Archive for the ‘Vampires’ Category

Review: The Twelve by Justin Cronin

Posted: April 10, 2013 in apocalypse, Book review, demons, dystopia, Religion, Vampires
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The Twelve by Justin Cronin. Ballentine Books, New York, 2012.

61iW1Nf7IjLIt may seem odd to some for me to be reviewing this book a day after I reviewed the devotional Hearing God by Dallas Willard. After all, if you are familiar with the first book in this series, The Passage, you might have the idea that Justin Cronin is writing horror here. But I would disagree.

While The Passage has its share of gore, and The Twelve is not too far behind, I would hesitate to classify either of them as horror, just as I would hesitate to classify Stephen King’s dystopian masterpiece The Stand as horror. I would classify all three books as books about the apocalypse. And whatever form that apocalypse may take, in the end these stories are really about how people deal with that event.

In fact, just as in The Stand, there is a lot of spiritual imagery in these two books (and to my joy I discovered that a third book is planned). Of course, there is a lot of reference to blood, and how blood can bring eternal life. There is a lot of personal sacrifice by the protagonists. And of course, there are the twelve.

To understand any more, you have to know the story from the beginning. A corporation working for the Department of Defense sends an expedition to Peru to bring back a virus from ruins there. In a sense, it is a vampire virus. Their desire is to turn this virus into something that will grant eternal life. As guinea pigs, they bring 12 death row inmates into a laboratory in Colorado and begin experimenting with variations of the virus. Of course, the 12 men escape, which really starts the story off. And from there, the virus spreads across the United States.

In addition to the 12, a young girl named Amy is exposed to the virus. She is protected by two FBI agents through most of the first book. Amy, and two a lesser degree one of the agents, continue to play a part in both books, and I would suspect the third as well.

Cronin doesn’t start Book 2 (The Twelve) exactly where the first book leaves off. Instead, he backs up and introduces characters who are there when the virus hits Denver. And then it leaps forward about 80 years. At first, it seems like there is a disconnect between what happens in different sections of the book, but Cronin is enough of a master storyteller to pull it all off. He has a long list of characters that he juggles through the telling, and in the back of this book he includes a Dramatis Personae to help you keep them straight. As I got closer to the end of the story, I found myself visiting the character list in the back more and more. But everything fits, and there are no continuity problems.

Like I said, I am not a regular reader of horror, but I do consider The Stand one of the best books I have ever read. And this book–excuse me, these books–are pretty close to the top as well.

A Mirror Darkly

Posted: February 21, 2013 in demons, fear, Stories, Vampires
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We had a discussion in Rough Writers a couple of weeks ago about whether some stories shouldn’t be written. Most of my short stories come to me as dreams. I have several stories in the back of my mind that border on horror, but since I don’t actually read horror, I haven’t written them down. This is my first attempt in that direction. Those of you who are horror purists may not consider that part of the genre, perhaps more dark fantasy, and I will defer to your classification. Read it and see what you think it is.

 

I’ve often said that teachers are simply students who love school so much that they never left. Whether that’s true for anyone else, it’s true for me. I loved high school and college, but I know that elementary school laid the foundation for my success later on in life.

And that’s why I decided early on to become a first-grade teacher. Male first-grade teachers aren’t that common, but I was fortunate to have one, and because I knew that more and more kids often didn’t have a dad at home, I knew that I could be a great deal of help to many of them.

But it took me until my third year of teaching to learn that I couldn’t help all of them. That’s just the sad reality. Some kids have problems at home, with their health, or with other issues that are far beyond my ken and my control to help with. In those cases, all you can do is support them as much as possible, be a friend when they need one, and do whatever you can to make their challenges lighter.

That was the case during my third year as a teacher. The week before school started, I was asked to come visit a student in their home. I entered a relatively modest home in a quiet neighborhood and was introduced to Mrs. Melodie Addams and her first-grader Augie.

“It’s short for Augustus,” the precocious little blonde-haired boy said. I knew immediately that I would have a firecracker on my hands.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Augie,” I said, bending down to his level as we sat in their darkened living room. “Are you excited about starting school? I have a pretty good idea that you will do really well.”

