Standing between wagon ruts, Draco Torre considers the sign announcing Hope Hill. Stars meet prairie, flat horizons. Hope without a hill.

Following ruts, Torre scans dark buildings. Nothing stirs. Blasted heat carries the stench of death.

At the far end of Hope Hill, light flows from an open doorway, down three steps splashing the road. The church casts a sullen look. Catcalls of rapists, howls of murderers pour from the doorway. A scream shatters the night.

Not even the hottest summer on record matches the blazing eyes of Draco Torre. Throwing open duster, Torre grasps guns. Last hope for Hope Hill.

The building is alive, music pounding into the stone walls its beating heart, the vibrating steel its rumbling stomach, the buzzing neon sign its voice singing into the night. Doors open swallowing patrons feeding its hunger.

Searching for the music, Mike descends the steel staircase feeling like a feather floating on a current. Lights zip through the haze splashing the sea of dancers. Purple rods lining stone columns, black light, illuminate the waving neon bracelets and flowing white shirts breaking between the storming mass of dark clothing. Stepping onto the dance floor, Mike soaks in the music and begins bouncing to the beat.

Atop the stage, a banshee with blue hair screams into the microphone, her voice switching between demonic thunder and angelic cries. A crash of drums rolls into a new song, the banshee wails about pain and anger.

Goth girls move aside turning their gazes on Mike like predators sizing up their prey. Some of their eyes glow, special lenses catching the black light. Others snarl exposing sharp teeth. They wear costumes celebrating the creatures of the night. The goth girls, even some boys, swarm around Mike, their lulling dance pulling him deeper into the horde.

The pack opens up into a ring, a sinuous wall grooving to the music. Howls and laughter cry out. Electric guitars grind into a chant, the beat met by stomping feet and nodding heads. Fists pump into the air. The banshee screams.

Dispatching from the ring, a woman dances into the center, gyrating hips sending her into a grooving spin. She runs her fingers through her pink hair. Her palms run down her sides hugging herself.

Mike dances close, his steps complimenting hers. Her eyes blaze, a blue simmer in the black light flashing to deep crimson in the shadows. Arms wrapping around each other, hips meeting, they grind to the beat. He breathes in her sweat, tastes her licorice lips. His insides burn like fire. Peering into her intense gaze, he asks for her name, but his voice is lost to the music.

She smiles revealing her fangs. Closing in, her cheek grazes his. Her breath tickles his ear. “Candy,” she says. Squeezing against him, she licks his lips and closes in on his other ear. “Sweet as candy.” She licks his ear.

The sounds of the club fade, the howling voices growing distant. The music is a distant thunder. Mike dances, his cheek against hers, moving in a swirling wave to the music of their own feet tapping the wood floor. They dance into the shadow world.

The club takes a breath, a cool breeze.

Mike finds his arms empty. Glancing around, he finds the dance floor empty. The club is dark. Silence rings shattering thought. Peering down, he finds his shirt covered in blood. No pain. He tastes licorice lipstick on his lips.

Movement catches his eye.

Like moonlight reflecting off the rolling sea, shapes move about the dance floor becoming hazy forms. Apparitions dance in slow motion. As their features become more discernible, their movements increase in speed.

Mike hears the music, slow and quiet at first. Watching the others, noticing their vibrant faces, their sweat, he realizes he is the ghost gazing back at the world. Touching his throat, he finds torn flesh, cold and dry.

The music explodes into Mike’s thoughts, and he dances. The others barely notice him, if at all. This is Club Necropolis where the dead never dance alone.

Sad Stats

• “Most U.S. youths unfit to serve, data shows” Pentagon study reveals 35% age 18-34 physically unfit, was 6% in 1987.
• Obesity.org says “no state met the Healthy People 2010 objective of 15 percent”
• “Study Finds that Sitting May Increase Risk of Disease” (2007) stating, “Only 28 percent of Americans are getting the minimal amount of recommended exercise” and “exercising, even for an hour a day, was not sufficient to reverse the effect [of physical inactivity.]“
• “Rising obesity will cost U.S. health care $344 billion a year” by 2018 eating 21% of costs for the physically unfit.

Background

A few months ago I sought out a new desk with adjustable legs so I could ensure proper keyboard height. The thought of standing while working crossed my mind, but table heights never reach high enough. I purchased a Gallant desk with extension from Ikea. Besides adjustable height, I liked the ability to connect parts to vary length including corners. The maximum height of the tabletop is 32 inches, too short for anyone standing taller than 66 inches.

My primary job places me at a desk working on a computer for 9 hours each weekday and sometimes a few hours on weekends. I also write stories and do artwork placing me at a desk in my free time which quickly loses appeal. My previous positions kept me moving about, so my current occupation is my first experience at office lifestyle. Even though I bicycle every day, I’ve noticed my health declining during the last 4 years. My cholesterol is up, my weight increased, and I’m tired more often. To compensate for a sore rear, cramped legs, and increasing tiredness I find myself walking around interrupting work. I sometimes kneel at my desk or march up and down the stairs trying to save my body from breaking down.

