Accounts of Sam, Fall 2017
Wind whips my hair as I grip the throttle, revving it past one-fifty, torn between speed and caution. I need to be certain my passenger won't fall.
This has to be the most barren part of Oregon. The existing plant life is short, spiny and spread thin beyond the empty highway. A desert, and a vampire's worst nightmare.
We are in the middle of nowhere. No passing cars, no shade, no cover of clouds. My first sunrise in decades, and I'm not eager for it.
We are going to burn.
The faded yellow dashes are a singular blur as I pick up speed. I trace the rigid skyline with my gaze. Instinctual dread spreads through my veins as the orange spreads into gold, clashing with the blue of a paling sky.
I'm driving straight for it, a death road, but east is our only escape from that mining ghost town.
It's rising. The angry light will bleach the remaining cloak of darkness. There's nothing we can do about it, these puny weeds will offer no protection, we have to keep driving.
"Ash, hang on tight and hide your face," I say then mutter, "This isn't going to be fun."
She clutches my beat up jacket, sensing the impending danger. Her cheek presses into my shoulder as her hair flies out in all directions. I brace, gritting my teeth. Squinting eyes down cast, glued to the endless highway.
It spills over the mountain ridge, liquid fire pouring over the jagged peak. A blinding camera flash that never dulls. Ash and I hiss, the bike swivels dangerously as I overcome the initial shock. Her hands shrink away from the exposed sunlight and dig into my back. She hunches tighter, burying herself into my spine.
I want to fold up and wither away from the horrid light. It's heating up fast like a personal oven, and I'm stuck inside with the glowing coils. Trapped, we are trapped.
My skin wants to shrivel up and crawl away. Every good sense is shouting, 'Hide you idiot!'
I can barely see the road, it's blinding.
I give in, throwing an arm over my face, it scarcely makes a difference. Like exposing an old sunburn to more scorching heat. Within the first half hour we'll be covered in blisters and sores, our flesh will start melting away. Any longer and it's only a matter of time before we burst into ash and flames.
"It burns," Ashlen whimpers curling into me, "It's so- so fucking hot!"
I'm wincing through my teeth trying not to veer off the road, I've unconsciously slowed my bike, distracted by the miserable heat!
"Hang on," I pant, "Just hang on for me."
Her pained noises continue as I grind my teeth. I shudder as her body quivers against mine, trying to get small in my shadow. Everything hurts, every move is agony.
The seconds seem never ending and every mile ventured looks the same. It's like we're on a treadmill movie set, not getting anywhere.
I bite into my lip, feel the skin on my hand splitting as I clutch the throttle. Fingertips to wrist have gone numb and raw– it would be less painful if a butcher chopped it off. The areas covered by my jacket aren't fairing much better. I'm holding the bike handle by sheer will alone. My tendons twitch, wanting to jerk away from the heat but it's all around, slowly cooking us to death. The only saving grace is it doesn't feel like direct contact with a branding iron yet.
I refocus on my breathing, keeping my attention on the road. Remembering my promise.
'Get her out of this. Keep her safe. A little further.'
That aggravating tingle is increasingly more intense, hot needles pushing into every pore. Occasionally the needles spread and twist like knives, a flaring brutal pain. I growl and huff in frustration, shifting for a faction of relief. Exhaustion is creeping up fast, the fire is reaching for my bones.
"It hurts," Ashlen cries softly, "It hurts!"
I think about driving off road to find denser woods but there's nothing out here, it's desolate.The skies are too clear for trees to be much help anyway.
"Sam, I don't think… I can't make it," Ashlen's tone is thready, her grip loosens against my back.
"Don't you dare let go of me! We're almost there."
But I'm starting to doubt that we'll last much longer, given the shape we were in before the sun showed up. Regardless of the fact I'm blocking most of the direct light she's probably got even less time than I do before it becomes lethal. Damn those bastards for bleeding her! We need proper cover.
