The July Second Selected Writer is David Bernstein

You can email David at: dbern77@hotmail.com

HALF-HEARTED

by David Bernstein

In the beginning, when he was a newborn creature of the night, Desmond had accepted himself for what he was--relishing the rampaging, the killing, and the endless nights of blood-filled ecstasy. Over the centuries Desmond had held numerous jobs, living in a variety of cities around the world. Moving was essential since he didn’t age. Starting over with a new identity and career was tiresome, but a necessary part of being a member of the undead.

As both he and time evolved, the thrill he received from killing faded, like the longing of a loved one found to have strayed, no longer in favor.

Now he drank to survive, and not for the pleasure of torturing his prey; watching their eyes quiver with fear as the life faded from them, like smoldering embers in an ash-filled hearth.

He began to feel empty inside, even after he fed. He didn’t know how to fill the void; keeping a human friend was pointless, as their life was but a blink of the eye. Other vampires traveled together, but Desmond found his kind bothersome, despising them for their inability to love anything but themselves. Most of his kind remained with the bloodlust, finding it the only reason to live for and wanting nothing more out of un-life.

Many vampires traveled together when the time was up for them to move, to start anew. Desmond found his kind bothersome, despising them for their inability to love anything but themselves. 

He’d sired a number of vampires throughout the years, hoping that at least one would turn out like himself and remain with him. But that never happened. Like children to a human family, every last one of the undead he’d created wound up leaving him and moving on. And the truth was: he didn’t care for any of them either.

Desmond had come to the conclusion that he wasn’t a true vampire, existing with excess emotions and needs. Life had become pointless, and without love in his life he no longer wanted to live. But then he found something, something that ignited a spark in his beat-less heart--something to love.  

Having never owned a car, Desmond came across the showroom of a Ford dealership. An automobile had caught his eye as he walked along the sunless sidewalk, as if calling him subliminally.

The next day, just after dusk, he went back to the dealership having thought about the candy apple red car he had seen through the window.  

Inside the showroom, he closed his eyes, allowing his fingers to slide along the smooth enamel of the car’s body, filling him with electricity.  

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” a man’s voice said.

Desmond opened his eyes. A short, rotund man with a receding hairline stood before him, grinning like a demon. “Yes . . .” he said, pausing, considering the man’s use of pronoun, “. . . she is beautiful.”

“Fresh from the factory in Detroit,” the man said proudly, as if he were talking about a newborn child. “Interested in taking her for a spin?”

Minutes later Desmond found himself in the driver’s seat, the smell of new leather filling his nose. The engine purred like a jungle cat waiting to pounce. The fat man climbed into the passenger seat and told him to go.

Desmond drove along the city streets, heading for the highway where he could “open it up” as the salesman put it.

Before long--the speedometer’s needle pointing to the number eighty--Desmond felt the crisp night air rushing over his skin, tickling the flesh like the whiskers on a rabbit. The muscles on the sides of his face began to tighten, pulling his lips upward into a smile. The odor of rich pine and lilac filled his nostrils bringing with it a sense of rejuvenation and freedom.

“Feel the power of the engine,” a voice told him. It was the salesman. He’d completely forgotten about the man. Desmond glanced over. The salesman seemed to be enjoying the ride . . . or the prospect of a sale. “It’s just begging to be let loose upon the tarmac. Wouldn’t you say?” He told Desmond to drive faster, see what the girl could do.

Desmond gladly obliged, getting the Mustang up to over a hundred and ten miles per hour along the stretch of quarter mile highway. Bliss had entered his heart--a piece of muscle that hadn’t worked in centuries--like a shining light.

Back at the showroom, he shut the engine off, feeling as if his heart were beating like when he was alive; the exhilaration of the drive still coursing through his veins. The car had given Desmond something he had so longed for: a sense of truly living.  

He bought the Mustang that night, driving it to his house in Pleasant Hills; an upscale, gated community with its own private security staff.

He’d fallen in love with the car almost instantly, crediting his lifestyle change to the vehicle . . . to her.

The desire he had for the vehicle frightened him, at first. He’d loved before, but was always left with heartache and disappointment.

But the Mustang remained with him, never desiring anything but to be driven. It would never choose to leave him, grow tired of him.

He treated her with the utmost care, taking a job with a professional restorer in order to keep her pristine. The thought of another’s hands on her made him boil with rage. He would be the only one to perform her upkeep.

In his latest life Desmond had chosen to be an antiquities dealer, having stored a plethora of items over the years and wanting to rid himself of the things. In his dealings with various associates, he always spoke of her--the Mustang. He was so utterly fond of her, wanting others to share in his paradise; offering to take clients for rides.  

“You talk of the car as if it were a mate,” Michael, one of his buyers told him, over an evening of fine imported cigars.

