The graveyard was silent as a...yes, graveyard. The moon was high, shedding its cold light on the tombstones. The ground was quiet, unmoving. The only sound was the whispering of Beck's footsteps through the brush.
At least one would rise tonight. She knew that. The silver stake was in her hand, pointed so severely that the narrow end seemed to vanish into midair of its own volition.
Beasts of the underworld, come, she thought. Rise again, and taste the cold metal of my weapon, and be banished back to the hell-place from whence you were birthed.
She noticed a split end blowing past her eye in the gentle moonlit breeze. Her long, tousled blond hair tumbled down and over her shoulders. Carefully maintained, sheeny, silky, perfect--except for that goddamn fucking split end. Her breath whooshed out in a sigh of frustration. She reached up and grabbed the wayward fiber, nearly losing an eye in the process, pointed the stake downwards in her right hand, and took hold of the hair.
Why? she wondered. Why must I be visited with the horrors of ultimate, bottomless evil on a daily basis? Die, thou freakish beast! And used the point on the stake to slice it off.
Because of this digression, she narrowly missed stepping on an upthrust of earth that breathed in and out, finally disgorging a hand that groped for her ankle. She gasped and stumbled away before collecting herself in a feral stance, silver stake at the ready. She watched as the unnatural thing pushed itself out of its muddy womb and stood before her, fully revealed in all of its undead glory.
She could smell the blood, beginning to pulse inside the animal. She looked longingly at its neck, suddenly remembering that it'd been a full week since she'd eaten. But dead blood was lethal to vampires--the animal writer Rice had gotten that much correct.
The newly-arisen human had short brown hair, rapidly growing longer. It was once female, she could see, as the grievous wounds it had suffered in its short daylight life began to heal over, preternaturally quick to throw scaffolds of flesh over the gaping spaces. Breasts began to reappear, fallopian tubes and ovaries sprouted--and were covered over by muscle, blood vessels, and skin.
A sound escaped the corpse's mouth, a sigh, as air rushed into the newly-forming lungs.
The heart appeared within the ribcage. Before long, it began to pump as blood began to flow and vessels attached themselves to the meat. Beck grew even hungrier. She would have to visit the diner next to the cemetery after this one.
The thing was now dependent on blood to survive. She rammed the stake into the still-visible heart, and it shuddered and gasped and stumbled and finally collapsed into a heap of decomposed body parts, which began to decay until a pile of pearly-white bones collected in the moonlight. Even those began to melt into a malignantly odorous puddle that rapidly dried and left nothing but stains on the verdantly moist grass.
As Beck walked away from the disturbed grave, she reflected on the world of vampires she had been born into. Humans were cows, kept only for their ability to feed several vampire young at once. As vampires aged, they needed less and less blood to survive, and frequently chose to abstain from human blood in preparation for eventual extinction of the species.
But long-dead humans were beginning to rise again. All over the world, vampires were beginning to report curious incidents of being attacked by resurrected humans--those bitten lost their fangs, developed an aversion to normal vampire food, and started going to the beach during the day. The attacks were becoming epidemic, and the United States government had begun conscripting citizens for nightly graveyard duty.
This field trip was among the most popular among the students of Birchwood High School. The Museum of American History had expanded its offerings several years ago, and had since then become one of the most-visited destinations in Washington, D.C.
The cacophonous throng of juniors studying American history gushed through the somber halls, forming endlessly-flowing tributaries of smaller groups who stopped here and there to comment on various posters on the walls.
One such group paused at a poster advertising a motion picture.
"Oh my God, so cheesy!" That was the leader. I sighed inwardly. This group of teenage girls seemed to be most at risk for being irritating, spouting off smart-alecky comments during my tour. I hated that type--they seemed to deflate the significance of the era. Best to be proactive, I thought. "Okay, kids," I said. "Over here now, and kindly shut up as soon as possible and perhaps we can get through the talky part more quickly, yes?"
Leader rolled her eyes. I immediately dubbed her Bitch and switched on the prod. It was a good feeling, knowing that I'd be ready.
The group of kids coalesced in a rough circle around me at the entrance to the Hall of American Memory. I swept my hand behind me at the entry columns, which were plastered with red, white, and blue wallpaper.
"Can anyone tell me what those colors mean?"
Bitch immediately raised her hand, the only one to do so. I sighed, and nodded at her.
"Bad taste?" she said, smirking. Her coterie of compatriots tittered uselessly. Strike one. I kept the prod hidden behind my back, out of sight.
I nodded. "Way to fish the berry out of the hole. Next time, try to be a little more clever." She looked displeased, and I squared my shoulders and went on, "However, examples of pride in astounding ignorance aside, those colors actually represent the American flag, often known as 'the Stars and Stripes,' 'the Star-Spangled Banner,' or 'Old Glory.' Since its inception, the flag has used those colors, although in different patterns, depending on the era and number of states involved. Originally, it was just a set of red and white stripes with a small blue field that contained a circle of thirteen white stars."