“I’m already reading,” he said matter-of-factly.

“It’s true,” Mrs. Addams said. “He started reading when he was three. Now he’s reading every book he can get his hands on.”

“And I have started math as well,” Augie added. “I can add and subtract. I asked Mommy to teach me how to multiply and divide, but she said I had to wait for the rest of the kids in school.”

I nodded slowly, still wondering what I was doing in their home. “I assume that my visit here was to allow Augie to get acquainted with me. And you of course.”

She stared at me. “Oh, I have no doubt that Augie will be fine with you as a teacher,” she said. “And I can see that you are highly qualified. In fact, the school sings your praises.

“Well,” I said, a little embarrassed. “Thanks.”

“I wanted you to come because I want you to know about Augie’s special needs,” she said. “You see, he has been diagnosed with severe catoptrophobia.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not familiar with that particular disease, but as long as it isn’t contagious, I am sure that the school–.”

“It’s not a disease. It’s a phobia. I’ve already talked to the school board and the principal about it. He’s fine as long as he is not exposed to mirrors. If he is, it’s pretty traumatic.”

I paused. “Mir—mirrors?” I echoed.

She nodded, and I looked down at the little boy, who acted as if nothing was wrong.

“If you look around our home, you will notice that all mirrors and shiny surfaces have been removed from our home. Augie doesn’t ride in the car unless he wears a hood over his head. We never take him into public restrooms. And we are very selective as to which restaurants we visit and stores we go to—when he is with us.”

My head was whirling. None of my education or the two years of teaching had prepared me for this. I knew that I needed to say something to reassure Augie and his mother.

“Well, you’ve talked to the school board and to the principal,” I said. “Our school has been very good about making accommodation in the past. I don’t see why that won’t continue in the future.

“On the other hand,” I said before Mrs. Addams could speak. “Kids will be kids. If we go about covering all the mirrors in the school for Augie’s sake, they will know that there is a problem. And sooner or later, someone is bound to stick a mirror in front of his face.”

Mrs. Addams nodded. “We had considered just home schooling him. But Augie really wants to be around other kids. He’s doing fine learning here. But we feel for his own social development, we want to give public school a try.”

I looked at the little guy in front of me, who looked excited at the prospect of starting school, and I exhaled. Then I nodded.

“As I said, I can’t guarantee anything, but I will do my best to make Augie comfortable.”

 

Phil Sheridan, the principal, had already met with the Addamses. When I got back from my meeting, I talked to him about the possibilities. He and I agreed that somewhere along the line, disaster was waiting, but we would do our best to accommodate Augie.

That accommodation actually turned out to be easier than I imagined it would be. Our first plan was to accompany Augie to the restroom, covering the mirror whenever he visited it. But as we talked about it, we realized that I couldn’t realistically leave my class alone to take care of one child’s needs every single day. In the end, we decided to move my first-grade class down to the opposite end of the hall. Monica Sterns, the fourth-grade teacher, also taught crafts, and had a small restroom attached to her classroom. I made sure it had no reflecting surfaces, and we moved in.

The first week of classes were full of hectic excitement, but other than that, were actually not much different than the two other years I had taught there. Augie was a little shy at first, but a little girl named Belinda decided that Augie was going to be her best friend. By the second day of classes, they were inseparable. Augie even told her his secret, one that she swore she would never share.

I allowed Augie to use the special restroom, what the other kids started calling Augie’s “batcave.” Augie was gracious to share it with me. It had a toilet, a sink, and not much else. Because it didn’t have a mirror, I attached a mirror to the inside of my briefcase for a double check on my appearance right before class or a staff meeting.

Mrs. Addams was usually pretty punctual about picking Augie up after school at 3:15. But three weeks into the school year, something happened and she didn’t show up when she normally did. In fact, the after-school supervisor shut down at 4 and she asked me if I would be willing to watch Augie until his mom showed up. I was working on putting up new decorations in our classroom and knew that I would be there another couple of hours, so I said no problem. Besides, I had grown fond of Augie. He was a very bright boy, cheerful and always willing to help and participate.

