Mitch watched over me that day, not sleeping himself, but sitting by the bed most of the time. Periodically he would get up and turn on the small color television set to watch for any events about the war that had been declared on our kind.
Usually, in any given day, there were one or two vampire-sighting and/or killing reports. Although we suspected most of these were false, it made no difference to the general public. In addition to the television, he would also check, via the computer, for Internet reports.
At one point, early in the afternoon, he woke me.
"Deirdre, sweetheart," he said, "I hate to disturb your rest since you need some healing time, but I think you need to watch this."
I opened my eyes and sat up in bed, groaning slightly when I heard the horribly melodramatic organ music theme song to the show "Real Life Vampires" — the program that had made the names Terri Hamilton and Bob Smith synonymous with that of Van Helsing. Their coverage of the bombing of Cadre headquarters and their startling revelation that vampires really did exist launched them almost instantly from their obscure jobs as local television reporters to national celebrity status. Over the past three years, I had grown to hate them on sight.
Terri seemed her usual perky self for this show, with her cropped, straight dark hair and simpering pasted-on smile. She wore white, as always, a statement of purity and innocence, while Bob wore his pin-striped Armani with dignity and authority.
"What you are about to see," he intoned, over the standard introductory shots of historical, literary and cinematic vampires, "is true. And none of the names have been changed, for there are no innocents to protect."
"Bullshit," Mitch said. "I wish to hell they'd get a new opening."
"I wish to hell they would drop back into obscurity," I shifted on the pillows, trying to get comfortable. My arm still ached slightly, but I said nothing about it, wanting to see whatever travesty our friends Terri and Bob had worked up this time. "I am tired of having my name bandied about for public entertainment. This show is a good example of why I never went in for the watching of television."
"Tonight, Bob," Terri smirked into the camera, "we have some particularly vicious footage of a vampire attack on four of our heroes in London. The film you are about to see is for mature audiences only; it contains graphic and disturbing events and should not be viewed certainly by children under the age of sixteen."
"That's right, Terri. I want everyone to keep in mind that the footage we're about to show is not cut or edited in any way; these are not actors, folks, they are Real Life human beings being callously murdered by Real Life monsters." The real life phrase was obviously capitalized in his script and Bob milked it for all it was worth. "Because we believe you have the right to know."
"He's a Real Life Ass," Mitch said with a small harsh laugh, when the show moved to a commercial break, "notice that he's not out there fighting for the integrity and the safety of the human race. And I can't believe they're starting to film these encounters."
I sighed. "This is going to look bad, Mitch, I know it is. If only we had known that one of them had a camera hidden on him."
"It was an ambush, four of them against the two of us and we barely escaped. We didn't have enough time to think, Deirdre, we were too busy protecting ourselves from heroes. And we didn't have time to search for hidden cameras."
The show continued finally with a plea for donations to the Real Life Vampires Freedom Fighters Fund. I often wondered how much money was being made from this show — more than enough, unfortunately, to keep them on the air for three years.
"And we're back." Terri managed to don her serious face for this segment. "Once again, we suggest that children under the age of sixteen not be present for the viewing of this film footage. Are they out of the room?" She paused for a second. "Good. We will let the films speak for themselves."
The quality of the film was poor, grainy and underdeveloped, adding to the myth of its veracity. The camera must have been hidden in the lapel of one of the Other's coats, at first nothing was seen but a bouncing version of the street they were walking down.
It was night, of course, and as in all Other attacks, the area was deserted. Neither Mitch nor I understood this phenomenon but had seen it too many times to question its reality. When the Others attacked, they attacked without audience or witness. We speculated that it was an effect much like the force field Eduard DeRouchard had demonstrated for us in a bar in New Orleans before he died. However, we had no evidence to back this speculation, nor did the current show offer any explanation. In truth, it made little difference why or how this worked; often the phenomenon was to our advantage as well as to theirs.
Voices had been dubbed over the film. I remembered these particular ‘heroes' quite well and like all of them, until this most current assassin, they did not speak.
The dialogue was surprisingly badly written; their chatter of wives and children and the trivial events in their lives belonged more properly in one of the old war films Mitch enjoyed watching, ones where men would reveal their plans to return home and marry their sweethearts seconds before they were shot and killed. Though banal and stereotypical, however, the words served their purpose admirably, making the four seem like nothing more than good friends, taking an evening stroll in the cool London air, instantly engaging a potential viewer's sympathy.
