Blood Moon

The New Wild West

They proclaimed this age the dawn of the dead. It was the dead; the living had watched their skin turn sour and a colour of grey as their eyes widened and their mouths elongated to harbour the sharp fangs which stuck out beyond their lips. Their vetrebrating back developed muscular spines that grew out beyond their torso, and what can only be described as wings that were designed to look like the inlay of the human skin, bound by muscle, came out. Its interior was a pink-red, a jelly-like and bountiful color, between the bony ribs that had the color of grey.

Humans were no more within this age, for as the sky became red, so did the sun. Yellow was a distant memory. Nighttime, daytime, there was no difference. Only red on top red. What stood out was the color of the moon. It was ever the same as the time before, a pale white, with a rough surface, as of the image of a rock that had drifted far away from home. That was how men in this day knew when it was night and not; the moon would rise to the sky as somehow the red sun still shunned. But the sun shone no ray. So though it lay hovering forever in the air, it was no different than any ordinary astral object. Like a meteor hung in the sky. What differed was the moon. What told the story of time was the moon. The moon, the moon, the moon. It was our attachment to reality, to the life before.

Sarmanter Fey was a gun-slinging, roughed-up man. He had a dirty yellow skin that was ascribed further by the black beard amidst his strong jaw. He was human; he was one of the few that hadn’t turned yet to a flying creature of the ever-red sky. He had watched sapiens take to wings and fly, and yet he remained on the ground. What was his purpose?

In the days of the aged-earth such as this, in the near-ending planet, the only freedom was survival, and Sarmanter took to the craft, a level unbeholden to the monsters of this world. Survive, survive, survive, he would tell himself each morning he woke. Each time he awoke and saw not a moon in the sky, he knew it was time to survive. To strive. But he was always awake. For even when the moon shone, the sky did not turn dark. So he would remind himself: survive, till the next gift of darkness. Darkness was peace. Darkness was sleep. Darkness was a chance at resurrection.

Today he was walking in the wilderness of the desert, going to a place he didn’t know, looking for shelter. He was sure to take the first one he saw. He was greasy, smelly, and stinking of a stink even he angered at. It didn’t have to be this way. But the red world had given him harsh conditions to survive in. He had no choice but to do so all the same.

A brown hat, a brown coat, a blue vest underneath with brown pants and black boots to complete the outfit was how he walked. With a gun as his armour. A shotgun. He was chewing something but suddenly spat out a tooth loose from its cavity. There was no blood on it.

Up above, a new human sped, a writhe, a human-before but now a flying pale demon. It scratched a sound as if it was a machine that had an engine so mechanical it was pleasing to hear. A shriek that told Sarmanter it was just passing by. Of course it was. Writhe had evolved to be blind by sight and deaf to the world around them. The only thing they had was the sense of smell; of blood. Wherever they flew, blood was as great an attraction as p***y was to a man. Yet, in a world of survival, a man cared not for the greater instinct to procreate, but the instinct did not care in turn; the fascination of the imagination of pleasure respected not a man’s wishes. This was why up-ahead the wooden building lost in the wild west was unsurprisingly a brothel. Sarmanter could tell by the sign of a woman’s pink silhouette posing with one hand by her waist and the other by her hair. She was posed, as if to say, “welcome”, showing off her body. And pink was the color of no coincidence, for in between was pink. Beside her frame was the wording: Archaic Pleasure.

Had s*x changed from a thing of pleasure to duty now?

Sarmanter was unhappy. In his journey, the last thing he needed was distraction. A brothel was just that. Monsters crave to the instinct of lust, not us. Yet still, he knew that he could not walk it by. He had been walking for hours. Was on his last adrenaline push and needed a recovery wherever he could find. A brothel would have to do.

There was no one at the front. Sarmanter, or Santer, as some called him, walked right through the wooden door of the bungalow. He got into a lightless building; there were light bulbs hung by the wall, but all were out of light. The only visibility came from the pale red sky beyond the windows.

Sarmanter had been sure not to make a noise when he walked through the swing door, but a woman’s voice soon said, “Coming!” So thus he waited.

There were pictures on the wall. Of the world before, when the sun still shot its rays, and the sky was bright and yellow was the color of its brightness. The clouds were white. A particular picture had a red jeep of a vehicle in the frame, just in front of the building. It didn’t have the same sign at the front as it did now, the building. There was no woman at the front, no female body, pink, to entice men. It was a tavern instead called “Desert Dream.” Well, Desert Dream was a distant memory now. A dream buried beneath.