"Bo-ring," I heard someone whisper. Strike two. Better hurry this up before the cows get startled.
"Moving on." I led them into the hall proper, ensuring that the prod remained hidden, moving quickly past the sections on the American Revolution, the Civil War, the Industrial Revolution, and most of the twentieth century, with only perfunctory references. They should have covered this in their Great Civilizations course anyway, and if not--that certainly was not my problem, was it?
Now the section that always garnered the greatest interest--Late 20th/Early 21st. Now, at last, several hands went up. I nodded at the most likely candidate, a sharp-looking boy with black hair and intriguing eyes.
"Miss," he said, shocking me at the politeness of his form of address. "Is it true that most historians consider the rise of the United States in the global hierarchy to be completely incommensurate with the rise of previously powerful civilizations?"
I caught my breath. They weren't all idiots. Bitch looked disgusted, but kept a lid on the attitude, choosing instead to focus on the MTV diorama. I began to consider the possibility that I might actually not have to use the prod this time out. "The answer to that one is a complex one, my friend." Here, I paused, unsure how precisely to phrase it. "The short answer is yes. This particular civilization rose to absolute power in a mind-bogglingly short span of time--only two centuries. Most other societies that reached the level of the Americans took at least twice as long to do so in their respective spheres."
Again I paused. It was time to get into some really ancient history. "I presume you are aware of the Romans, young sir?" At his nod--again, some shock--I continued, "In a way, the parallels between the Roman and American civilizations are why the short answer isn't perfectly accurate. You see, both were founded upon the basic principle of a republic, a representative system that enabled the people to participate in the process of governance." I could see some eyes glaze over. Time to shift some gears.
"Of course, a few people thought that sucked and basically took over. This happened around the same time both civilizations began to really get into seeing people suffer for entertainment. For the Romans, it was the gladiator games; for the Americans, it was reality television--you can find more information on this aspect of American culture just around the corner to the right. My personal favorite is Survivor. Anyway, power became concentrated in the hands of a few, while the people were distracted with their own decadent pursuits, and society in general became even wealthier and more powerful. There are many who think that this single factor is what unites both civilizations in their similarity--and was the cause of their fall in the end."
Another hand, this one from a short blonde girl. "Miss, I thought both empires fell because of barbarian invaders?" Another thinker. Christ. I was beginning to hope the prod would prove to be totally unnecessary.
"They only fell because they were weakened from the inside out and thus could not muster up what was needed to drive back the primitives. Internal decay is far more damaging in the long run than external threats," I said shortly. "That is why our young is now subjected to great hardship and privation until true emotional maturity comes. You know that--you've experienced that yourself." The group of sheep nodded slowly.
"My mother was beaten and raped by peacekeepers," one boy volunteered.
I nodded. "See? An excellent example of how the proper development of appreciation for one's blessings can lead to a purpose-driven life. You are all the cream of the crop, selected for further education and usefulness to society." Although in the case of Bitch, it seemed to lead to skankiness. Some people were just born to a sense of entitlement, which the Hardship only seemed to aggravate. That was why there were people like me.
"Feel free to scatter," I said. "Have a look around and experience the wonders of the early twenty-first century. An age of tremendous technological innovation, to be sure, but nevertheless a period of major regression in social philosophy. Check out the exhibit on the Bush dynasty--it's fascinating and funny at the same time."
I heard a scoff, and the darkness inside began to uncoil. Bitch. I turned around.
"Yes?" I said.
"This shit is cheesy as hell," she whined. "Why the fuck am I wasting a day here? It sucks. This place sucks." She paused, and looked at me dead in the eye. "So do you. Cheap haircut!" Clearly she thought she could insult anyone she liked. This made strike three.
I brought the prod out, its arcing tip humming slightly. The air began to smell of ozone. Her eyes widened in shock as I snapped it down to the junction of her neck and left shoulder, too quickly for her to back away.
She fell to the floor immediately, of course, convulsing and shuddering. Years of long experience enabled me to maintain constant pressure with the prod. The smell of burned flesh began to suffuse the air, and as she shrieked and waowed on the floor, her eyes opening wide and bursting into long runnels of oozing jelly, the rest of her classmates took off for the entrance of the museum and apparent safety with their instructor-chaperones.
I held it to her skin long enough for her body to burst into flames, which were optimized by their heat and the atmosphere inside the building to burn quickly and thoroughly, leaving only scant remains to be metabolized by the engineered-living carpet. Few younglings realized that the Hardship process actually continued after their graduation, although it was more of a winnowing process than anything particularly formative--for the failed, at least. Her classmates would remember this and learn the value of respect and humility.
Before a minute was up, there was nothing but ashes left. The air circulators set to work, emptying the air of burned Bitch and echoing the subsidence of the darkness inside.
A piebald llama ambled past, chewing its cud and blinking its ugly eyes. Beyond it was another llama, this one grey, with an overgrown coat and a speculative look on its floppy muzzle, possibly considering homicide or its next evacuation.
