The sun didn't feel like warmth anymore. It felt like a verdict.Ted Jackson sat huddled in the corner of his studio apartment, knees pulled to his chest, wearing a heavy hoodie despite the mid-July heat. He had taped garbage bags over the windows an hour ago, his hands trembling so violently he'd nearly torn the plastic.Three days. That's how long it had been since the "mugging" in the alley behind the dive bar. The woman with the eyes like shattered glass. The bite that felt less like a wound and more like an injection of ice water.He looked at the slice of pepperoni pizza on his coffee table from the night before. It smelled like wet cardboard and ash. Then, he heard it—a rhythmic, thumping sound coming from the apartment next door.Thump-thump. Thump-thump.It wasn't bass from a stereo. It was Mrs. Gable's heart, beating through the drywall. He could hear the blood rushing through her carotid artery as she moved around her kitchen. His mouth flooded with venom, his stomach cramping with a hunger so violent it felt like a living thing coiling inside him."I have to go," Ted whispered. His voice sounded different—lower, raspier, with a resonance that vibrated in his own chest.
He stood up, moving with a fluid grace that was entirely foreign to his usually clumsy frame. He grabbed his duffel bag.What do you pack when you're dead but still walking?He skipped the toiletries; he hadn't sweated or needed to shave in forty-eight hours. He skipped the summer clothes. Instead, he packed: * Three heavy flannels. * A wad of cash from his tip jar. * His sketchbook.He paused at the sketchbook. It was filled with charcoal drawings of buildings he wanted to design one day. The last page was a sketch of Maya, the girl who worked at the coffee shop downstairs. He had a date with her on Friday.He looked at his phone. It was Thursday night. A text from Maya sat on the lock screen: Still on for tacos tomorrow? :)Ted's thumb hovered over the screen. If he typed back, if he heard her voice, the hunger would win. He could already imagine the pulse in her wrist. The thought made him retch dryly.He took the SIM card out of the phone and snapped it in half. Then he dropped the phone into the fish tank in the corner.Sunset. The only safe time.Ted slipped out the fire escape window. Usually, the three-story drop would terrify him. Tonight, the ground looked invitingly close. He dropped. He didn't land with a thud; he landed silently, his knees absorbing the impact like shocks on a high-end car.The city of Seattle was waking up to the night, but to Ted, it looked like a hunting ground. The neon signs were too bright; the smells of exhaust and perfume and sweat were overwhelming.He pulled his hood up and kept his head down, walking toward the bus station. He couldn't take a car; he didn't trust himself in an enclosed space with a driver.As he walked, he passed the coffee shop. Maya was there, closing up. She was wiping down the counter, laughing at something a coworker said. She looked radiant, full of heat and life and blood.Ted stopped in the shadows of the alley across the street. His fangs pushed against his lip, sharp and painful. Every cell in his body screamed at him to cross the street. To take. To feed.He gripped a brick on the wall beside him, squeezing until the rough clay crumbled into red dust in his palm."Goodbye, Maya," he breathed.The Long RoadHe walked past the bus station. Too many people. Too many heartbeats.He kept walking until the pavement turned to gravel, and the city lights became a dull orange haze behind him. He walked until his sneakers were covered in dust and the air grew cold.He found an old overpass on the edge of the highway, miles from the suburbs. He sat under the concrete arch, listening to the cars whip by above him.He was twenty-two years old. He had a degree he hadn't used, a mother he hadn't called back, and a date he would never make.Ted opened his sketchbook to the drawing of Maya. He looked at it for a long time, the charcoal lines barely visible in the dark. Then, he tore the page out. He crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the tall grass.He wasn't Ted the architect anymore. He was something else. Something hungry.He stood up and looked at the dark stretch of highway ahead. There was no destination, only the night. He adjusted his bag, turned his back on the city lights, and began to run—faster than any human could—into the dark.
TO BE CONTINUED...