The Night The Vampires Came

He wasn't sick anymore. But he wasn't human anymore, either.

Aden Curtis sat on the edge of his bed, looking in the mirror on the closet door.

His skin was pale.

His eyes were no longer brown.

They were silver. Molten, shifting, glowing in the dark room.

He wiped a crumb of silver from his lip.

Just an hour ago, the world had been ending. Now, it had been remade.

An hour ago, Aden Curtis sat on the edge of his bed.

The room was dark, save for the streetlights bleeding through the blinds.

He watched the second hand on the wall clock tick.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

His body was vibrating. It wasn't a choice. It was the ALS.

The muscles in his thighs and arms twitched under his skin like dying worms.

He looked at the glass of water on the nightstand.

He was thirsty.

He told his brain to lift his right arm.

The signal fired, but the wiring was frayed. His arm moved sluggishly, heavy as lead.

His fingers curled around the glass.

They trembled.

The glass slipped.

It hit the carpet with a dull thud. Water soaked into the cheap beige fibers.

Aden stared at the stain.

He didn't have the energy to pick it up. He didn't have the energy to be angry anymore.

He just felt a deep, hollow rot in his stomach.

Doctors said he had a month. Maybe less. His diaphragm would paralyze soon, and he would suffocate in his sleep.

His phone buzzed on the mattress.

The screen lit up the gloom.

11 PM. The usual spot. Cash only.

Aden closed his eyes. He took a breath that rattled in his chest.

He reached under his bed and dragged out the old Nike shoebox.

It was light. Inside was fifty thousand dollars. Every cent his parents had left him, liquidized.

He pulled on a thick hoodie. It hid how thin he had become. It hid the atrophy.

He grabbed his cane.

Getting down the stairs of the apartment complex took ten minutes.

Every step was a negotiation with gravity.

The night air in Argent City was wet. It smelled of exhaust and damp concrete.

Aden walked. He dragged his left leg.

People walked past him. They looked away. No one wanted to see the dying kid.

He reached the alleyway behind the convenience store.

The ground was slick with oil and rain.

Tom Bo was waiting in the shadows. He was smoking a cigarette, the cherry glowing orange.

He saw Aden and smirked.

"You made it," Tom said. "Thought you might trip and break a neck on the way."

Aden didn't speak. He dropped his backpack on the wet asphalt.

Tom kicked it open with his boot. He riffled through the stacks of bills.

"It's all there," Aden said. His voice was weak.

Tom nodded. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a metal case.

He tossed it to Aden.

Aden fumbled, nearly dropping it. His hands were shaking so bad.

He opened the case.

Inside lay a single vial. The liquid was dark red, thick, almost black.

"Unregistered," Tom said, blowing smoke into the rain. "Clan rejects. Ninety percent mortality rate. You drink that, you probably die screaming."

"I'm already dying," Aden said.

"Suit yourself. No refunds when your heart explodes."

Tom grabbed the backpack and walked away. He didn't look back.

Aden stood alone in the alley.

He looked at the vial. This was it. The fifty-thousand-dollar gamble.

He didn't hesitate. He uncorked it.

The smell hit him. Iron and sulfur.

He tilted his head back and downed it.

It didn't taste like blood. It tasted like battery acid.

It burned his tongue, his throat, his esophagus.

Aden dropped the vial. It shattered.