I scanned the field. Llamas everywhere. At this juncture, I had long since lost all sense of understanding of my reasons behind becoming a llama farmer. All I knew was that I was tired of the evil smells, the constant noise, the thick wet splats of cud striking my back in that sensitive spot just left of center.
A little llama fell to its knees a little way off. I brightened up immediately, hoping it had eaten something fatal. A black fuzzy llama stumbled its way up to it, chewing cud and briefly reflecting the same homicidal light in those dead orbs I had seen just a few moments ago. It was quickly joined by a patchy-coated llama who seemed not quite right. It lost its footing and fell over briefly, narrowly missing a very sharp rock--one of many I had planted around the field, just in case. No luck there.
The curious onlookers were becoming a throng, with two more llamas joining up. However, it wasn't until the duck waddled up that I finally felt something vital give way inside my mind.
The next day, I came back to myself. I was sitting at my table, which was laden with plates and other items, which were of an odd variety. Ten of the plates contained meat of some kind, which I rapidly determined to be nine plates of llama and one of duck. Accompanying those were plates of cheesecake, potatoes, and mushrooms, between which were a brick and a tablet--presumably inedible.
This was nothing new for me. A long time ago, about three years after I died, I had spent some time as a treehouse, generally working childcare jobs. I had always been fond of heights, and had often spent time reading in the shade of a good tree, so this seemed like a good angle for me to work.
Every night, I went home to my cake, which was large, roomy, and provided ample sustenance for a young, growing treehouse who often was exhausted at the end of a long day spent chasing after children and ensuring their safety. It was white with pink trim, three stories, and had an excellent view of the nearby llama farm, which I had always dreamed of owning once.
This idyllic time was soon come to an end. One morning, I woke up, and two police officers were at the door of my cake, waiting for me to emerge. The sickly-sweet scent of oranges wafted through the air.
'Good Lord,' I said. 'What's happened?'
The larger policeman, who was heavyset and wrinkly, looked at a notepad in his hand. 'Mr. House?'
'Yes?'
'You, uh,' and he shifted his weight here, adjusted his belt. 'You ever talk with your neighbors, Mr. House?'
'The orange and the rake? Yes, of course--very nice people. Why?'
He shifted his weight again and looked slightly uncomfortable. 'Did you hear anything, uh, out of the ordinary last night, Mr. House?'
'No,' I said. 'But then it'd be unlikely. I work very hard and sleep very soundly, you see, and the cake is quite a good sound insulator. All that butter.'
He nodded. 'And what is it you do, Mr. House?'
How was this relevant? I wondered to myself. But, alas, he was an officer of the law. 'I work in childcare and landscaping mostly. I'm a full-time treehouse.'
'I see.' He farted loudly, shifted his weight once again, and looked even more uncomfortable. 'Mr. House, were you aware of any possible problems between your neighbors?'
Problems? 'No, not that I know of,' I said. 'They were quite friendly people, and I got the impression they were friends. Why?'
'Ah,' said the officer. 'I'm afraid the orange slew the rake last night. Some sort of point they disagreed upon. There was quite a scuffle. You don't know how any of this could have happened?'
'Good God,' I said. 'No, nothing. I'm sorry I couldn't help you.'
Later that day, I was so absentminded that I nearly let one of my charges kiss the earth beneath my platform, and sternly warned him to mind the safety rail. By the end of the day, I had made up my mind.
Rather than return to my cake, I trudged up the hill to the llama farm, where I immediately saw two llamas, one of whom was rubbing its muzzle against a mysterious part of the other's anatomy. Rather than speculate, I found the farmer, and out of curiosity asked him why llamas were so prone to this.
He shrugged. 'Probably tastes like llama. They like it.' A pair of llamas and a duck sauntered past, their attention suddenly drawn by the decapitated corpse of a llama lying nearby, from which another pair of llamas were feeding. The horror of this scene rapidly dissipated as a late-model Ford Anglia rumbled past, a soon-to-be-familiar homicidal muzzle leaning out of the driver's side window.
'My God,' I said. 'That llama's driving a car!'
He spat. 'Best not to alarm him, then. Can I help you?' In the background, a llama ate a duck.
'Is this how it's told now?' I asked. 'How old is this place?'
'It's like lemon juice,' he said, without much explanation, and spat again, turning away and ambling down the hillside. Newly empowered with my sense of ownership, I walked up to the dingy house on the hill, and turned the doorknob, which promptly broke a floorboard under my right foot and snapped my ankle.
Now it's getting on to winter. It's hard to remember that all of this only happened a week ago. My luck must have left with the rake--his wit and kindness were what little remained of the good that had once existed around here.
I knew I needed to retire. Just spend a life of leisure, traveling around. As I thought this, my eyes fell upon one of the plates on the table, which contained the eviscerated and bare skeleton of a duck.
What a great idea, I thought. Free and easy travel.