Excruciating minutes slug by, Ash is getting close to passing out. I shout her name, encouraging her to stay awake when her fingers becomes lax.
My teeth feel like they're going to break into my skull from the grinding, I can't seem to unclench my jaw. I am painfully aware of the patch of blisters forming and festering on my cheek, I feel my skin lifting and separating. My flesh is slowly boiling. I bite down on a scream crawling up my throat, I taste blood as teeth pierce through my tongue.
My lips crack as I hiss breaths, flinching at a sting shooting up my arms. The skin is rupturing beneath my sleeves. My eyes are burning, it's like they're bleeding acid. What I'd give for a pair of sunglasses.
"Ash! Stay with me, we're close!" I repeat as her fingers slip again. My hands are convulsing so bad I'm shocked they haven't thrown us off the road. They're indistinguishable, bright pink, glistening with sickly yellow and gutty red boils.
"No more," she groans.
"I know," I breathe, "Soon."
But what if we don't make it? To be barbecued on this worthless road, roasted like pigs on a spit. What a way to go.
Anger flares at the thought of everything I went through just to die here. Damn it! If you're out there God, give me a hand. I know I don't deserve it but at least give her something. Give us a sign, anything.
A rectangle blackens the sky. My miraculous sign, more specifically, a billboard pointing to a run down motel and gas station. I nearly burst into a laugh.
"Ash! We've made it!"
She nudges me with her cheek in response. She's not doing well.
I take a turn and the angry rays follow to ambush our side. Ashlen lets out a small cry, recoiling from it. Her nails sting as they ball up but it's welcomed pain, distracting me from the ruthless sun.
I see the short building wavering in the heat. Is this Oregon or Nevada? I twist the throttle, eager to get into cover. My stomach drops as the front wheel lifts, nearly bucking Ashlen off.
The relief of shade is instantaneous. We pull in, both exhale our long held breaths and tumble off the seat as the bike comes to a stop.
I steady my knees, taking the bulk of Ashlen's weight and slinging an arm around my shoulder. We both cringe and gasp at the contact, it's almost too much to bear. She usually weighs nothing, now it's like dragging solid lead.
There are few cars in the old craggy lot. I help Ash to the furthest room with minimal windows and neighbors. A faded eight on a burgundy, poorly painted door. It's as peeled and cracked as my skin.
As I reach for the door I'm stopped by that invisible wall. I weasel around the supernatural shield, attempting to get a grip on the knob. Ashlen notices my struggle after a few tries and shoves it in for me. The room creaks open.
"Can you stand?"
She nods, slumping into the frame as I release her.
"Wait for me inside. I need to get the keys."
"You're leaving?" anxiety wells in her horribly bloodshot eyes.
"I'll come right back, I'm not leaving you."
Too weak to argue, she stumbles in, flopping on a creaky bed with a moan of relief.
I scale the shadows to the front office. I hear that clear drumming now and my mouth is watering. My last meal was essentially given to Ashlen when I fed her and the rest burned up with the sun. I'm starved.
I wince, hitting a sunspot and flinch back to cover. I pry open the squeaky entrance to the main office but my toe stubs on empty air as I try to get through.
Damn, the motel owner must live on the lot he runs. There's an old man reading an outdated paper with a scraggly white beard, the faded cap on his boney head has a bite taken out of the brim. Bent spectacles balance on the end of a lumpy pox ridden nose, it's cherried and slightly crooked from what was likely a fist fight in his younger years.
"What are you doing standing out there for, kid?" He says, hardly looking up from his paper, "Can I help you with somethin'?"
"I apologize, I know it's early. Can I come in, are you open?"
"Get your keister in here! You're letting the heat out."
The block is gone with his permission. I slip inside, shuffling away from the windows and into the darkest point of the office.
His slow pulse is thrumming in my ears. The thin aged blood calls to me. That's a bad sign, the sun really worked me over good. I can't drink from this guy, it'll probably kill him.