Other pictures showed people posing at the front and side of the wooden building, the old establishment of Desert Dream. Four people in particular. One was an elderly but graceful-looking woman, who wore a kimono in all the pictures. She had something of a pale skin, but it was hard to be precise the exact shade of her paleness. But it wasn’t as pale as the new humans, the writhe, Samanter concluded. She had silver hair and was beyond six feet tall; he could tell from the picture. Beside her was a younger-looking woman, closer to a girl than an elderly. She had yellow hair and wore a black sleeveless shirt, a vest, with blue bumshorts below. Something of a tattoo stayed on her arm. The other arm was wrapped across the shoulder of a boy with ginger hair to the right of her, left of Sarmanter’s view. He was as young as her, but the smile he gave in the pictures was half-hearted, like he was just making it for the sake of the picture. Was he? The girl smiled ten times wider than he

Lastly was the man, a bronze-skinned man with wrinkles all over his face. He looked older than the elderly woman but was able by the way he held himself. He stood like the rest in the picture, and wore a simple patterned buttoned shirt with blue jeans and black shoes. And neither smiled nor frowned at the camera, just looked at it, as a man would, a responsible one.

They were a family, Sarmanter could tell. A bronze-skinned North American man, a ginger-haired boy, a yellow-haired girl, and an Asian looking mother. Where did the gene pool come from? Did they produce their caucasian looking children, Sarmanter wondered. They must have not been a true family, he concluded.

“Yes, sorry, for the impatience. Or your unlack of it, I should say.” It was the kimono-wearing woman. She was wearing the same pink and black kimono as in the pictures.

“What happened to this place?” Sarmanter asked with his deep and unfriendly voice.

“This place? Well, what happened to the rest of the world, you should be asking. This place only changed when the world did.”

He had one more glance at the pictures hung across the space. “I see.”

“Are you looking for logging?” She asked from behind the front desk, drawing out her records book.

“I thought this was a brothel.”

“That is what we put to keep off unwanted visitors.”

“What kind of visitors?”

“Do people want to be wandering in a lost land only to find a need for infidelity? s*x?”

“Who says people are married till this day?”

“Where there are more than one gender, there is always marriage.”

“And is that what this was?” Nudging to the portrait with his chin. “A marriage and a family?”

“You ask so many questions for a stranger.”

“I’d like to stay the night. I don’t have any money on me, but I have coin.” Sarmanter was loosening his gun belt; packaged inside it were bullets and golden and silver coins, the receptionist could see.

“Coin is useless in this day and age.”

“Only depends on who you pay taxes to.”

“We are in the Wild West. We pay our taxes to the mountains.”

Beyond the brothel, to its west were the mountains and valleys that had described the Wild West. Sarmanter had walked north by them, to avoid ending up within its area.

“And who stays in the mountain?”

“You ask a lot of questions for a stranger.”

“Gold or silver?”

“I’ll take gold. But next time you come here, make sure you bring paper.”

“There won’t be a next time here. Not for me.”

“That’s what they all say.” She said before she turned, without even taking the gold from his hand. “Just drop the coin and follow me.” Then she led into the dark corner she had come out from. Sarmanter arrived at the desk and raised its movable board. He crossed into its behind and turned right. But first he observed the behind; it appeared abandoned, as if no one had been there for a long while. Dust covered its layers and tops; it’s furnitures, wood-made, looked uncared for.

A lock was heard. The woman had opened a door to another door, a wooden one to a metallic. And she shoved the metallic one with her shoulder; it opened to darkness behind. She moved through, leaving both open for Sarmantwr to follow. He did; his gunbelt was back wrapped around his waist, his gun still in hand.

He followed through to what was a stairwell, leading nowhere but down. He could hear her steps from below, only hers as the light above kept fading and fading. “This place used to be a home, whether you believe it or not.” Her voice was traceable, below him, but her figure he could see not. He just kept going, as she did.

“But as I said, the world changed. And whether we liked it or not, we change too.”

“You kill vampires for a living?” He asked.

“Do you?”

“I would. But I don’t have the time to attract their attention anymore. I just like to wander.”

“To where?”

“Home.”

“Here is home. It can be.”

