I’m Glad You’re Dead Read online

  ©️ 2019, Hunter Blain, all rights reserved. The contents of this publication, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior, written approval of Hunter Blain.

  Words from the author

  Hello there and welcome to my world. If you are reading this, you probably came across the description somewhere and thought “meh, nothing else to read” and purchased my book. Little did you know the true story behind this…well…um story.

  It begins with two best friends who grew up together, shaping each other’s personalities into the ass holes they are today. Well, at least one of them, but I’ll get to that momentarily. These two boys, lets call them Hunter and John, were all but inseparable. John excelled at music and being the funniest ass hole for miles around while Hunter dabbled, poorly I might add, in his humble writings. John respected Hunter’s writings as much as I, I mean Hunter, respected John’s musical prowess.

  One fine day, after reading one of Hunter’s horrifically detailed short stories about a serial killer, John asked him to write a story about him.

  “Hell yeah dude! What do you want to be?” Hunter asked with brimming honor.

  “A vampire,” John responded with a gleam in his eye. “But not one of those sparkly ones. A true bad ass!”

  “Done!” Hunter said with a smile and an accompanying high five.

  “No dude, promise. Promise you’ll write and finish a book about me. You are the most prolific writer of our generation and I would be proud to live on for eternity with your words as my life’s blood,” He said, or something like that. I might be paraphrasing a little bit but you get the gist of it.

  Hunter agreed, never to realize the weight of that promise until one Sunday morning, his mother called crying. John had died, leaving Hunter without his best friend and doppelgänger. Hunter still thinks about that moment to this day. How the morning light crept through the bedroom window while Hunter stared at the ceiling, noticing how the popcorn created jagged shadows. Then everything started to blur as his chest was crushed beneath what he was hearing, each word stacking heavily upon the other until not even sound could escape his throat. Only tears existed and the horrific realization that Hunter had to make some of the hardest phone calls of his life to the circle of friends of which John was the center of.

  John not only left Hunter, but Valenta as well. There was also Nathanial and Depweg who were stricken with the loss of such a beloved character, and when all three found out that Hunter was keeping his promise to John and writing a book about him, they each wanted to be apart of that journey. Hunter asked them all what part they would like to play in this urban fantasy eulogy and each immediately knew what they wanted to be.

  So please, as you read the following pages, feel free to laugh. Laugh at the situations John is placed in and his dickish dialogue to those around him, because John is 100% in this story without alteration (albeit he is a vampire). Laugh and let his memory live on inside the theater of your mind.

  Thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my beating heart, for giving John the chance to live again.

  Chapter 1

  Now

  I stood on the edge of a rusting warehouse in an industrial park in Houston, Texas. The targets were in the building across the alley which was illuminated by a flickering flood light.

  Wind blew against my face, making my ancient black leather trench coat billow behind me. This might have been on purpose. The trench had been with me for several decades and shown its character with several patch jobs of whatever leather my tailor had access to at the time. It reminded me of a quilt made by a granny who also happened to be in a biker gang.

  Long, dark hair spilled over and down my neck, stopping at the top of my shoulders. Wind tugged at the exposed strands while a weathered grey beanie kept the majority secured.

  The only missing component from my ominous, crime fighting look was a bolt of lightning shooting through the sky behind me.

  From my vantage point, I could see in from the second story window of the building. There was a group of shrouded figures painting a circle on the ground. They were using the limbs from some poor bastard as paint brushes. And for the paint you ask? Well, they weren’t using Behr, that’s for damn sure.

  After the crimson circle was finished, they started making the lines that form a pentagram. I planned my entrance and decided the time to act was now.

  As I stepped off the warehouse ledge, I whispered in my best Kevin Conroy voice, “I am the night,” and dropped to the ground below. The wind was cut off by the buildings around me, which caused the trench coat flaps to land over my face. I jerkily corrected the coat positioning and then casually pivoted on one foot 360 degrees to look all around me. No one saw. Good. Still cool I thought to myself as I turned toward the steel doors of the warehouse that I was about to burst through.

  On the inside, the men had finished their pentagram and were setting up the candles, skulls, and other sundry items that were probably not from Hot Topic.

  From the other end of the warehouse, they were all slightly startled to hear a thunderous BOOM, followed by a thump and a muffled cry of, “Lilith damn it!”

  Glances were exchanged in tandem with shrugs that said, “dude, I have no idea.”

  There was a pitter patter of footsteps on the roof and then an explosion of glass from above as a sexy figure (spoiler alert, it was me) landed with a shower of sparkling shards in the middle of the circle in a classic Batman pose.

  With both knuckles on the ground and one leg perched in front of me, I lifted my head and said, “Pardon me, but do you have any gre…” I was cut off when someone pulled a gun and shot me right in the face.

  I fell back and laid still, also a classic Batman move. As if on cue, the one who had shot me approached slowly, knelt down and felt for a heartbeat on my neck.

  “He’s dead,” he said as he turned to the rest of the gang, relieved and still somewhat perplexed.