“She is like nothing I’ve ever owned,” Desmond said, responding defensively before feeling awkward--ashamed even--for using such a word. To own something meant that the item was simply a material thing, nothing more. But the car was more than an object. It was a partner, a soul-mate, a non-living entity that always listened to him when he spoke, taking him away like a genie granting a wish.   

“You’ve a car fetish,” Jen, Michael’s partner, said laughing. “And I thought humans were odd.”

Desmond ignored them. They knew nothing of love for anything; only bloodlust and riches. All creatures, human or not, had fetishes. His was not such a thing--an obsession, and if love for her was, then so be it.   

As the days became years, and as many times as Desmond restored her, parts for the Mustang were becoming harder to come by--nature was taking its course. To the human eye, the car might’ve seemed mint, but to Desmond it was deteriorating, dying. And as much as cared for her, loved her, the partnership was one-sided. The inanimate machine was never truly, like a sentient being, able to return that love. 

Despair filled his heart like a dark void. Losing his love was too much and he couldn’t bear the thought of what would be when she was no more. Desperate, he searched out the magics, coming across a wizard in upstate New York. His name was Ori. He lived in a shack in the Adirondack Mountains and had been known, for the right price, to help with a variety of other-worldly predicaments. Desmond went to see him.

“Why are you here, vampire?” Ori asked, standing in the doorway of his home. He had long white hair and horseshoe shaped lines of sagging flesh under his eyes. His arms were dotted with russet-colored age spots, giving him the appearance of a tired, weak old man, but Desmond knew better.

“You may find my worry to be trite or silly, but it is why I have come.”

Desmond glanced around. The outside of the shack was weathered, blending into the surrounding forest as if a natural part of it. Weeds and vines grew over the walls and roof. The place looked decrepit, like the dwelling of some earthen goblin, but Desmond knew it was only an illusion.

“Come,” the wizard said, disappearing into the decrepit bungalow.

Inside, candles burned, but never dwindled. They were lit with spells. The old wizard used no electricity. Mystical relics and crystals lined the wooden shelves. Orbs of various sizes floated about the room like probing satellites in outer space. The wizard’s reputation was served well.

“I do not judge, vampire,” the old man said. “If I did, I surely wouldn’t help your kind. I’m an open vessel to all.”

Desmond lowered his head, bowing. “Thank you, great and wise wizard.”

“Tell me what you need.” Ori sat back in his chair like a bored psychiatrist, but his eyes were focused and fierce. 

Desmond told in vivid detail his tale of woe and how much he loved his car. He couldn’t stand seeing it rot away; he wanted it to be with him always, and for her to be able to return that love; to be sentient. Ori’s eyes narrowed, the man appearing deep in thought.

Desmond wondered how old the human was. Upon rumor, he’d heard the wizard was over two hundred years old. For a human, that number was unheard of. “Are you willing to give up a part of yourself for this vehicle?”

“Yes,” Desmond answered.

“Are you willing to suffer a great pain?”

“Yes.”

“Are you willing to share a connection with your vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“Then all I need is payment,” the wizard said, wryly, a grin spreading across his wrinkled face.

Desmond swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat. “And what do you require?”

An eerie stillness filled the air, as if death were lurking. The wizard hesitated for a moment.

“A fang,” Ori said, his expression stoic, unflinching.

“What?” Desmond shouted. “One of my fangs?”

“That is correct, vampire. Do we have a deal?”

Desmond hadn’t known what to expect, but losing a fang was serious. Vampire fangs were the only part, besides the head, that didn’t grow back when lost. He could of course survive, drink with one tooth or make incisions using implements, but fangs were central to a vampire’s being. Proper mating would be impossible without both teeth. Neither he nor his partner would get the same pleasure from the bite. Losing both fangs was considered castration in the vampire world and losing one put him half way to being a eunuch. But he loved his car. If the wizard could truly make the car immortal, it was worth a tooth.

“We have a deal,” Desmond said, nodding.

Ori led Desmond to the basement where he had his lab. The vampire lay on the table; Ori strapping him down. “Pain is necessary for this to work,” Ori said, before plunging a cylinder into Desmond’s heart. The vampire cried out, his fangs protruding fully, eyes filling with blood.

“Damn you, wizard,” Desmond grunted through clenched teeth as he writhed on the table, veins popping out of his flesh. The cylinder began filling with his blood. Once it was full, Ori pulled it out and took it over to his work station. He poured the blood into a vial before adding a gelatinous blue fluid. The concoction sizzled like an angry snake. He quickly returned to Desmond’s side.

“Open,” he said.

Nervous, for the first time in a century, Desmond did as he was told.

Ori revealed a pair of pliers in his hand. He reached into the vampire’s mouth and gripped a fang. The wizard grinned. “Don’t move or bite down--yet.” The old man yanked his arm, his face grimacing with the effort before the tooth came free.

Pain erupted in Desmond’s mouth as if the wizard had stabbed him with a garlic-tainted blade. Tears of blood leaked from his eyes as he let out a low yelp. Before his eyes the wizard held a tooth, his tooth--his fang. The old man’s eyes went wide with glee as he examined the item. It was over two inches long and came to a needle-like point.