The article “Stand Up While You Read This” on New York Times points out that “your chair is your enemy.” At the bottom the opinion article sites studies that show that even daily jogging fails to offset the heart problems and obesity of sitting for too long. After my recent work experience, I agree. Bicycling everyday fails to offset the negative impact of sitting for 9 hours.

Modern jobs place many of us at a desk. American’s are in poor physical condition (not just obesity) driving up the cost of health care. Just look at the statistics. From 6% to 35% physically unfit youth in less than 30 years? We are a nation in poor health depending on older citizens to defend our country.

Do something about it. Get off your butt!

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I accept the uniform, folded neat upon my arms. The soldier tells me blue is my color. Or is it gray? Another war, another battle—it is always the same—another uniform, nothing ever changes. A warrior only knows one color.

Blue or gray, I don my uniform holding me hot and tight. I stand in line with the others, mercenaries carrying scars of battle upon their faces. Some pale, some dark, the warriors hold two traits in common, their color and death in their eyes.

The mercenaries march, boots crushing the ground. The slinking centipede cuts through the army into the front line. Musket in left hand, sword in my right, I stand gazing over rolling green. A mercenary tells us to remember our color. Remember, the man beside me says tugging at his uniform.

Darkness arrives with the thunder of boots. I hold no argument, no ill between warriors. This is our way. The one beside me speaks again. He wishes me luck, find death at last. I thank him and shake my head. Another field, nothing ever changes. Perhaps my time passed me long ago. I wish him a good death and to remember our color.

Cannon fire announces the battle. Blue meets gray. Cries of war twist into howls of dread. I dance to the music of anguish, the beat of torment. I attack blue. Or is it gray? Dropping the musket, I carry my sword, cutting my way up the hill.

The soldiers are farmers and masons, not warriors. Blue and gray are their colors before the reaping. Some turn away in fear, others stand frozen clenching weapons. I clear first the ones with strength in their eyes. Weapons falling, death calling, a warrior only knows one color.

Blue or gray I forget, but their faces burn into memory. Color flees their cheeks, light departs their eyes. They shed crimson tears upon my dress. Even the mercenaries cry for me. I envy them, their freedom.

On the hilltop I stand alone gazing down over the field. Blue or gray matter no more. All of the fallen wear the same color—my color—flowing down the hill. Death and carrion are my companions.

Red is my color, the only color I know.

The breeze chilled Sebastian. He tried to pull his gaze away. Gunpowder consumed his nostrils, and a ringing swarmed inside his ear. His gaze traced the tufts of fabric. He stared at the stump of a neck sliced clean, blood pooling around shoulders. A crimson trail fled out the door, splotches on the snow.

“All wrong from the start,” said Sebastian. Sweat dripped down his brow. The floor tilting towards him then away. From the shotgun welcome at Dunston, hurrying off in search of Tabitha meeting Father Young, the riddle, Tabitha teasing his gun away. Even the weather had been against him, beyond the turning point forcing him here, Roan, the killer.

“I should have stayed with her.” Glancing back he spotted the innkeeper crouching at the corner of the bar. “I should have asked more questions at Dunston. More insistent. More protective of my gun.”

Running fingers back through his hair, Sebastian gazed down at the headless body. He recalled the hellfire. “But you were right, Tabitha.” He pictured her sharp teeth. Tears flooded his eyes blurring vision. “They would have executed you without a trail.”

“But if I had done better,” said Sebastian. He remembered the moonlight kissing her smiling face. “Same result, only sooner.”

With the killer on the loose, there was still a chance for justice. Leaning down over the body, he snatched the shotgun. “Where’s my hat?” He felt naked without his hat.

Creeping around the bar, Balmer held it up, shaking.

Sebastian snatched the hat, smashed it on his head, and tugged the brim down. His boots thumped across the floor and over the body. Pausing at the door, he glanced back at Balmer. “Fetch the lawman.”

The nearly pristine snow beneath the hanging lanterns made the trail easy to follow. The blood droplets made it obvious. Turning a corner, boots skidding over slick cobblestone, Sebastian found a narrow street between stone buildings. Light spilled a few meters into the street before being swallowed by darkness. At the other end of the chasm, the red horizon outlined the forest, dark spindly fingers reaching for the sky. Before the trees, a white mist, nearly glowing beneath the moonlight, grasped at the air.

Sebastian inspected the shotgun, a double barrel with a single shot remaining. Entering the shadows, Sebastian held his breath. Snow crunched beneath boots. The cold gripped him, icy fingers digging into his back. He searched the white ground. Every shadowy divot leaped out at him, his mind turning them into footprints and blood drops.

