The Voyages Of The S.S. Amore (Pt. 5)
pacing back and forth in the small cabin.
Finally, after what felt like forever, Jane heard a timid knock on the cabin door. Jumping over the twin bed, knocking her makeup kit full of various black-colored lipsticks and eye-liners onto the floor in the process, she slammed into the door and yanked it open. On the other side was Ethan, holding a bloody cloth to his neck and looking even paler than normal.
“Oh my God!” Jane screamed, yanking the young porter inside and slamming the door. “You really did it! You got bit for us!”
“Yeah...well...I did get bit...,” Ethan stammered, his teeth clenched through the pain. “Can I get a towel or something?”
“Oh. Yeah,” Jane ran over to the closet and yanked out a suitcase. Tossing out the clothes, she picked out one of her stepmother's hot pink beach towels and some peroxide from the first aid kit her dad always carted around with him on trips. She noticed that he had also brought along an old photo album filled with old pictures of them from when she was a kid. He had probably wanted to reminisce with her at some point. Yuck. “I can't believe you really did it. Tell me everything.”
“I went up on deck, like we planned, and I looked around for, you know, them. I didn't have much luck though, so I went below decks, figuring they like being underground or something. And then...is that a Polaroid camera?”
“What?” Jane finished pouring the peroxide onto the towel and handed it to him. Looking behind her she saw what Ethan was pointing at. Her dad's old camera. “Yeah. It's my dad's. He loves the thing even though a digital camera is totally better.”
“That thing is vintage,” he said with awe, pressing the pink towel against his neck wound and wincing a bit. “Does he have any film for it? I heard they stopped making it?”
“He bought a bunch before that. But who cares. What happened when you met...Him. Was he all Gothic and commanding and stuff? What did you say to him that made him want to turn you into one of them instead of just feeding off you. He did turn you, didn't he?”
Ethan had gotten up and began rummaging through her father's suitcase. Jane walked over to the window and looked out over the starlit sea.
“You know,” Jane began. “I almost wish I had woken up early today to see the sunrise. Of course, I had no idea it would have been my last one. Soon, right after you bite me, I will be a child of the night. We'll roam the darkness, existing in that twilight space between life and death, feeding on..”
“Dude, these are bitchin'!”
Jane turned around to see that Ethan was wearing her dad's embarrassing Elvis sunglasses and was holding up a pair of wrist sweatbands her father wore when he played tennis. Now that she got a look at it, Ethan's wound didn't look like it was made by vampire fangs. It was more of a ragged tear and not the two neat puncture marks she would associate with a vampire's kiss.
“Do you think he'd let me borrow these?” he asked, slipping the red-and-white sweatbands onto his wrists. “Check out this album. Your dad used to have some style. Do you think he still has this western-style button up shirt around? Ooh! Did he bring it with him?”
“No. What's going on? Why are you being so weird?”
“I'm not weird,” he snapped. “I'm just into stuff most people aren't. Do you like bicycles? I was thinking about getting one of those fixed-gear ones when we get back from this trip. And I think I'm going to change my band's sound, you know. Maybe do a Film School meets Rogue Wave kind of thing.”
“Who the hell are they?”
“They're obscure, you probably haven't heard them.”
“Oh, dear God,” Jane gasped, backing toward the cabin door. Fear began to crawl up her spine. “What bit you out there?”
“Hey look, I'm getting some facial hair,” Ethan was looking at his reflection in the cabin's window. “Does your dad have a shave kit handy? Maybe I can trim it into a trucker's handlebar kind of 'stache or maybe twirl it on the ends. What do you think?”
He turned and looked at Jane with eyes that had turned entirely black. His formerly pale skin had now darkened to a chestnut brown and was rapidly sprouting long, black hair. His canines had extended and sharpened, but were not elegant like a vampire's tapered tools of undeath. These were the savage, utilitarian teeth of a wild dog.
“You're not a vampire.”
“No. Vampires are boring. You don't know what I've become.”
Yes, I do!” Jane yelled, her hand scrambling to open the stubborn cabin door. “You're a filthy hipster. You're a goddamned filthy hipster werewolf!”
Deep in the bowels of the ship, in the back of the shadowed cargo hold, Murdertron stalked his prey.