OLD BLOOD: Chapter 1, Scene 1

Thank you for reading Old Blood: Chapter 1, Scene 1! As I'm writing book two and three of my Torments series, I will be posting parts of Old Blood when I need a break from Jacoby and Susan's story. I hope you enjoy, and please leave comments, feedback, share, post, etc... as you read along!

I’m reminiscing over a rather peculiar hunt from my youth—one that required the combination of a dull fork, a deranged cat, an expired fire extinguisher, and a faulty grenade to survive—when I hear a sigh beside me.

“How much longer?” my grandson asks, scowling at the radio.

I grit my teeth and leash the rebuke at the tip of my tongue. After a sharp inhale, I smile, reliving my grandson’s failure to read an actual, in-hand map, which we needed after encountering an unfortunate detour deep within the mountain. 

“Nearly there,” I say.

Justin reaches for the console with his cellphone, a cord dangling from the bottom, ready to unite vintage with modernity. I swat his hand. “Nope. None of that crap music you kids listen to these days.”

“Come on, Gramps,” he whines. “We’ve listened to your ancient music for hours.”

Ancient. Kids these days. “Then no reason to change it the last few minutes, is there?” I glance at him. Now sixteen, he’s tall, lean, and flaunts longer hair like I’ve seen around town and on the television. It seems like both yesterday and lifetime ago that I held him in my arms as a baby.

Better, easier times.

“At least let me use my earbuds, then, Gramps,” he begs.

“Nope. No earbuds. Same answer as twenty minutes ago. And an hour before that.”

“Why? It’s not like I’ll miss anything. It’s a shit rule.”

“Mouth,” I quip. “Roadtrips are meant for conversation.”

Justin huffs.

“Lord knows I’ve tried, Justin. You’ve hardly said a thing, other than to periodically tell me how miserable you are. You volunteered to come along.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Of course there is,” I counter. “There’s sports, hobbies, thoughts, dreams…girls.”

“What? No. I’m not talking girls with you.”

“Fine. Then we’ll travel the rest of the way in silence.”

Justin slaps at his knee. “And I didn’t volunteer.”

“What?” I ask, surprised. 

“I didn’t. You, mom, dad, all of you pushed me into this. Said it was tradition. That it would be good for me. That I’d be the first grandchild of your class to decline. I was shamed into coming.”

Shamed into coming? My jaw clenches as I consider his words. “Just give it a chance, will you?” 

He turns and pouts out the window as one of my favorite songs plays. Something stirs within me, awakening. That itch for a fight clawing to break free.  “Music used to be played by instruments,” I say. “By a band. With lyrics that meant something. These days it’s all sound boards and solo artists singing about their sexual escapades, sexual acts, and what they want to do sexually. Basically every aspect of sex. Sex all the time. No one has the stamina for that much sex.”

Justin turns and stares as if he’s seen a ghost. “Gramps! No.”

“What? That’s what you listen to. It’s sex or songs about dogs, trucks, and beer drinking from people who live in mansions outside Nashville that drink nothing but expensive liquor. That’s what people sing about. It’s okay for them to sing about it, for me, for you, to listen to it, but I can’t say nothin’?”

Justin shakes his head back and forth. “Yes. No. Please say nothin’.” He glances at his cellphone for the hundredth time in what feels like as many seconds. There’s no service this deep into the mountain, so he promptly tucks it away, like every other time before. 

“The age of storytelling has passed,” I mumble to myself.

“I’ve listened to your music,” he says with an edge to his voice. “It’s no different. It wasn’t all hymns…and country music from people who lived in the country. Your generation was just more subtle about it.”

I go to argue, but I’m distracted by an internal playlist of songs from decades ago. I mouth lyrics to several of them. Shit.

“There’s absolutely nothing out there,” he says, peering out into the wilderness. “Nothing to do. No service.”

“It’s good for the soul to disconnect from that garbage. Here, you connect with nature and people. Time slows down. Refreshes one’s soul.”