I didn’t even have to ask Augie to help with the decorations. He was thrilled to have the opportunity to help. It was late September, and I wanted students to start thinking about fall, so the decorations were decidedly orange, yellow and brown. I put Augie in charge of taking down everything that was on the bulletin board so that we could redecorate it. In the meantime, I streamed autumn-themed crèpe paper across the ceiling from wall to wall. I kept an eye on Augie, especially when he asked to take down the push pins on the bulletin board.

I had finished about half the room when Augie yelled on the other side of the classroom: “Where should I put the old push pins?”

“Just lay them on top of my desk,” I said. I had my back to him, but so far he had shown great responsibility for a first grader, so I wasn’t worried. Then I heard a crash.

I turned on my stepladder and saw that in putting the pushpins on the desk, Augie had pushed my briefcase off the desk. Papers had flown everywhere and the briefcase lay on the floor upside down.

“That’s all right, Augie,” I said, seeing the shocked look on his face. “Give me a second to finish here and I’ll pick it up.”

A second later, I realized that he intended to pick it up himself, and a half a second after that realized that it would be a mistake.

“Wait–,” I said, an instant before I heard a blood-curdling scream come from Augie. I dropped everything that was in my hands and leaped down from the stepstool. As I crossed the room in three strides, I saw that Augie had turned my briefcase over and was staring into it, and into the mirror inside. His face had turned white, and he began to cry.

I snatched the briefcase from his hands, closed it and lay it atop the papers on my desk, then grabbed Augie. I carried him over to the small set of cushions we had fixed up for a reading center. I pulled Augie into my lap while he sobbed, and I tried my best to comfort him.

“You know, Augie,” I told him as he began to quiet down. “Everyone is afraid of something. I have things I am afraid of, even now.”

“You’re afraid? Why, you’re a big man,” he said.

I shrugged. “Even big men can be afraid. But you know there are two things to do when you are afraid.”

“What’s that?”

“First of all, you need to admit you’re afraid,” I said. “Until you admit it, you really can’t do anything about it.”

“Well, that’s obvious,” he said, and I smiled slightly. “What the second thing?”

“The second thing is a little harder. You have to face your fears,” I said. “Let me ask you. When did you start becoming afraid of mirrors?”

His face grew very serious. “When the dark man came into my room.”

Warning bells went off in my head. “What dark man?”

“He told me not to tell anyone, but I already told Belinda ‘cause she’s my best friend. But you’re my best friend too, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “The best. Now tell me. What dark man?”

His eyes grew big. “There was a big storm about a year ago. My window blew open and the man came in. He asked me if I wanted to be big and strong like him. I shouldn’t have said yes, but I did. And then the pictures disappeared.”

“Pictures? What pictures?”

He started to cry again, but I felt like there was a breakthrough coming.

“What pictures, Augie?”

In response, he got up from my lap, still crying, and went to my briefcase. He reached into it without looking and took out the small vanity mirror that I carried in it. He carried it back to me. I could see that the whole process was incredibly difficult for him, but he apparently seemed determined to see it through so that I could understand what he was going through. And I did want to understand.

But what happened was completely beyond my understanding.

Still crying, Augie climbed back into my lap and pulled the mirror up in front of our faces.

As I looked into the mirror, I saw that my face had turned ashen white. And that was all that I saw. Because Augie had no reflection in the mirror.

“The dark man stole my picture,” he said simply to me.

And even though I knew exactly what Augie was trying to tell me, it was one of those rare moments in life when I had absolutely nothing to say to him in return.

The Trap of Reinvention

Posted: October 1, 2012 in creativity, fear, ideas, Science Fiction, Vampires, Writing, Writing class
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“This above all: to thine own self be true.” –William Shakespeare

I suffered through the typical teenage years. I was pretty insecure about who I was, and was eager to be accepted into “the inner circle.” And so I was constantly trying to reinvent myself. One week I would go for the cool surfer look (I grew up in California). This was a challenge for me, because at that time surfers had straight hair that hung down in front of their face. Mine wasn’t straight, and I remembered washing my hair, then combing it the opposite direction. When it would flip up, as it always did, I would then comb it back the right way. It would stay down for a few hours, sometimes even a day before it found its natural inclination toward curly.