Then he saw him, a silhouette of a slender figure surrounded by burning red around the flat brim of the hat, white mist surrounding torso and legs. At his side, something hung from his hand, long threads reaching to the bulbous mass at the man’s knee; the killer held the head by the hair.

Sebastian stepped, one foot in front of the other, and raised the shotgun taking aim. His heart thundered in his chest. Beyond range, he continued. “Conrad,” he said, “show me your hands!”

Conrad released the hair. The head fell and thumped in the snow.

Red pressed through spindly trees turning the mist into a dance of writhing white tendrils, and painted the far end of the street.

Shotgun level, finger over trigger, Sebastian crept placing one foot before the other, heart slamming his chest. Keeping his eye on the shadowy figure, he heard the crunching and clacking of his boots, a morning bird singing to the coming sun, heartbeat in his ears. Ten paces from the corner, he stopped.

A bird tweeted. Another answered. Distant boots clomped over cobblestone.

Conrad stood motionless. Behind him, the horizon brightened.

“Your hands, Conrad!” Sebastian squinted into the light.

Flutter of shadow, and the shotgun slipped from his grasp. Conrad stood before him his parted duster revealing weapons hanging from belt. At the end of an extended arm, slender fingers held the barrel of a revolver, wood handle outward. It appeared very similar to the one lost to the river.

Heart slowing, Sebastian stared at his father’s other revolver held out to him. Confused, he peered at the face. Blood dripped from thin lips onto the pale chin. High cheekbones, slender nose, the face nearly appeared feminine. The narrow eyes, confident cold blue steel gaze pierced into him. A shiver scrambled down his backside. He felt small, naked. He tried to hold the gaze, but his eyes deceived him and he peered down at the revolver in the hand.

“Your father,” said Conrad, whispering through clenched teeth. “A great warrior.”

Sebastian gulped down saliva, and licked his lips. He felt like a child, small and helpless.

“His,” said Conrad, “death.” He peered down at the revolver. “A good death.”

Reaching out, Sebastian grabbed the revolver by the handle and held it against his chest. Peering down at the offering, he understood the words. The two warriors had fought with honor. Conrad respected Rhemus the Giant.

His father felt closer.

Sebastian looked up finding the street empty. Sunlight struck his face, and he held up his hand blocking the light. Glancing back, he searched the empty street. Before him the empty meadow cradled pristine snow. Somehow he knew, no matter how improbable, the creature had departed with the night.

Tabitha’s head rested in the snow, dark hairs fanned over cheek. Dropping to a knee, Sebastian brushed the hair aside revealing the wound. Instead of a clean cut, he found a gash, torn flesh hanging from the back, and within, broken skull fragments slick with blood. It appeared as though Conrad had chewed his way into the back of the skull.

Hearing footsteps, a cane tapping cobblestone, he twirled around finding Father Young.

“No. I’m not following you, boy.” Father Young pointed his cane towards the building on the left. “My church.”

“That’s how you knew how to find Conrad.” Sebastian slipped his father’s revolver—his revolver—into his holster. “What is he? A vampire?” It sounded too much like folklore, but he had no other explanation.

“Nonsense, boy.” Father Young rubbed his balding head and peered down at the head. “Something old. Older than I even.”

Sebastian peered at the dark glasses picturing the strange gold orbs within. Father Young was something not quite human, and he wanted to know more. “Father, I’ve seen evil.”

Father Young peered up and wrinkled his nose. Sunlight glimmered on the dark lenses. “Conrad?”

“Ignorance,” said Sebastian. “We all choose our path, Father Young, and sometimes that path offers very few forks.” He shook his head at the limited choices along the way. “How can I help anyone? With all these secrets! I must learn about your people. Tabitha’s people.”

“You truly are your father’s son.” Father Young shook his head. “A hunter.”

“A defender.” Sebastian held his head high. He felt refreshed knowing his path. “I must return to university.”

Father Young nodded. “I’ll message Father Gustav.”

“But first I must visit Dunston. Let them know their monster is gone.”

“And Conrad?”

“Didn’t you notice? He’s a demon hunter.” Sebastian scowled. “My father’s final assignment. You sent my father after Conrad, didn’t you?”

Father Young cringed.

“I’d sleep with a gold eye open if I were you, Father Young.” Sebastian grinned. “Conrad is still out there.”

Picking up the Dunston Monster’s head, Sebastian held it to his chest. He brushed the dark hair aside finding the serpentine teeth within gaping jaw. Vision blurred. He felt tears streaming down his cheeks. Recalling their talk in the woods, sitting in the trees, his tears became a shower.

“No,” said Sebastian. “You’re not evil, Tabitha.” He took a step, wobbling. He pictured the moonlight splashing off her cheeks, her smile, and peered down at her dead eyes. The hellfire was gone. Clenching teeth, he marched into town.

“No more evil than the rest of us monsters.”