Suddenly a light flickered, a torch of flames she held in her hand, as she was at the end of the stairs. “Now we rent it for guests. And guests like to stay.”

“So why deep down?”

“Aren't you tired of the light? Darkness doesn’t exist up there anymore. And darkness is only how a man sleeps.” She was leading; the lower plain now was a hall of prisons, literally. Chambers had single beds in them, behind metallic frames that Sarmanter could see as he walked behind her.

“We never thought we would pray for the darkness. But here we are.” Sarmanter chipped.

“Here we are. This is where you’ll sleep.” She had come up to a certain chamber, a prison containing a well-made mattress with the beddings of a child’s fancy. A toy car with eyes was the design of the mattress, a brown car in front of a red bedding.

“Where I will sleep.” He affirmed, taking off his gunbelt. “And am I the only one here tonight?”

“Today,” she corrected, for the moon had gone from the sky; she had watched it go. “ You are. Except if another person comes, they’ll stay in a separate chamber.”

“Why the prisons?”

“You’d like it if someone can just walk into your space? The prison is to keep the madness away.”

He wondered, what is mad about yearning for the dark? About wanting to share it?

She offered him the keys, “This is your key; have it, and keep the bars locked at all times. When you wake, I’ll have a bucket of water for you that you can drink. When you wake, there might be option of food here.”

“And if there’s not?”

“Stay and you’ll starve to death. Goodnight stranger.” She said as she was leaving, walking back up.

“Wait,” he said. “All this while, since I walked into your establishment, you never asked me to take my gun out. Or hand it over.”

“The dark is light.” She said, and the torch, she put out before she climbed back up the stairs.

Sarmanter waited for the sound of the door before he drew it out. He had a pack of matches with him, and he lit one as soon as she left. He could see in the darkness now. The dark is light, she said, and it could only mean one thing. He understood it now.

When the world changed, it was not only vampires who came. Of course, humans transformed into vampires, but not that it was an exclusive party. We were all just one species in the food chain of evolutionary monsters. Humans, and animals, carnivores and herbivores. All had the generic code of the same evolutionary mechanism; to exist and procreate. s*x was the one thing that united us all under the same chamber. All earthly species procreated. It just so happened to be then that as humans changed into vampires, animals transformed into shadows, ghosts they call them.

The sky was always red, but it was truth thatwhen a writhe flew low enough to the ground, you could see its shadow. That shadow was no ordinary shadow. The same way a dog was a man’s best friend, that was the way of the shadow. Shadows attacked when writhes did; when writhes used their sense of smell, they didn’t used it but not only for themselves.

Darkness being light could only mean that when the monsters did come, when the flying creatures would descend to the ground, it would be their shadows doing the hunting for them. Sarmanter lived in a world where vampires embraced the light and shadows lived in the dark. They were coming, thus, he knew. That was why she never took away his gun; he was in the Wild West, of course; he would need it.

With the single matchstick he had to replace over and over again, Sarmanter arranged himself to sleep. He took off his clothes, cleaned off his sweat with his white singlet, which wasn’t so white afterwards, and hopped into bed. The gun was in the grip of the hand left. He fastened himself to sleep, thinking… thinking of the world before. Of the wars he had to escape to survive. Of the journey, and thus its destination. It hadn’t been easy, but he wasn’t yet far from the beginning. His trail was just starting, that he knew. Whether he would leave just footsteps behind or blood, that was his choosing. He knew, and he knew. He would be in wars to come.

He had a lot to do, but in the present he fell asleep without even knowing. So was he tired. He didn’t realize when his soul had gone. Though he was weary, sleep felt good. Too good to wake up from.

Echoes. An echo, repeating itself, the reciting sound, his mind was suddenly clinging to. “I just want your help,” he heard over and over again, but couldn’t make out what that voice was. Was it in his dream, was it someone from his dream? His past? Or was his dream telling him a future? It tried to bring him out; it tried to draw him, but in darkness, confinement was his friend. Solitarism with the creature, darkness was needed for a man to sleep. He wanted to stay, but in an instant he clutched forth from his bed and aimed his shotgun at where the sound was coming from: Darkness.

“I just want your help. To get the matches.” A solemn voice said. He could hear, but he could not see. “You don’t worry, I’m not afraid. I just want the matches.”