Other days I would try to be a jock, or a scholar, or a poet. But never did I consider being myself. No, I was too boring.

Last week’s episode of “Glee” introduced Sarah Jessica Parker as a designer at Vogue.com who found herself a victim of her own success. She had gone from being a designer to being a manager. Trouble was, she could never say no to those around her with ideas, regardless of whether they were good or not so good. When Kurt Hummel comes on board as an intern with fresh, new ideas, she finds herself wishing she could “reinvent herself.”

One of the joys–and dangers–of teaching writing on the university level is being surrounded by creative new minds with lots of energy and fresh ideas. I’ve had my share of mediocre students over the years, but I’ve also been energized by those who I can see a great promise in. And when you’re an old dog like me, occasionally there’s a temptation to fall back on that mindset from high school days of “reinventing yourself.” The great thing about writing is that novelty doesn’t last long. What does is authenticity.

Very often students come into my classes wanting to write fantasy–replete with elves or vampires, or even elvish vampires. They don’t see anything interesting in their own lives, and so they find comfort in writing stuff that’s far from real, far from their own insecurities and daily challenges. But I tell them that every story has to be rooted in reality–especially fantasy. The most fantastic the characters, the most realistic the situation, and vice versa. To encourage readers to care about your characters and your story, they have to have some semblance of relatable experiences to identify with. If you have elves, make them elves with dandruff problems, or acne, or marital difficulties, or just plain insecurity. Bringing in realistic foibles makes readers care what happens to them.

Fantasy actually calls for the writer to establish some pretty harsh rules about the universe they are describing. The writer is entering into a social contract with the reader. The first chapter establishes what kind of world their story happens in, whether it be a woody setting, underwater or deep in space. But once the setting, the characters and the rest of it is introduced, and the reader has bought into the where and what of the story, the writer has to be faithful to that environment and situation. If the writer suddenly decides to change the rules, they are betraying their readers, and their credibility is lost.

One of the writing exercises that we do on occasion that I’ve had the greatest amount of success with is to challenge my students to write about their greatest fears. One variation of this is to talk about “skeletons in the closet,” parts of our psyche that we don’t share with anyone. It’s painful to write about, but refreshing when it is revealed, and very often results in the best writing that student has comes up with to date. The exercise not only provides an emotional drive for the writer, but it strikes the reader as authentic.

Many of us read for escape, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But I know that I value writing that smacks of authenticity, even if it is fiction. Authenticity comes from experience, and despite what my student writers say, we all have them. It’s just sometimes a challenge to dip into that well of experience that may be filled with pain as well.

But that’s where the good stuff is. Trust me. Try it and you will see.

 

What I’ve Learned from the Apocalypse

Posted: April 16, 2012 in Amish, Christian novels, Christianity, fear, Religion, Science Fiction, Stories, Vampires, Writing
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Maybe it’s because 2012 is the end of the world according to the Mayan calendar. But I have certainly seen a lot of apocalyptic stories being circulated out there. Of course, it all depends on how you define “apocalypse.” Most of those these days have to do with zombies (and defining that is another issue, for another blog). My position that there are many, many possible apocalyptic scenarios. And believe it or not, they don’t all have to end with the end of the world.

Some, like my recently released book, The Kiss of Night, “end with a whimper,” to paraphrase T.S. Eliot. A virus sneaks aboard a flight from Guatemala to the U.S. and brings with it a sleep that doesn’t end. What I found fun about the whole use of sleep to bring about the apocalypse is the love/hate relationship we all have with sleep. When we need it, we embrace it. But what if there was no guarantee that we would wake back up. The relationship grows a little more frightening.

And then you turn it up another notch. What if you are the only one awake, harnessed with the responsibility of thousands of sleeping people around you? How do you take care of their safety, not to mention their necessary bodily functions? Add to that a lack of power, and oncoming winter in Chicago, and you have a nightmare in the making.

