enough weapon that it could send a vamp to the ground and keep him there for a least a few minutes. I’d found it about four years earlier in a house far to the South nestled lovingly in the bottom of a pile of rancid socks in the top drawer of a dresser in the corner of a room that had fallen in on itself, its timbers blackened with rot, hidden with two full cases of bullets.  Most of this ammo was resting in the bottom of my pack and comprised such a large amount of bullets that if I ever found it necessary to fire all of them, then I had little doubt that I would end up dead or turned, preferably killed by my own hand if it came down to it.

Crouched behind the tree trunk I did a quick survey of my surroundings and saw nothing but one of the dogs scurrying into the brush.  I hopped the trunk and quickly followed the dog into the trees.  Outside I could hear the popping of the engine as it downshifted and then roared back as it accelerated.  It sounded close and it held nothing good for me.  Any humans who had a truck were undoubtedly humans I did not wish to meet.  Some would say it is foolish to move about in the night at all because the night is the vampire’s realm as they see in the night as well as men on a bright day.  However, the prospect of being trapped on a small second floor of a discovered hideout was worse than running.

The gentle light of a three quarters moon filtered down through the leaves casting long shadows of black that rippled through the dark of the night in the breeze.  I dashed through the tall weeds surrounding the house, saplings tugging at my clothing and the knotted straps of my pack.  Once into the deeper brush and taller trees I