  That’s when the group tried on a brand new, fresh off the shelf look of terror. The gunman looked confused until he felt breath on the back of his neck. Panic created shallow gasps and before he could move, I reached around and grabbed the front of his throat, pulling him against me. He fought against the unwavering grip but to no avail. While looking at his cult friends, my normal light purple eyes turned dark crimson, and I pulled my lips back to reveal canines with elongated, surgically sharp points.

  “Technically, you aren’t wrong,” I whispered in the gunman’s ear.

  With a blur of motion, I sank my teeth into his carotid and yanked back, tearing it apart. Red life spurted in an arc several feet into the air and coated one of the goons. The few drops I got in my mouth made me euphoric.

  With dismayed eyes bulging, the soon-to-be dead goon, let’s call him goon 1 — or G1 for short — tried in vain to cover the hole with trembling hands. The blood that was still in flight slowed, stopped, and then quivered in mid-air. With a quick focus of mind, it congealed and morphed into the shape of flying snakes, complete with adorable little blood-wings. I sent them flying toward the remaining men as G1 slumped to the floor, eyes now glazed over. This was theatrical, but had the desired effect on his comrades; they ran in all directions.

  I leaped through the air, coat billowing so hard it sounded like a bike with playing cards in the spokes going light speed, and landed on the back of G2 who was closest to the exit. My feet went into his lower back and my hands grasped together under his chin as l pulled, ripping his head off with a yummy tearing sound. His spine came with, from neck to posterior.

  G3 and G4 had been just beh
ind G2 and skidded to a halt. I turned, smiled maniacally and tossed the head at G3. I forced my own blood to snake out from my palms and form ropes that were several feet long. I whipped them back and forth like a lion tamer, the blood-whips making piercing cracks. G3 caught and then quickly dropped G2’s head, and turned to run. G4 stood frozen with jaw agape. I whipped both blood-ropes around their necks and concentrated on razor blades forming down the lengths. Both men gasped in shock and reached for the razor wire, shredding their own hands in the process. I commanded the goons’ blood to flow from their grievous wounds up my whips and into my body. It had been awhile since I fed and the infusion of their blood into my own felt ironically like the warm sun piercing a cold morning.

  After they were drained, I forcefully tugged the ropes, which cleanly cut all the way through their necks, leaving their heads precariously perched atop their shoulders. Half a second later, both men collapsed to the ground, heads rolling away from their bodies. The ropes slithered as they retracted back into my outstretched hands.

  The next blood donor, G5, was a little braver and stood his ground with a ceremonial knife in his hand. His face displayed a controlled fear that I immediately respected. I ran straight at him at a slower speed, so he could see me coming. Just before reaching arm’s length, I preternaturally darted to his side. He thrust his knife straight at where he thought my neck would be. With a smooth karate chop to the pit of his elbow and a grab of his wrist, I guided his own knife into his forehead, killing him instantly. He deserved a warrior’s swift death for his bravery.

  After prying away fingers holding the knife open and grabbing the handle, I attempted to pull it out like a warm knife through butter; turns out to be more like a cold spoon through ice cream. “You lied, Rick Grimes!” I yelled and yanked the blade free with a tad more effort.

  Turning to one of the few remaining bad guys, I threw the blade at center mass. Ridley Scott must have been in town because it pierced his back and burst through his chest. His arms didn’t go up. His face didn’t clench in agony. He didn’t make awesome, “ugh, oh, no! I was only two days from retirement!” noises. He just went ragdoll and collapsed to the ground.

  “Et tu, Arnold?” I mock cried (it wasn’t mock). Was everything I saw on T.V. a lie?

  Only two left and they were both running different directions. G6 was reaching for the gun the first snuggie enthusiast was wearing, so I went for G7 who was already halfway up a ladder to the roof. A quick leap and a scary pose through the air, and I had his back. His body went rigid as he yelped in surprise.

  “Don’t let go,” I whispered in his ear, just before I pierced his artery with my fangs. Blood flowed like a broken dam from his panic and exerting muscles. His frantic heart pumped fiercely.

  The feeling of drinking blood is intoxicating. The strongest mortal drug is a sip of the weakest beer in comparison. I’ve been asked how I can survive centuries and not go insane with repetition and boredom. The answer? I live for the next fix. It’s like having your lover lightly drag their finger nails down your skin, but everywhere at once. Colors shine brighter. Smells are sweeter. I feel stronger after each mouth full, and that strength accumulates over the years, providing power to be used at my command. If the donor was a bad guy, well, that made it all the better.

  After a few gulps, I drained several pints of his life essence and his grip gave way. We fell toward the ground with me still getting the last few drops. Just before we hit, I rolled off and landed on my feet as G7 smashed head first, then shoulders—doing his best impression of a turtle.

  “Neat,” I said as I admired the aftermath.

  There were several deafening cracks as an entire magazine was hastily emptied in my direction. Only one bullet hit its target—my grey beanie was ripped off my head and fell to the floor in front of me.

  My shoulder length black hair spilled out around my head in sharp contrast to the dark red, neatly trimmed beard.

  I looked at the beanie, reached down and picked it up; probing the hole that had been created.