But as tempting as it is, the purpose of this blog is not to promote my book. It is actually a follow-up to a recent blog I wrote entitled: “Can You Believe It?” In it, I raised the premise that what you believe is reflected in what you write, regardless of what that is. So what does apocalyptic writing tell us about the authors?

The first thing we need to agree on is that there is no one representative idea behind each of the apocalyptic symbols. Despite their literary heritage, vampires have moved beyond a symbol of overt sexuality, thanks to stories like Twilight. In that situation, both vampires and werewolves were used to represent frustrated and dangerous sexuality confronting teen girls. But the theme of seduction continues to be pervasive in the vampire genre. That’s probably why I wrote the Amish vs. Vampires short story recently, to represent the worldly seduction that confronts young people growing up in an Amish community (or any other conservative Christian enclave, for that matter). I am sure you can find other mythical allusions as well.

And then there’s zombies. My mythic interpretation of zombies is that they represent conformity, moving through life without thinking, following the crowd without using your brain. And once again, you and probably every other writer out there has a different interpretation of what they represent. But that’s the fun of writing.

What’s important, of course, about apocalypse stories is not what the monsters are like, but how the survivors respond to them. You see this on the the hit zombie TV show, “The Walking Dead.” The characters in the show spend more time fighting each other than they do fighting the walking dead. And that’s the frustration and enjoyment of the show–watching people fight each other when danger is right behind them.

And that’s what I learn every time I read or see an apocalypse story: how do WE respond to apocalypse? Do we fight each other? Do we surrender? Or do we huddle together to survive despite our differences? A fourth alternative can be found in the general reaction to the end-time predictions associated with the Mayan calendar: Maybe we just deny that it will happening, or in the case of those on The Walking Dead, that it IS happening.

In the real world, I am a believing Seventh-day Adventist Christian. That, I think, gives me two advantages. One, as you probably suspect from the name Seventh-day Adventist, I strongly believe that Jesus Christ is returning soon, and I hope while I am still alive. Second, as a Christian, I believe in the promises of the Bible.

I know that the world is not going to end with zombies, vampires, werewolves, a mushroom cloud, or even because the Mayan Calendar says so. It will end with the return of Jesus Christ, and only the Father knows when that will be (see Matt. 24:36).

In the meantime, watching how people deal with mythical adversity of zombies or sleeping sickness can serve as an interesting psychological window on what makes us all tick.

Genre? What genre?

Posted: April 9, 2012 in Alternate History, Christian novels, graphic novel, Religion, Science Fiction, Steampunk, Stories, Vampires, Westerns, Writing
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I’m the type of author that infuriates publishers. Hence I am publishing my own stuff these days.

What I’m talking about it the whole concept of genre. I don’t know who invented the concept, but it didn’t take long for a lot of people to buy into the idea. The intent was to label stories (and non-fiction, and music, and films, etc.) into specific categories, called genres. Categorizing them would allow readers to have a pretty good idea of the subject matter in the book they’ve picked up, and allow marketers to know who it was that was a potential market for that book.

That’s all well and good, if you as an author have a handle on a particular genre. You know which publishers wants books in which genre, you get a handle on the expectations in that category, and you begin to build of followers who know exactly what they are getting when they crack open one of your covers.

But the flip side of that is that when followers know exactly what they are getting, they are less surprised at the end. Being true to a genre limits creativity, I believe. Genre faithfulness is safe, but not necessarily fun.

But there are a few brave souls who are willing to push the boundaries. Most of the time they are either firmly established, and can sell a song or a book just with their name. But often they are authors or songwriters who are starving, but inspired to try something different.

Once again, that’s one of the advantages of indie publishing. In the end, we still have to please the readers. But if you can sell a book on its own merit rather than it fitting cleanly into a niche, you might accomplish something. And that something might go well beyond selling a few books.

After all, think of all the great books that started new genres. Someone had to take the first step.

Maybe it will be you. Maybe it will be me.

Getting my act together

Posted: December 28, 2011 in Amish, Christian novels, Science Fiction, Steampunk, Vampires, Westerns, Writing
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Playtime is over.