“What soul?” he asks sarcastically.

I ignore him. We argue about enough things these days. I don’t need to add the spiritual to the fire, especially when doubt has sprouted within me. 

I take a dirt road to the left less than ten minutes later, the sun disappearing quickly behind endless trees.“Here we are,” I say.

Justin perks up in his seat with a scrunched face, doing his best to conceal the excitement within. “How many of you come this thing again?”

I think of faces from my past. Their names roll across my mind. I see them at their best. Years younger. Warriors then. Deadly. I sift through them all, casting aside the ones that no longer live. “Used to be eight of us…when we started this thing. We’re five now.”

“And you come here every year?”

He doesn’t even care about the ones I’ve lost. “We do,” I say through slightly clenched teeth. “Ever since we retired from hunting. We’re the few who made it to retirement.”

Justin nods but says nothing, as if my deceased colleagues were pets instead of friends. I sense the questions on his mind. Questions about things less important,  but he knows the rules. Nearly nothing is to be shared about the life of a hunter prior to their entry into Academy. 

“Remember,” I say, pulling into the gravel driveway, “don’t badger them with questions.”

“Yeah, yeah,” my grandson says, waving a hand about.

“Justin,” I say as we exit my old, worn, but reliable truck. My knee nearly buckles as my feet hit the ground. I rub out the pain, cursing old age. I get nothing in response. “Justin,” I say again, a sharpness to my voice. I’m a calm man, have been most of my life, even when hunting deep within a vampire den I was cold as ice, but this kid can push my buttons. I’d take vampires over teenagers everyday.

“What?” he asks, hands buried in his sweater’s pockets, a loose hood pulled atop his head. 

A gentle breeze carries an icy passenger, but I savor the cold. I prefer it to the heat. I inhale the fresh air and listen to the sounds of the surrounding forest. “I mean it. Don’t badger them with questions of Academy, being hunters, or vampires. I assure you, they’ll share what they’re allowed to.”

“Then…why am I here?” he pries, helping me unload the handful of bags and coolers from the truck bed. “Why is it so important that I come?” He lifts my cane with a raised eyebrow. I shake my head and he throws it back into the bed of the truck.

Like hell I’ll let them see me with a cane. I take enough shit from this group as it is.

I smile as I take in the layered logs and metal roof. The high chimney spits smoke into the clear sky. The cabin is old but sturdy, large enough to host our dwindling group of retirees and the occasional grandchild who has enlisted into the life as a hunter. The surrounding grass is invisible beneath a coating of colorful leaves. As always, I admire the wrap around porch, an escape I’ll embrace tonight with a thick cigar and big-boy bourbon. 

A lifetime of memories sweep through my mind. “Tradition,” is all I tell him. 

We traverse the rest of the driveway, weaving through four vehicles. “Looks like we’re last to arrive.” I note the makes, models, and license plates. Everything looks in order, so I climb the creaky stairs with a slight limp and proceed to knock. Maybe I should grab the cane. Just in case. Although I prefer this season, the cold wreaks havoc on my joints.

“Come in! It’s unlocked, you old bag of bones.” I smile at the voice that hails from within.

I raise my full hands toward Justin, who takes the hint. He turns the knob and pushes open the door. 

I’m about to enter into the warmth of the cabin when something churns in my gut. I turn and peer out into the surrounding forest. 

“What is it?” Justin asks.

The discomfort melts away.

Don’t get paranoid. “Nothin’.”

“Get in here!” Mary yells.

I smile as I turn toward my old friend, Justin following closely behind. “Mary,” I say, dropping my luggage in the corner.

Mary rises easily from her chair, as nimble as the year before. I swear she’s found a way to stave off the bodily effects of old age. 

I appraise my old friend. Her hair is shorter than last year, resting atop slim shoulders, its color unnaturally dark for her age. Mary is a swimmer, still to this day, which is seen beneath a tight shirt and tapered jeans. She wears a face comprised of soft features and makeup; not enough to raise eyebrows, but noticeable. 