The old man goes from squinting over his glasses to truly alarmed.
"Are you… in some sort of trouble, son?"
I shake his pulse from my brain long enough to notice he's ditched the paper. Fingers going for a curly corded phone on the counter desk, eyes startled and pinned on my face. He's acting as if I'm holding him at gunpoint, I must look awful.
Locking his gaze with mine, I lay on the persuasion quick, "It's a trick of the light, look again and you'll see everything is fine."
It takes like a charm, eyes relaxing as he quits staring like I'm a circus freak. His shoulders ease from their hunch and that hand stops drifting for the phone. Though I'm pleased it worked, I can feel the toll of persuasion. I'm in no shape for this and need to wrap it up.
"You called water maintenance," I hypnotize with a believable lie, "Your main line is busted and I'm here to fix it. I'll need access to rooms seven, eight and nine. They'll have to be blocked off until tomorrow."
"You're… maintenance," he slurs the statement. I nod, self-satisfied that I'm pulling this off.
"Blasted old pipes. I… Well, confound it all. I don't remember calling. I must be getting old."
He skims the line of keys on the back wall with his crooked index, taking three off their hooks and passing them over.
His body heat is nothing like the sun. It's comforting warmth would soak up the pain. The pulse draws me, blurring the world. I see through his flesh, he's made up of atrophied muscle and life lines. All sounds drown out by the plodding thud offering solace.
My heel nudges a chair as I jolt back.
"What did you say?" I ask thickly.
"The room keys," he says contemptuously, jingling the bunch in an outstretched liver spotted fist, shaking them at me like I'm some kind of idiot, "Here they are."
When I don't make a move to take them he sighs, clapping the cluster down on the counter and sliding them forward. I catch him muttering how I must be slow.
I snap out of it, hurriedly plucking and thrusting the keys into my jacket.
"Do I have your permission to enter these rooms?"
"Naturally, son. I don't see how you'd get any work done otherwise."
Having what I need, I'm about to flee the office when I spot 'management' screwed into the back wall door. It has me wondering what he does for security.
"Kid, can you read? That's not an exit!" says that snappy geezer as I investigate the room and almost have to laugh.
Turns out the old coot has video surveillance, a genuine VCR. I feel a little nostalgic as I set it to tape over our arrival.
The old guy stomps over to chew me out for getting into his business. I placate him with an, "Ignore me, I'm just doing my job," and a pinch of persuasion.
But I've over extended myself. I'm beyond tired and ravenous. It's time to leave, now.
"Say, you know what you're doing, right boy?" he asks as I'm about to go.
I eye him over my shoulder and smirk, "I know I don't look it but I've been doing this for years."
"The bill better not break the bank."
"If you're not entirely satisfied I won't charge you a red cent."
"I'm holding you to that," mutters the cheap old bastard. I hold in a chuckle as my hidden implications go over his head.
I slip away before he has anything else to complain about with a smug sense of triumph. It would have been nice if everything beforehand went that smoothly.
I run down the weathered walkway ducking under the annoying rays of sunlight trying to give a final licking. I slink inside door eight and let my back slam it. Laughing, sighing and wincing, I slide down to the rugged carpet. We're actually alive!
Glimpsing the single window, I grab a comforter off the empty bed and throw it over the curtain rack for extra cover. The added dark is heavenly. I click off the thermostat to keep the place cool.
"Sam?" Ashlen peeps as I'm clicking off the thermostat.
I glance down to see her huddled within the sheets, peeking out from beneath two pillows like a kid in their bed fort.
I peel off my jacket, gritting my teeth. It's clinging to my raw skin, that doesn't feel good at all.
"Ow, Shit," I curse, letting the tattered leather fall to the floor and examine the impressive sores decorating my arms. It looks like I've contracted leprosy.
"We made it," I flash her a grin but it quickly turns into a grimace as I notice splotches lining the arm she pulled from the sheets, the burns are more horrendous than mine.