I had a rough semester. The last week was a killer, punctuated by final exams, four recruitment presentations, putting a magazine to bed, graduation and a major septic problem at my house. It’s one thing to be productive when you have lots on your plate; try doing that when all of your toilets are overflowing. Interesting.

But I survived that week, and that semester. And then I took last week and did pretty much nothing. Well, I can’t say nothing. I got some Christmas shopping done, spent time with my kids, and got to level 66 in Lord of the Rings Online.

But now the time to kick back has been left behind. I’d probably still be fighting orcs in Mirkwood or watching Band of Brothers for the 87th time if it were not for my son being here with us. He’s visiting from Nebraska, here to help me kick start my latest project–a graphic novel. I’ve spent the past four years writing a three-book novel series entitled The Champion. You’ve probably heard me mention it more than once. And all the way along, I’m thinking that perhaps the best medium to tell this story would be a graphic novel. Trouble is, I am no artist. I can’t even draw a stick man.

But Matt has creative ability I will never have, and he is very visually minded. So he played around with taking photos and turning them into images that could be used in a graphic novel. Like most of the way I run my life these days, it’s all a grand experiment, and we are tweaking it quite a bit, but we seem to be making some progress. I hope to share it on my website soon.

And speaking of website, I invite you to take a look at my revamped website. Working on the graphic novel has convinced me that I need to get serious about my writing as a business. Right now it is at http://glenchen.wordpress.com, but very soon it will be simply http://glenchen.com. Why glenchen? Well, it was a nickname I had in Europe while I was in school (little Glen), and glenrobinson.com was already taken (the travesty!). So it’s short, and hopefully, people will get used to it.

We have lots of other fun stuff in mind. I’ve got a few days left before classes start again, so I hope to be in touch more. Talk to you soon.

A Single Drop of Blood

Posted: June 30, 2011 in Amish, Religion, Science Fiction, Stories, Vampires
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The monthly church board meeting started without any undue fanfare, the most unusual thing being the location where they met. Two dozen others sat on wooden chairs arranged facing a small platform, where a tall, thin man in bib overalls stood facing them behind a simple podium. Brother Andrew banged his wooden hammer and called for order from the room full of church leaders. The entire scene was lit by a row of kerosene lanterns.

“Silence please,” he said in a soft, commanding voice. “I know that we are not accustomed to having our church board meeting in a barn, but the agenda calls for a bit of accommodation. Let’s begin with prayer.” The others quieted down and bowed their heads as Brother Andrew’s voice took on a fervent, almost sing-song tone.

“Unser Gott,” he began. “Thou knowest all, and canst seeth our hearts and minds. Forgive us our trespasses. Lead us in thine way. Deliver us from evil. Amen.”

The others echoed his last word, and Brother Andrew opened his eyes, raised his head, and took on a businesslike tone again.

“Now, I know that we have an important agenda to discuss tonight, but we need to observe established process. The first order of business is to review the minutes from last month’s meeting. Sister Hannah, will you be so kind as to hand out copies of the minutes to the rest of the board members.”

Brother Andrew paused as a young woman, clad in a long dress and bonnet, handed out the single sheet of paper to each member seated before him. After a long period, he cleared his throat and said quietly, “Are there any questions? No? Then I would entertain a motion to accept the minutes as read.”

“So moved,” came the words from Brother Matthew in the front row.

“Is there a second?”

“Second.”

“All in favor, please raise your right hand.” Brother Andrew looked out over the board as almost everyone raised their hand. “All opposed? No? Then the motion is carried.

“Now, is there any old business….”

Brother Andrew was interrupted by a young man, barely out of his teens, who stood in the back row.

“Excuse me, Brother Andrew, but it is pretty important that we get on to the issue of discussion tonight. Can we skip over the old business?”