Mary the Magician. In her prime, a sneaky, quiet, and deadly force of nature. She would vanish without a trace. Nearly as fast as a vampire. Deadly with her duel pistols. 

“What the hell is in your ears?” she asks after a deep embrace.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, shooing her backward. “I got em’.”

“Finally. I’ve left here every year hoarse from yelling at your old ass all weekend.” She appraises me from a distance. “You look old, Martin,” she laughs, hugging me again. “About time you got here.”

I nod to Justin. “His idea of on time differs from ours.”

Mary turns to Justin. “With a face and body like that,” she says, giving him a once over, “I’m sure he gets away with about anything he wants. Blue eyes, even.” 

I snort at Justin’s reddening cheeks. “Be careful of this one, Justin,” I say. “She’ll seduce you before you know what’s happening.”

“Umm…okay,” Justin mutters, a quiver in his voice. 

Mary laughs, winking at Justin. “Come on you two. This way. Everyone else is in the kitchen.”

“What are those doing here?” Justin asks, pointing to several caged bats along the far wall.

Mary looks to me. I shrug. Bats aren’t listed as a banned topic by Academy. “Early warning bells,” she says.

“What? What does that mean?” Justin presses. “Aren’t bats…like…part of vampires, or something?”

Mary blurts out a laugh. “Holy shit. I sometimes forget how little they know.” It’s a moment before she collects herself. “No, honey. Vampires don’t turn into bats. How would that even work, anatomically? No. Bats don’t like vampires. They mess with their echolocation. They go crazy when vampires are around. Don’t ask me how or why. I’m not a vampirologist. I just killed the unholy shits back in the day.”

And she was quite good at it.

Justin braves a step toward the quiet creatures before turning back toward us, a level of terror visible upon his face. “Why are they here? You’re retired. You don’t hunt vampires anymore.”

“Once a hunter, always a hunter,” I say. Justin coils into himself, so I quickly add, “No need to worry. There are no vampires here. None of us have seen one in many years. It’s just…old habits.”

Justin nods with a slight tremor.

“Does he also believe vampires melt in daylight? Catch fire. Ashes thrown about by the wind.” Mary asks sarcastically.

Neither of us respond.

“Oh, come on!” Mary blurts with flailing arms.

“I…I….”

“You what!?” Mary mocks. “Why would sunlight matter to an unholy shit that needs to drink blood to survive? It doesn’t.”

“Fine. Okay. Whatever,” Justin back-steps with raised hands. 

I watch him curl into himself. A little gut punch to his arrogance isn’t a bad thing.

“Hasn’t anyone taught him anything?” Mary asks, the question directed at me.

I shrug. “Parents and I thought it best to not test the Academy’s rules…after what happened with his father.”

“Bunch of spineless twats,” Mary says. “They’ll tear him apart at Academy.”

“No, they won’t. He’ll enter like everyone else and learn what he needs to while at Academy.”

Mary narrows her eyes with a scrunched faced. “You think the Oswalds, the Millers, or even the  Darbys will keep their kids in the dark? You’re as ignorant as your grandson if you think that’s the case.”

“That’s enough, Mary. Enough vampire and Academy talk for now. Damnit, we just got here.”

“The Academy’s rules are shit,” she spits out.

I know. “Don’t listen to her,” I say to Justin. “You’ll be just fine at Academy. She forgets her youth. When she didn’t have all the answers.”

“Whatever,” Mary says, throwing her hands at us. “My parents prepared me. As it should be. Liberal philosophy that will see hunters killed. That’s what the Academy is. It should be like the old days. When training was passed down from parents to their children. When brutality was king. None of this bureaucracy and innovation crap. Do this. Don’t do that. Arrogant collection of has-beens and wannabes.”

“Mary,” I say, tiring of this conversation. God knows I love this woman like a sister, but she can wear down anyone if she puts her mind to it.