  “That was my favorite beanie,” I said coldly as I turned and strode over to where G6 stood, pissing his pants.

  “What…. what are you?” he stammered.

  “Someone who wants answers,” I started. Slapping on my best Kindergarten Cop voice, I said, “Now I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want to have them answered immediately.” I willed my words into his brain, asking the synapses to cooperate.

  His tense posture loosened and he became relaxed; his eyes turned glassy. “Of course…” he whispered with obedience.

  A toothy smile spread across my face.

  Chapter 2

  Ireland, 1480

  “They are almost upon us!” My mother was losing the battle with her panic as we scrambled to collect our belongings.

  “Fiona, what’d ye see?” My father asked as my mother’s wide eyes stared out the window.

  “The McPhersons lands are ablaze!” She shrieked. “I see banners approaching our land! What do we do, Gerald?”

  “Take John an’ hide. These are me lands and I will face them head on,” he said. His eyes held a knowing, empty look about them.

  “Ge-Gerald…” she stammered.

  My father whirled and grabbed my mother’s arms, bringing her to him. He kissed her like it was the last time. I remember that moment clearly.

  “Hide now fer Christ’s sake!” He pointed at the cellar door. “John, protect yer ma!”

  Bewildered, we did as we were told and just as he was to about to shut the door, he said “I love ye both. Ye’re me flesh and I will protect ye. Now hush now, nay matter what happens!”

  The cellar door shut and he slid the rug over the door.

  From outside, an authoritative British voice called, “Gerald Cook, come out and face your charges.”

  Whispering he said in our direction, “N’matter what, son!”

  He then stood and faced the front of the house. “Tis inquisition is as much fer taken property from the conversos as fer defending the faith. Tis the goods that are the heretics,” my father said accusingly.

  “Come out now or we will burn your farm to ashes,” the man said, annoyed he had to repeat himself.

  My father stood in silence looking sternly out the window, seemingly deep in thought.

  “Burn it.”

  My father quickly followed with, “I’m comin’ out!”

  “Very well. Do so quickly,” the voice instructed.

  My father stepped to the door, grabbed the handle, and then turned and looked toward where my mother and I hid. I saw the despair in his eyes through the floor boards, but there was strength there too. He took a deep breath and pulled the door open and stepped into the light of dawn. He closed his eyes and outstretched his arms, feeling the morning air and the welcoming warmth of the cresting sun.

  “Stop right there,” said the man. “Where is the rest of your flock?” Papers rustled before he continued “Wife, Fiona and son, John.”

  Without missing a beat my father lied, “They are visit’n their aunt ‘cross the river and through the mountain pass.”

  “And why are they there?” the man inquired dubiously, expecting to catch him in a lie.

  “John, he be sick. My brother-in-law learned medicine. I could show ye the letters if ye would prefer,” he said pointing behind him at the house.

  I whispered in my mother’s ear, “Stay here,” and pulled from her grip. I slowly inched my way to the edge of the cellar where there was a small gap in the stones, careful not to rustle up dust or move pebbles.

  The man seemed to ponder for a moment, studying my father. He then nodded, seemingly to himself, and without turning his gaze from my father uttered the words that began the destruction of everything I knew.

  “Burn it down.”

  “No!” my father screamed as he lunged for the advancing soldier with the torch. They wrestled for control over the flame with my father having the upper hand from adrenaline.

/>   A dagger flew from the commander’s hand and slid into my father’s thigh with a thump of metal crushing bone. Gerald Cook fell to the ground as if his leg were rendered completely useless, and reached for the blade with shaking hands. Through clenched teeth he screamed as he tried to pull the weapon free. I knew my father was adept with a knife, and for a moment there was the briefest of hope in my chest that the man I had always looked up to and aspired to be like, could fight off these men intruding on our lands.

  As the knife slowly retreated a fraction of an inch at a time, there was a sound that reminded me of grits being mixed in a bowl. Blood began to pour like an open wine cask, staining his pants and dribbling to the dirt.

  The commander stepped off his horse, smiling, and walked to where my father lay struggling. He put his foot on the hilt of the blade and started to push it slowly back into its new sheath. My father put more muscle into his efforts, the cords on his neck standing out.

  After a few moments of toying with him, the commander’s smile faded as he slammed his foot down until even the hilt started sinking in. It took my father a moment to gasp in more air than he ever breathed in his entire life and released it in a scream of purest agony.

  “Uh… uh...,” the commander cooed. “Can’t let you bleed out before your trial. Can we?”

  My father swayed and then passed out. With a motion of the commander, soldiers dragged my father to a cart where they threw him in.

  “No!” I screamed before I could cover my mouth.

  With a snap of his eyes, the commander’s gaze locked onto mine through the stone gap.

  “Just as I thought,” he said with pleasure. “Find the door, look under every rug and table, and bring them to me.” The man turned and returned to his horse, content that his task was complete. They had the farm.

  My mother collapsed and started sobbing uncontrollably. The anger in my throat sunk down my chest and created a black hole of dread in my guts. I had just given them my mom.