It was a childlike voice, and he waited as he heard the matches flicker and flicker. Soon the light came, and behind it was a young woman’s face. The face he had seen before. Her hair was yellow. She was somehow beaten up, had red bruises on her pretty face, was sweating, in a white vest of blue, yellow, and red stripes. She had put her hands through the bar and reached the matches at the end of the bed. Sarmanter did not know when he had dropped them that far from him.

She drew it away from the bar and went over to her own chamber; her door was already unlocked, but she didn’t care to open the door fully. A little space she made and slipped through like a thief in the night. Sartmanter could see all thanks to the little torch in her hand now. The opposite chamber was not far from his. The walkway between the sides of the room was not wide enough. The girl got in and crouched on her bed before blowing out the stick and lighting another one.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Is that all you came for?” He asked, gun still pointed at her.

“Yes,” she said so solemnly. “I just wanted to be able to see in this darn place. It’s dark in here if you haven’t noticed.”

“I have.” He said, gun still pointing.

“Then you should be kind enough to at least put the barrel down.”

A drift of silence passed between them.

“When did you get here?” He asked.

“Three hours ago.”

“You keep good track of time?”

“I have a watch I play with.”

“Watches stopped working years ago.”

She crept her hand under her pillow. She got something then threw it at the floor of his chamber. He was careful, the way in which he aimed the gun and yet got the watch from the floor. He checked it; it was Roman-numeralled. And most importantly, it was working. It had three hands that moved around its circle, one faster than the others. Its surface was cracked, however.

“You tell the time with this thing? The true time?” His gun was still aimed a ther.

“Men tell the difference between day and night with the moon. I don’t. I just managed to keep a good hold of my watch. It was my father’s.”

“The man in the pictures? And she, your mother?”

“She’s my mother.” She said, but not with the taste of one who was a proud daughter.

“Then why are you down here in the guest area?”

“Cause I like to be.”

“Yet you yearn for my candle.”

“It’s a matchstick. And that’s because I wanted to see you. What you looked like. – How did you survive to get out here? Vampires are crawling in the passes beyond the cities. Some above and some beneath.”

“It’s none of your business. Give me my matches back, so I can go back to sleep.”

“Then come and get it.” And something of a poker face drew across her; she was ready. What for, only she knew.

Sarmanter Fray didn’t know what attracted him, but he was standing. His gun was still aimed at her, but his body motioned to his key, then the door, and slowly, he got out of his chamber and made his way to hers. She hadn’t moved. Her legs were still crossed in front of her as she watched him come. Her eyes followed his every moment.

He opened her doors gently and walked in, gun still pointed.

“You actually came here. Here’s your matches.” And she offered it.

“Then why’d you make me come?”

“I wanted to get a good look at you. Standing. You’re half-larger than the men that usually come here.”

“What kind of men come here?”

“Small foot. Hungry-looking men. Men yearning for something. You don’t look like you’re yearning for anything.”

“I came just to rest.”

“And in resting there is hibernation. And in hibernation, there is tiredness. Are you tired…” she was supposed to say his name, but realised she didn’t know it…

“Sarmanter Dawn.”

“Dawn? Uuu, I like the sound of that. Come and stay with me, Sarmanter Dawn,” her palm patted the cushion of her bed. She was tempting, luring.

Sarmanter never kept his gun low. He lowered his bum, took that precious seat, and still kept the gun at her.

“That's kind of a girl’s name by the way.”

“What happened to this place? It used to be a tavern.”

“A pub. But as my mother would tell you, the world changed. We could no longer serve alcohol as our reserves stopped coming. And soon our guests stopped coming. A new type began emerging.”

“Vampires?”

“Vampires don’t need alcohol for anything.”

“Then what do they get drunk on?”

She took a moment. “I suppose you know the answer to that.”

“What feeds you doesn’t make you drunker,” he said, gun still pointed.

“But it makes you do things. It keeps you doing things. Imagine if they never had it? Or we never had it... Food,” she hesitated to say; she had to say at the end, just to be sure. Sarmanter didn’t say anything to that, gun was still pointed.

“We would be like monsters without it. Yearning every day without it.”

“We yearn for different things. We and the monsters.”

“I know. And yet we yearn all the same. What do you yearn for, Sarmanter Dawn?”

“Home.”

“This used to be home. Till it wasn’t. Where is yours?”

“Wherever I make it. Behind a barrel,” he said, as he cucked the gun for a second time.