“Fine. Come on. They’re waiting,” she says, mumbling something under her breath. “Justin. Show off some of those muscles by grabbing that stuff in the corner, would you?”

Justin steps, hesitates, then steps again. He resembles a malfunctioning robot before he finally grabs what he’s able, receiving a smile from Mary for his efforts. I can’t contain a chuckle, which is cut short when I consider the odds of Mary successfully seducing a horny teenager. I  convince myself it’s unlikely. Hopefully. I decide to chat with Mary later, just to be sure. 

“Why don’t parents teach their kids? Why Academy?” Justin asks as we travel through the living room, beyond a lively fireplace.

“Limitation, so they say,” I answer, a hint of disapproval unintentionally seeping from my mouth. “Academy teaches from what many have learned, not just what your parents, your family, have learned. Standardization of what they believe are best practices.” I rub at my eyes. “They believe progress is more important than tradition.”

We pass into the dinning area in silence. From there, we take a right and walk through a swinging door.

“Martin!” Daniel yells. Beth and Bill stand beside him, shot glasses in hand.

“What in the hell is happening in here?” I ask.

“Martin!” Beth and Bill echo before downing their drinks.

“Your sorry ass took too long, so we decided to start without you,” chides Bill, licking his lips while pouring another round. 

“Fair enough,” I say, meandering toward the counter while Bill slides me a glass of my own.

“Besides,” says Beth, “you never could keep up with us. We’ve done you a mercy.”

“Love you too, Beth,” I say. She isn’t wrong. I hug each of them. 

Everyone raises their glass high. “To empty graves,” says bill. The glass shakes in his hand. Not much, but I notice. Of all of us, his age shows the most. He’s thin, nearly bald, and wears thick glasses.

“To empty graves,” everyone echoes.

The liquid goes down smooth. “What are we drinking?”

“Weller” Bill answers with smile.

“Like every other year,” says Mary.

“What? What asshole doesn’t drink Weller?” Bill asks.

“Assholes,” I say with a smile. I remember Justin stands behind me. “Everyone. This is my grandson, Justin. Justin, this is Bill, Beth, and Daniel. You’ve already met Mary.”

“The enlistee,” says Beth, working her way toward Justin. In contrast to Mary and Bill, Beth looks exactly like she should. A bit heavy with a slight hitch in her step. Round features. Loose clothing.“Let’s have a look at you, then.” She grabs both his arms and looks him up and down, but different than Mary’s appraisal. More like a grandmother who hasn’t seen her grandson in a decade. “Won’t have a problem, physically,” she says.

“No doubt,” adds Mary. “It’s the brains I’m worried about.”

“Mary,” says Daniel, a man at least five inches taller than Bill, who stands six foot, and time hasn’t made Daniel smaller. With a shaved head, strong muscles, and a sleeve of tattoos, he’s an intimidating man, even as a grandpa. I recall the torment he used to be. How vampires would run at his bloodlust and gory axe. Daniel the Bloodied we called him. One of the few men who didn’t fear proximity with a vampire. “Be nice. He comes from good blood. Roland blood. I’m sure the brains are fine.”

“We’ll see,” says Mary, replenishing her glass. “Yet to be seen,” she adds.

Everyone makes their introductions with handshakes and hugs before returning to their bourbon. Justin pulls me aside when the gang begins arguing over the best scotch.

Macallen. Without a doubt.

“Empty graves?” he asks.

The question stirs something within me. Maybe it’s pride. Perhaps sadness. Probably a mixture of both. I nod. “Most of the time, hunters’ bodies are never recovered. For the ones that are, or if we die of natural causes, we’re cremated. No matter the situation, a hunter’s grave is always empty.”

“I see,” he says, his mind a hamster wheel. “Why?” he finally asks. “Why burn the bodies?”

I look to my friends. My fellow hunters. The few that still live. “Tradition.”