I’m bored.
 
And I don’t mean like “this-three-hour-chick-flick-is-killing-me” bored.  No, I’m talking more like “nothing-in-all-of-existence-interests-me” bored.  I’ve felt this way for awhile and every time the Council convenes, I assume one of the other ten members will admit they’ve got the itch just like me, but it never happens.  Once a decade, my fellow Eternals gather around the same table, drink AB-negative from golden chalices, and brag about how happy they are with their imposing estates, powerful allies, and their cowering minions.  As far as I’m concerned, they can keep all that crap.
 
I’ve done the castle thing, ruled like a tyrant, and surrounded myself with human playthings.  I’ve used mortals as cattle, slaughtered thousands–maybe tens of thousands–over centuries of long, increasingly tiresome nights.  See the cattle run, feel their fear, extinguish their puny lives…on and on and on.  Yes, it’s alluring, maybe addicting, but even the most potent narcotic loses effectiveness over time.  And I’ve had plenty of time.
 
Immortality sucks, and no, I’m not trying to make a vampire pun.
 
My undead brethren argue with me at Council meetings, telling me I’m narcissistic, even insane…that I’m incapable of feeling anything anymore.  As usual, their pompous attitude gets in the way.  Doesn’t matter though, because I think I’ve finally figured it out. 
 
There’s an old saying: the more things change, the more they stay the same.
 
That sucker has been popping into my head plenty the last few decades, and up until a few days ago, I was always thinking about how it related to me.  By nature of my very existence, I am unchanging—a constant in a fluid universe.  I don’t age, I don’t deteriorate, and I don’t die.  I was convinced this stagnation was the cause of my boredom.  But not anymore.  I understand it’s not just about me.  It’s about the entire world.
 
The Earth and its empires, with weak, mortal rulers proclaiming divinity.  Arrogant fools sip wine and discuss the “inhumanity” of the Inquisition, then turn the channel of their televisions away from far greater wickedness visited upon African countries.  Technology advances, yet mortal wisdom remains as constant as I do.  The only thing humanity actually improves is its capacity for greater damage.
 
Mortals now cry about “recycling” and saving the planet’s resources.  The grand irony is they’ve been perfect little recycling machines for centuries: the clueless world spins in place, regurgitating different colors of the same garbage and calling it “new”.  If I wasn’t immortal, I’d probably die of laughter. 
 
The silver lining to my monotonous cloud is that I know exactly how to change things; but as always, the Council shouts me down without even listening.  The last ten vampires in existence, all but me crying about their precious “balance”, their age-old crusty grip on self-preservation keeping them rooted in their chairs.  They’re all blinded by the last time I tried to shake up the status quo.  When I decided to sire a few new vampires. 
 
I shared my bloodline, allowed mortals to drink from my essence, and turned them into Eternals.  Creating new members of our kind is forbidden unless deemed necessary by the Council, which has little desire to see our race swell.  Of course, that’s why I defied their edict.  I do enjoy being the rebel.  Always afraid new vampires will act foolishly, perhaps drawing us into a war with the humans, the Council reacted with predictable haste.  They hunted down my creations and killed them most brutally.
 
So now, they naturally assume I’m upsetting the apple-cart to be difficult.  If they’d listen to me, they’d understand.  All I want to do is travel.  See the world.  So in honor of the all-powerful, distinguished Council of Eternals, I’ve decided to be just as obstinate and predictable as they are.  I’ll let my rebellious streak take control and have my jaunt around the world after all.   
 
But before I go, I’m going to walk out into the street and turn the first human I see.  Make a Feral out of him…no sire, no sharing of my essence to create a new bloodline.  Instead, just kill him the old-fashioned way.  Tear into his throat and drink him totally dry, then throw his husk in a dumpster.  The worst way to turn a mortal, and the Council’s most reviled taboo.  Not surprising, since Ferals do little but draw attention to our kind.  Mindless animals, with no trace of their human personality, Ferals awaken with our strength and ferocity, and an unquenchable thirst. 
 
Messy creatures, but fun to watch.
 
Afterward, I’ll leave on my trip.  See all five continents.  And I believe I’ll create a single Feral on each one.  Their thirst will force them to feed at least once a night, and each person they slaughter will turn into a Feral themselves.  Every single night, my little family across the world will double in size.  Good luck to humanity and the Council trying to stop my children.  They’ll be legion.
 
In two weeks or so, news will begin to spread.  Within twenty days, fear will sweep over the planet.  In four short weeks, governments will fall, civilization will be overrun.  Ferals scouring the globe, devouring all they can find.  The Council will panic and begin turning humans to bolster their ranks.  And when humanity is finally extinguished, Ferals and vampires alike will still have to feed, and that’s when they’ll turn on each other. 
 
Yes, in thirty three days the world will be many things…none of them boring.

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© 2011 Trey Dowell

Trey Dowell writes short stories from a darkened room with poor ventilation in Saint Louis, Missouri.  Hard at work on his first novel, he’s been a Finalist in Writer’s Digest’s Popular Fiction Awards, and a first-place winner in Writers Weekly.com’s 24-hour fiction contest.  His thriller short “Ballistic” will be published soon by Untreed Reads in e-book format.

Weed flung a shovel full of coal into the maw of the furnace and slouched back to the supply bunker.  He leaned into his shovel, sliding it under the pile with practiced ease.  A push of the handle, a vertical wrench and he had another load.  He straightened to just the right angle that would allow him to carry the coal with the least fatigue to his back.  He had the technique down pat.
 