“Brother Michael,” Brother Andrew said, a disapproving tone coming into his voice. “There is plenty of time to get to the business at hand. And there is much to be said for propriety and order. The good book says, ‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’”

“Actually, that particular phrase comes from Charles Goodrich, a minister much like yourself,” said a voice coming from a young woman standing in the shadows at the back. “It’s not the Bible, but pretty close. Written about 1827, I believe.” The young woman stepped forward and a hush went over the room as they saw her. She was as much out of place here as these homespun church goers would have been at a cocktail party. She was dressed head to toe in mottled grey leather, with a utility belt on her hips and knee-high black boots. She held a small black box in her hand in front of her as she addressed the crowd.

“Young woman, you are invited here as a courtesy,” Brother Andrew said curtly. “The time to discuss your item of business has not come yet. I would encourage you to hold your tongue until you are called upon.”

“My order of business is a matter of life and death,” the woman said. “Surely you can put aside other agenda items for tonight.”

“Whether this item is life and death is still to be determined by this church board,” Brother Andrew said. “But if you do not observe proper decorum I will have you removed from this meeting.”

“Pardon me once again, Brother Andrew,” Michael said from the back row again. “But Margot is right. We can’t wait to deal with this threat. It IS a matter of life and death.”

Brother Andrew sighed. He was a man of order, and when order broke down, he felt out of control. He was rarely out of control, but this, apparently, was going to be one of those nights.

“Very well,” he said finally. “With the board’s indulgence, we will move directly to item number three on the agenda.”

Brother Andrew had everyone rise from their seat and walk back to the rear of the barn, where something very large was covered by a heavy tarpaulin. Michael and the young woman known as Margot untied each end and dropped the tarp, revealing a large recreational vehicle beneath it. A couple of the women in the crowd gasped as they saw the big bus-like RV. It was painted a mottled grey, the same color that Margot was dressed. Brother Andrew had seen similar sports vehicles on the road, and recognized that this one was different. Instead of large windows on the front, back and sides, it had metal bars covering the glass area. The walls looked like they were armored. He noticed also that the tires were made of some kind of thick, highly durable material that looked like it could withstand the impact of a charging bull. All in all, he recognized that this vehicle was not used for vacation purposes. It was meant for battle.

“I realize that having one of the English’s vehicles here in our community is unorthodox,” Brother Andrew said. “But these people need our help.”

“Actually, Margot is the one offering help to us,” Matthew said. He turned and watched as Margot climbed into the driver’s seat of the RV and started the engine. A puff of smoke came from the exhaust, and one or two men coughed in the group. A few seconds later, she drove the vehicle forward. Brother Andrew watched the predictable look of disapproval wash across the faces of the board members.

The door slammed and Margot reappeared from the driver’s compartment. “We parked the wagon here as a precaution,” she said. “Both so it wouldn’t be seen by prying eyes, and to help keep the vamp contained.”

“Excuse me, but did you say vamp?” Sister Hannah asked, raising her hand meekly. “What is a vamp?”

Margot and Matthew looked at each other, then nodded. While Margot explained, Matthew went to the corner where a block and tackle was attached to the wall. He began pulling on the ropes and a large heavy metal door began sliding across the floor, revealing a dark pit beneath.

“Matthew was the one who suggested the old threshing pit as a holding cell,” Margot said. “The thick concrete walls and the heavy metal door looked like the best place to keep the beast. Of course, being the skeptic that I am, I decided to park the wagon on top of the door as well, just to be safe.”

As she spoke, the opening to the pit grew wider and the church board members looked down into darkness. A low growl could be heard from the darkness. Finally, Margot reached into her utility belt and pulled out a glo-stick. She cracked it between her hands, shook it up, then dropped it the 15 feet down into the pit. The church board members peered over the darkness into what looked like the subject of a nightmare.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Margot said. “I give you vampirus americanus, the North American vampire.”

Gasps escaped from several mouths as they looked down into the pit. The beast they saw below them was dressed in what looked like a shredded military uniform. That was the only semblance to a human that could be seen. Pallid skin, long nails and vicious teeth made it look more like a beast than a human. It stood on two legs, staring up at the church board members. Suddenly it leaped toward them. It was then that Brother Andrew noticed that a shackle was around one ankle and held it chained to the floor of the threshing pit.

“What…what is it?” Sister Hannah asked.