“You’re making me scared, Sarmanter. Whereas I invited you here because I wanted to know you, I don’t like the man I’m knowing.”

“Then what do you like? What do you want…” he should have said her name, but he realized he didn't know it.

“Drausser.”

“Drausser Dawn. I'll call you Drausser Dawn.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d like to. You should get some sleep.” And for the first time, he unpointed the gun and began for the door.

But Drausser said, “There’s a lack of heat in the darkness. A lack of unionship. Whereas we’ve needed for the sleep… to sleep, I fear it’s never been what we’ve needed. Because think of it. We can still close our eyes. We can still say no to the red sky. Why do we need darkness to sleep?”

“Then why are you here?” Without turning back, he had asked…. But he hadn’t crossed the door yet.

“Like I said, I wanted to see you. And you didn’t disappoint.”

He was tired, stressed out. “Whom?” he said, and he heard her stand up.

She crept up behind him, put her chin above his shoulder. Her fingers touched his, and for a moment she was resting everything of her on him. He could feel them too, the special things on her chest. In this world of survival and blood sky, why did God give him this?

“I can imagine the world of turmoil you must have been in to get here. The endless, unending. The fight. The struggle. Monsters above us, death below. No rest. No reservoir.

“Humans have a habit of thinking that rest is all that we needed to be able to survive. That if we found the darkness, we could sleep and become one again. But rest… is not all that is needed… Rest…” and she touched the gun…. “Is only the half of it.” And she held it. The hold turned to a grip. “Rest is only the end of it.” Her hold made his loose, less tight, and as she took it, she turned him. “For before we need to rest, we need to be tired. Not just mentally. Not just being tired of survival, but also being tired of action. What are you tired of, Sarmanter Dawn? Are you really tired to begin with? Yet?”

The aim of the gun was much lower now, too low, but so was his resistance. He could hear her breathing, could even smell her breath. It wasn’t the tastiest thing to smell, but that wasn’t the kind of smell he was smelling now. Vampires smell blood and attack, but vampires are foreign creatures. What do all earthly species smell before they attack?

Drausser, or whoever she was, whatever her real name might have been, knew what indeed animals smell before they attack. She was breathing near him now.

“Are you tired?” she asked again when he gave no answer. Her hand went lower, and it rubbed against a part of hers before he could know it. Her eyes were closed, but not his. Her other hand held him from the back of his head, and like a comely dog, he followed, allowing her use him. Oh, Sarmanter Frey!

“Are you tired yet?” Her rub became faster. “If not, then be tired, Sarmanter. Be tired. Truly, tired.” And the raised hand put forth two fingers that extended into Sarmanter Frey’s mouth. She inserted it in, and like a wild dog being fed for the first time in its life, Sarmanter Frey accepted. He hadn’t known what yet drove him to enter into her cage, her prison, his, but he was living in it now. “Tired,” she said, and repeated, as she moved her hand within his world of spit. He moved with her. She went left, and he followed. She went right, and he was not far behind either. The gun dropped to the ground, and he took her hand. His eyes were closed like a yearning master, and he gave in too.

“Be tired. Tired.” And he grabbed and combined their lips. And their tongue. The butt-shorts she was wearing soon came off. He was aggressive, the way he dragged her onto the bed, and he hurriedly took off her clothes. His were already off; he had entered her chamber with nothing but his gun and bare boxers. That was how she had seen him, and it was never in the same state. When he first sat down and then when he had stood up, something about him had changed. It was pointing out towards her, she saw, even though he was standing to go.

He dug his mouth deep all over her body, and Sarmanter made love like a wild dog. A wild dog indeed.

“Yes! Yes!” She began mourning, and he was rough above her. He knew nothing more than his want to taste her. And so he did not know; he was oblivious to the changing of her claws. The elongation of them. As her skin turned pale, her fingernails wore red, and her mouth sharpened. Her eyes became slick with a sharpness, and those nails dug deep into his skin, while he tried and tried and tried to satisfy her. But he was only satisfying himself.

She was always underneath; he was always on top. That way he could only but feel the scratching she was giving him on his back. He couldn’t see it, and unfortunately, the sense of touch wasn't enough to allure him from the stronger sense of touch he had felt. That sense of his drove him to action. He was too far gone. His eyes opened as he continued to thrust and thrust and thrust.