"How are you holding up?"
"Alive, thanks to you."
She's clearly in pain, but her tired voice is cheery despite it. She smiles, her eyes becoming misty, "You saved my ass… again."
I sit beside her as she inches up from her snail position to prop up on her knees.
"I cut it a little close."
I lightly stroke her good cheek. Her face is fairly untouched. There are a few blisters spotting around her right temple, the skin is split open on the apple of her other cheek.
I can see it in her face, she's wiped out and hungry to a hazardous point. I'll need to figure out breakfast.
"I think I hate the sun," she scowls, "I really thought… we weren't going to make it."
She graces me with a look that comes off as guilty but also sympathetic, "No offense but, you look awful. They have a first aid kit. Do you think it will help? I'll go get–"
I stop her, avoiding the sores on her arm. It hurts my hands to touch anything.
"Rest, you're running on fumes. This will go away on its own. All we need is time to recover and something to eat."
Her bloodshot eyes get wide, the green and blue in her hazel irises stand out like neon against the wormy red lines.
"I don't want something to eat."
"We have to. You barely have anything in you, I'm shocked you're even coherent."
Her head vibrates as she insists. She looks like she might cry. Her voice is a distant whisper, "I can't. I can't do it."
"Ashlen," I sigh, but feel this odd fear snaking around in my gut. A horrible sense of unexpected guilt pouring into my stomach like water. I'm a little startled and confused. Why am I feeling this way? And I've never experienced it in my gut like this.
I gently put an arm around her which is proving tricky. I sense more of that sour guilt and I realize it doesn't belong to me.
I'm suddenly off the bed and putting distance between us. I stare at her, unnerved. This is off.
"Why can't you, Ash? What's wrong?" I ask, getting a grip and shoving away the feeling.
Her red eyes are glassy threatening to spill tears and I just want to hold her. Then the shock has me nearly tripping backwards, I *know* what's upsetting her. But I shouldn't know, not in this way. It's as if I can hear her thoughts, not hear them, I somehow *sense* them.
"Whatever they did or made you do is not your fault," I managed to say, suppressing the urge to run like a coward.
She twitches slightly, uncertain with my response and then the tears come.
"I think… I think I killed someone, Sam," she stares at me, overtaken by an expression of pure agony, "I murdered a girl."
"They starved you," I state and it's clipped with anger from what the Thorn put her through.
Her eyes drop to the floor, too ashamed to meet mine. That anguish is uncomfortably palpable.
"There's nothing you could have done for her, Ashlen. She was dead the moment the Thorn got ahold of her. If anything, what you did was merciful."
"But I killed her!"
Her face falls into her hands, ignoring the festering wounds and she cries silently into them.
More of that remorse, *her guilt*, squeezes at my gut. It feels wrong, I've always experienced guilt in my chest. I am torn between embracing her and putting more distance between us.
"You're disgusted with me," she says into her hands, "I am too."
Though she's misinterpreted my emotions, I'm stunned she can sense them to some degree. The mind is supposed to be my guaranteed isolated retreat.
My damn blood did exactly what I was afraid it'd do. It's worse than I thought. I'm in transparent mental disarray. I can't be around her. I need to get out of here. I need to…
Calm.
I pack away the panic and all other worries bubbling to the surface in a metaphorical box. If I feel nothing, neither will she.
"No," I reassure her, "I'm not."
She sniffs, wiping her nose and rolling to the far side of the bed. Her back to me, facing the wall and crying softly in the fetal position. I want to comfort her but can't. This unnatural connection renders me paralyzed and worthless.
I don't know how to handle her added emotions and still feel in control. Not to mention, I'm all too aware of her gut wrenching hunger. I hate to say it but she has reason to worry, she might kill whoever she feeds on.
I'm guiltily relieved as she drifts into sleep. The foreign emotions dwindle with her consciousness.