We Are The Night: Flash Fiction
Bryce Hornsford was at his desk, struggling to put together a to-do list. Miranda appeared to announce that his brother, Lamont, was here to see him.
"Show him in, please, Miranda."
Lamont came in and sat down.
Bryce looked up. "Hey, little brother."
Bryce explained that he was working out all the arrangements he would have to do, before his girlfriend turned him into a vampire.
"She's the one, little brother. Our love will be forever."
Lamont said that his girlfriend, from Mars, was going to change him into a Martian, so that the two of them could be together.
Typical Lamont. Predictable as always. Whenever he's confronted by something new to his personal experience, his very first reaction is invariably sarcastic repudiation.
Bryce looked down at his list, pen twittering above it. "There's a lot of planning to do, little brother. You have to switch all of your affairs to a nighttime schedule. You have to find a job that let's you work the night shift exclusively. You can never see your friends and family in the daytime again. You have to find human agents to represent your interests in the daytime, when necessary."
Miranda materialized again to ask if Mr. Hornsford required anything more of her, before she left for the evening.
"No, I don't think so, Miranda. Thank you. Have a good night."
She inclined her head and said, "Very good, sir," in that old fashioned, formal way of hers. "Good Night."
Lamont may have said something, but Bryce missed it. Lamont was smirking though, as was his wont. So Bryce could guess the general character of his remark and it was just as well that it had passed him by.
Bryce said that he and his lover were thinking of spending at least part of the year in Alaska, where there is six months of glorious, continual night. He explained that vampires are immortal and tireless, retiring only to hide from the sun.
Bryce said, "Hmm... Ah, I know... the last preparation I have to make." He wrote it down and circled it with a highlighting marker. He showed it to Lamont.
It read: "#20. Kill my brother."
Miranda leapt from halfway across the room, landed on Lamont where he sat, from behind, biting him in the neck.
Lamont struggled in pain and terror, of course. But he was as helpless as a rabbit in the mouth of a pit-bull.
However, Miranda was taking her time about it.
Lamont made those awful, gurgling sounds, characteristic of victims of a slow, suffocating, violent extraction of life.
Bryce said, "Lover, this is my brother, Lamont. Lamont, this is my lover, Miranda." He leaned forward. "I'm sure that if my brother could speak, my dear, he'd say that he's enchanted to meet you."
Miranda kept her fangs locked on Lamont's throat, put her feet down, and lifted him out of the chair, and shook him about.
Finally, allowing him to die, she dropped him on the floor.
Bryce came around the desk and handed Miranda a handkerchief, to dab the blood off her chin.
She was still wearing the French maid uniform that had driven him wild, two hours before.
Bryce looked down at Lamont and jostled the body with a toe. With that trifling sack of pus dead, his share of grandfather's inheritance would pass to Bryce, considerably augmenting an already magnificent legacy.
"All we have to do is stage a car accident or something," he said.
That is exactly what they would do. They kept it very simple. They put Lamont in his car and drove out to an isolated location.
They simply used dynamite. And lots of it. Procured through a labyrinthine network of human agents, Bryce had alluded to. Completely untraceable, of course.
Bryce and his Mistress, Miranda, watched the explosion and fire from a safe distance. Bryce could feel the changes within him come to completion. He had fully crossed over. He was an immortal now.
Bryce and Miranda were dressed very similarly: black clothes contrasting with their glowing pale skin; hair slicked back; wearing sunglasses in the dead of night.