“It used to be my father,” Margot said. “We’ve been hunting vamps a long time. He was the strategist, I was the techie, and we had a team of military types that were second to none. We were the best. We hunted and killed vamps all over the Western Hemisphere. But now all of them are gone. Just old Dad and me. And as you can see…” She gestured down at the raging beast below her. “Dad’s had better days.”

“Your poor father,” an older woman said. “He looks like he needs proper medical care. We need to get him out of there.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Margot said. “The lot of you—of us—wouldn’t last five minutes with that thing up here.”

“Show some proper respect, young woman,” the woman said. “He may be sick, but he is still your father.”

“You don’t understand,” Matthew said. “These things aren’t human. They aren’t even alive.”

“Not alive?” Brother Andrew said, scoffing. “What are you talking about?”

Matthew opened up his mouth to explain, but paused as he saw Margot reach into her utility belt and pull out an automatic pistol. Without another word, she aimed at the vampire and fired three shots into its chest. Women shrieked, and even Brother Andrew jumped at the sudden noise of the gunfire.

“Young lady!” he shouted after a pause. “This is blasphemy! How dare you shoot your weapon off in our meeting. In our community! We are a people of peace. We do not believe in violence, in bloodshed, and especially in the call for weapons of any sort under any circumstances!”

Margot eyed him levelly, then gestured down at the still-standing vampire. Three red marks showed where the bullets had entered its chest, but other than that, it showed no indication of damage. Its teeth gleamed yellow in the light of the glo-stick.

“Well, you might want to rethink all of those beliefs,” she said bluntly.

“What are you talking about?” Brother Andrew said loudly, still upset by the gunfire. “Your father is safe and confined. What are you so concerned about?”

Margot rolled her eyes and then glanced over at Matthew. She then turned back to Brother Andrew.

“No one has asked how my father got this way,” she said.

Brother Andrew stared at her, then down at the vampire.

“There was a firefight,” she said finally. “A big one. We had cornered what we thought was the Source, the original vampire for all of North America. We had scoped it out and researched it. We knew that it would be tough, but this was an opportunity to set back vampires here in the States for years to come.

“But he knew we were coming. No matter how much you plan, this one always seemed to be one step ahead. We moved in and everyone got slaughtered. We took down our share of vamps, mind you, but it came down to the Source and Dad. And Dad got bitten.”

She looked down at what remained of her father in the pit and paused. “Dad always told me to leave the fighting to the professionals. My job was computers and communications. When things went south, I loaded up my wounded Dad and just drove—as far and as fast as I could. Until I came to your little valley out here in the middle of nowhere. Even now, I doubt I have a gallon of gas left in the wagon.”

She turned and looked out the dark that surrounded them.

“But one thing about vampires you learn is this: they have a long memory. You hurt them, they won’t rest until they hurt you even more. The Source is out there, and Dad and I hurt him. And it won’t be long before he follows us here.”

The board members stared at her without speaking, waiting for her to continue. She continued to stare out at the darkness and then finally looked back at them.

“I’m sorry I have brought this here to your peaceful valley. I know you came here to get away from the world. Unfortunately, the world has found you.”

Brother Andrew looked at the others, unsure of what to make of this strange turn of events. Finally, he spoke.

“I…I think we will forgo the usual closing song and just dismiss for tonight. There is a lot for us to think about. I will ask that Brother Moses and Brother Nathaniel stay by, as well as our guest and Brother Matthew. We will reconvene tomorrow morning in the chapel.”

The group silently left the barn and headed for their homes, most of them unsure how safe their homes would ever be again.

In the meantime, Brother Andrew stood at the edge of the threshing pit, looking down at the nightmarish creature the young woman had called a vampire. He felt, rather than saw, Brother Matthew come and stand next to him.

“It’s an abomination,” he muttered to himself, loud enough for the others to hear.

“Abomination. Demon. Creature,” Matthew said. “Whatever it is, Brother, we don’t dare let it destroy our homes and our way of life.”

Brother Andrew turned and looked at the young man who stood beside him. Somehow he knew that the peaceful community would never be the same again.