The New Recruit

The New Recruit

“Gotta bite three times! Oh, my gosh! I never knew that,” I said to the vampire, Count Nicholas Barnabus Carlos VanZagan.

He sneered, acting like he thought I was too young to be a decent recruit, but I pushed back my shoulders, lifted my chin, and said, “I’ll make you proud of me, Count. Gosh, it was so cool that you turned me into one of you, I mean really. I really do appreciate it, you know. I mean, like it’s so awesome and all! And like now, you’re my father, right?”

Count Nicholas Barnabus Carlos VanZagan sighed heavily. “I need a long nap,” he said, using the old-fashioned, stilted speech patterns of late night Count Dracula movies. “And, Kiara, I am definitely NOT your father.”

I almost curled a smile, but the count had a reputation for having a very vile temper. I straightened my lips and waited.

“All right,” he continued. "It is simple. You simply drink and decide if you wish to bite again. If so, you must not drink all that you want. Take only a little and allow your victim to sleep. Then, the second time, you encourage the victim to reciprocate. Most will not. It is all right if they refuse. Do not force the matter. But on the third time, drink of the victim all that you wish. For on that third time, you must make your recruit drink, as well. If he does not, he will slip into one of three things. Some become angry ghosts and haunt a building. Some turn into werewolves, our cousins, you know. The third is the worst possibility, for it is they who cause the most trouble. When a recruit will not replenish his blood loss, he still partly lives, for you have given him your saliva three times. Without an exchange of blood, Kiara, that last bite can create a zombie, a member of the walking dead.”

I shuddered and felt faint. I remembered how I hadn’t been eager to drink when the count ordered me to. I’d fought him, in fact. I mean, it’s not like I was resistant about the vampire thing; I’d begged the guy to bite me and all, but drinking his blood had turned my stomach. I mean, it’s not like he was old or anything. Sure, he had a few white hairs, but his face was okay, and his body wasn’t so bad for somebody a thousand years old, but the truth is that he tasted like spinach. Heck, if he’d had chocolate blood, no problem. I’d even had slurped up vanilla, but I draw the line at vegetables. Not even my sainted mother could have gotten me to drink spinach-blood.

So the count had pinched my nostrils and slugged me in the stomach, and I’d inhaled about a pint of the stuff. It was enough. When I stopped coughing, I started dying. What a rush!

“Cool. I'll remember that stuff. No zombies, for me, but what finally made you decide to turn me into one?” I asked the count, popping a big bubble from my wad of gum.

The guy hit me in the chin, and corked out the gum, faster than I could say, “But.”

“We do NOT chew gum,” he lectured.

“Sure. No sweat, man,” I told him, rubbing my chin. Good thing I wasn’t alive anymore. Hanging around with the count would have made me a color zone of bruises.

He gave another loud sigh and then decided to answer me. I was real surprised because most of the time so far, he hadn’t bothered to tell me anything.

“I didn’t mean to turn you into one of us,” he told me.

Okay, so my mouth dropped open a bit, and I paled. (Of course, I was already pale, so probably no one would have noticed. For sure, not the count; he was busy yawning.)

“But you made me drink your blood,” I said, when the sting of his words settled down. “How come you did that, Pops?”

The count's fangs dropped,