He tossed the coal straight forward, flicking the shovel.  Turned.  And began again.  He tried to remember things.  There didn’t seem to be much to recall.  Eat, work, eat, sleep – then do it again.  Nothing made sense but he couldn’t find the energy to care.  
 
Ruby light glared from furnace doors.  Weed squinted into the glow and shoveled coal.  On either side indistinct shapes did the same.  Now and then one cried out with pain, babbling words that froze his heart, though he could not understand them. 
 
Soon enough, Weed’s shift ended.  He handed the shovel to another vague shape and headed back to the grotto.  Bent figures moved in the shadows, never speaking.
 
In the grotto, he took his place at the table.  Brown soup again.  He sighed and picked up his spoon.  The man across from him ate soup with mechanical efficiency.  He had a shock of dark hair; his eyes were pools of no particular color.  Weed’s glance roved from man to man.  None spoke.  His spoon continued its motion, unnoticed, a bleak cycle exactly like the others at the table. 
 
The stone floor quivered to the boom of great hammers.  Thin shrieking noises filtered through the thick air.  The screeching sounded almost human at times, especially when it rose and fell, as if torn from a throat already raw from screaming.
 
Time seemed rooted in the very rocks. 
 
Change came without warning.  An old man wearing a soiled robe met Weed at the grotto entrance.  A blocky creature of knotted muscle loomed to one side.  Yellow eyes glared from under a black helm.  Weed backed a step, raw terror rising in his throat.  
 
“You,” said the old man.  “Come with me.”
 
The old man frightened him even more than the sallow-skinned guard.  Out of fear rose unreasoning anger.  “I ain’t et yet.”  Whining truculence was normal for him.  His voice rasped and the words were scarcely understandable, even to him. 
 
“No matter,” said the old man.  “T’were better so.  Come along.”  He turned and stalked out of the grotto.
 
Weed stumbled after, impelled forward.  His thoughts lurched, half-drowned in a sea of sluggish fear.  The guard fell in behind, sparks crackling from iron-shod feet.
 
He was led up flight after flight of chipped stone stairs, then along a corridor pierced at intervals by doorways exuding a pale red light.  At some openings there were panting sobs, as if a victim had a moments respite from the torturer.  From others came shrieks of ultimate, hopeless pain.  He hurried forward, almost treading on the old man’s heels, straining to escape those bitter sounds.  He’d heard them all before.  Terror bubbled and swelled in his chest.
 
“Here,” said the old man.  Weed stopped on the threshold. 
 
“Come on.”  The old man’s touch was gentle, but persistent. 
 
“Where — where am I?”
 
“The Chamber of Sorrow.  A place for the dead to find repentance.”
 
“I — I’m dead?”  Weed’s voice cracked.
 
“Have you not suspected it?”
 
Weed shook his head.  “No — I — no.”  He wanted to vomit, to rid himself of the ice clenched around his heart.  Nothing came up.
 
The old man seemed to know his thoughts.  “Relax.  You’ll be dead for a long time.”
 
In the midst of lifeless black iron and oiled gears lay a sturdy wooden table.  Its top was stained and chipped.  Leather straps were bolted to it.  Weed lunged away from the all too familiar table.  An identical one occupied one room of the basement apartment he lived — had lived in.
 
The guard gripped Weed’s tunic and slung him onto the scarred wood.  The old man secured the straps and stepped away.
 
Into Weed’s mind came the image of a girl wearing a white dress with red polka-dots.  Terror clawed at his heart.  Inarticulate sounds dribbled from his lips.  He wanted to faint, to run away, to escape a black tide of foreboding.  It seemed as if impenetrable walls of glass hemmed him in.  The image of the little girl slowly disappeared.
 
The old man stepped back into view.  Weed shivered as the man guided certain machines into place.  “Do you recall the girl’s name?”
 
“N-no,” croaked Weed.
 
“I think you do.”  A glistening arm tipped with a steel blade snapped into position alongside another equipped with electrodes.  The old man adjusted a lever and flipped a switch.  “The torture you inflicted on the girl will be done to you.  Torment will continue until you repent for your crimes.”
 
“I’m sorry!” screamed Weed.  “I’m sorry!”
 
“But you aren’t.  Not yet.”  The old man walked away.
 
Weed wept and pleaded and swore that, as God was his witness, he was truly sorry for what he had done.  Only machines witnessed the child-killer’s screams.
 
He awoke on his cot.  It was time for work.  Groaning, he got up and hobbled out with the others.  His body shrieked with pain.  His mind whirled.  The torment remained sharp and hard and clear.  His tongue worked back and forth, seeking teeth he no longer had.  There were buds there; the teeth were growing back.  
 
Oh, God.  His body was being healed.  He was being readied for more torment.  They knew about the others.  All seven.
 
“Get to work,” snarled a guard.  Weed hurriedly scooped up a load and tossed it in the furnace.  “I’m sorry,” he said aloud, testing the phrase for credulity.  Not good enough.  How does one learn sorrow?  Practice.  His tongue fretted at rapidly growing teeth.  Practice, practice. 

_______________________________

©2011 J.R. Hume

JR Hume is an old Montana farm boy who writes science fiction, fantasy, a little horror, and the occasional poem.  He lives in Colorado with his wife and one small Schnauzer.  The Schnauzer is in charge.