The wizard walked away, leaving Desmond to lay in agony. The old man was at his apothecary table, his back to Desmond. He appeared to be working on something, his shoulders moving. A few minutes passed and the wizard looked as if he put a necklace over his head. He turned around. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Desmond spat in anger. “Bastard!”

Ori cackled like an old witch. “A deal’s a deal, vampire. This item, so rare and sought after, will enhance my power and keep you damn bloodsuckers off my back. I must thank you.”
“Finish this, old man!”

Using a large serrated knife, the wizard plunged the blade into Desmond’s chest. Desmond screamed, but the pain, compared to his tooth removal, was minor and it wasn’t as if he had never been stabbed before.

“What . . . the hell . . . are you doing . . . wizard?” he managed.

The old man smiled, “What you asked me to do.” He began cutting downward, sawing through flesh and sternum. He pulled the blade free, placing it down. “Have to be quick with this or you’ll heal and we’ll have to start all over.” He bent out of view, returning with steel rib-spreaders and began setting them into the large slit he made in Desmond’s chest. He used a mallet to bang them in as far as they would go before cranking them open. Desmond’s bones creaked like the beams of an old house and the sound of sloshing flesh filled his ears like thousands of maggots devouring a corpse.

Ori picked up a scalpel, the blade glinting merrily in his hand. He lowered the surgical implement into Desmond’s chest and with the stroke of a seasoned surgeon, cut the heart in two.

The hurt was excruciating, as if a piece of the sun were inside his chest, scorching his dark soul. It was beyond anything Desmond had ever felt, and he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. The wizard had said there would be great pain, but this was ultimate agony.

The wizard reached into Desmond’s chest and removed one half of the vampire’s heart. Desmond watched in horror, his mind not connecting with what he was seeing. Ori placed the half-heart in a container with the blue gelatinous fluid. It sizzled like a piece of raw steak set on a hot grill.

“We’re almost finished,” the wizard said, removing the rib spreader. The wizard handed Desmond a glass of red liquid. “Drink this, it’s virgin blood. To help you heal faster.”

Desmond eagerly grabbed the offering, gulping it down in a single swallow. It was delicious, filling his body with electricity. His chest--ribs and flesh--began healing immediately.  

The wizard unbuckled the restraints that held Desmond down. The vampire sat up immediately, his mind filled with a savage desire to kill the old man--make him suffer, and drink his potent blood.

“Don’t even think about it, vampire,” Ori warned. “I know your weaknesses and I’ll know when you’re near. You can’t harm me as long as I wear this.” He pulled out the fang hanging around his neck. Desmond eyed the curved tooth with disgust. 

“Are we done?” he asked.

“Yes. Take this vial.” The wizard handed Desmond the container filled with the blue liquid, his vampire blood, and the half-heart. “At midnight, when the moon is full, pour this solution over the engine of your desired along with a few droplets of your blood.”

“That’s it?” Desmond asked, taking the container.

The wizard nodded. “Now be on your way.”

Desmond left the uncanny wizard’s cabin and drove home. He felt weak, the virgin blood wearing off, as if he’d lost a piece of himself.

Later that evening, at the stroke of midnight, he did as the wizard told him. After slicing his wrists and letting the blood drip into the solution, he poured the contents of the wizard’s concoction all over the engine.

A searing pain, like a scalding iron, struck Desmond’s chest. The mustang roared to life, headlights brightly lit. Desmond’s pain ceased as fast as it started. The vehicle was now a part of him, connected on a spiritual level. Every piece of decay, rust, and wear vanished from the car as if magically washed away. He walked around his beloved, caressing her cool flesh with his hand. It was speaking to him, Desmond hearing its needs. His baby was thirsty. He grinned, overjoyed with what the wizard had been able to do.

What should he call her? Sally?—no, that would be silly. He felt a tugging in his brain. She wanted to be called Red, her favorite color. Desmond smiled, finding the name to be a perfect one. 

Red revved her engine, roaring into the night and proclaiming her undead life. She spoke to Desmond, telling him to climb in. Stretching her left arm, the driver’s side door opened.

Together, Desmond and Red drove out of the garage and into the night, looking for a meal to share.

David’s latest work appears in, or will be appearing in: Best New Werewolf Tales from Books of the Dead Press, Big Foot Among Us from Coscom Entertainment, Alienology from Library of Horror, Book of Horror 2 from Living Dead Press and Superheroes Vs. Zombies from Living Dead Press and Made You Flinch from Library of Horror Press. He has a short story collection entitled Another Man’s Wife Plus 3 Other Tales of Horror available on Amazon and Smashwords.

David lives in the New York City area, is working on his second novel while his first novel awaits publication, and wishes people would stop using their car horns so much. You can visit him at davidbernsteinauthor.blogspot.com