"Wait," one of them said, interrupting the talk of ‘Scott's' new car, "what was that?"
Suddenly the camera jumped and focused on two other people. At first I would not have recognized the blurred figures that sprang out at the camera as being Mitch and me, but they were obviously meant to be. The man had grey hair and intense blue eyes and the woman, long auburn hair and eyes that glowed like the red fires of hell. The astonished cries of the men were drowned out by the pair's loud growling and a very unflattering close-up of what was meant to be my face revealed yellowed, protruding fangs, positively dripping with gore.
Mitch gave a grunting laugh. "I guess we'd just come from dinner. How many times have I told you, Deirdre? Use your napkin."
I looked over at him, shaking my head and smiling, before turning my attention back to the television set. The colors for this segment had obviously been intensified and from my own firsthand perspective, I knew that they had done a great deal more than a little editing to make it seem like we were the attackers. In fact, the whole sequence from this point on was mostly fabrication, with a few actual shots tucked in here and there. Gone were the weapons the men had carried, airbrushed or edited away. Two, I remembered, had in reality been armed with crossbows and the others had carried long, sharp knives that had claimed more than a small amount of our blood.
"We will drain you dry," a deep voice that could never have been mistaken for Mitch's boomed out into the night.
"And steal your immortal souls." The female vampire who was not me gloated over her victims before pouncing on one of them, knocking him down to the ground with a sickening crack of broken bones. She clawed open his throat and buried her mouth in the exposed flesh, making loud and grotesque sucking noises.
"Oh dear God," I said in disgust. "How could anyone think that this was real footage?"
The camera bent over her as she fed on this poor unfortunate; the audience was given a gratuitous glimpse of a demonic, blood-spattered face, a view of a creature from hell, reveling in the basest of appetites. Then, as if just becoming aware of scrutiny, she rose to her feet with a low, vicious growl, her lethal fangs bared and her clawed fingers crooked menacingly.
As she advanced, the vantage of the camera slowly retreated until it finally stopped. The female vampire also stopped, hesitating about a foot or two away, no doubt so that the next victim could say his lines.
"Scott's dead," he shouted right on cue.
"What a shame," Mitch commented dryly, "now he'll never get to drive that new car."
"Hush," I said, stifling a laugh, "this is serious business."
"Scott's dead and we can't help him now." The desperation in the man's voice rose as he came to the awful realization that he would soon be joining his friend. "And I'm trapped here, up against this wall. Save yourself."
The soundtrack included background noises of growling and fighting as, apparently, the male vampire gave the other two men the same treatment. Labored breathing was heard as the camera rose and fell.
Suddenly the female vampire made her move. The shot showed her clawed hands coming in, closer and closer, until they gripped the fabric of the man's coat. Then the viewpoint slowly rose, as, presumably, she picked up the man and held him up in the air over her head. Another close-up of her evil, laughing face ensued, followed quickly by the view of rushing pavement. The man had been tossed through the air and landed with a thud on the ground, obscuring the camera until she rolled him over.
"Mercy," the man whimpered, as her face moved closer and drool dripped from her mouth, "for the love of God, have some mercy."
She gloated and laughed again. "I have no mercy for scum like you. Humans are my food."
Apparently, though, in the end she did have some mercy, at least for those of us forced to watch this trash. Her hand came down, crushing the camera and ending the video portion of the film. The screen now contained nothing but darkness, but the microphone must have been concealed elsewhere, because the pained and agonized cries of the men continued for a full minute. And in the ominous minute of silence that followed, the audience was left to draw the conclusion that the heroes had fallen and that the villains lived in triumph.
Then the male vampire's voice rolled through the night air like thunder. "Come, wife," he said, "finish your feasting and get ready to fly. The sun will soon rise."
The next shot was of Terri, wiping away tears from her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Bob had an arm around her shoulder and was patting her gently. The bottom of the screen proclaimed the current and rapidly rising amount of money in the Freedom Fighters fund, and the 800 number for donations flashed in bright red digits. "We'll go to a commercial break now," Bob said, "but stay tuned for more news and developments."
Both Mitch and I sat, stunned, staring at the screen.
"Unbelievable," he said finally. "I don't know whether to laugh or cry."
"It certainly will not be winning any awards at Cannes this year," I offered, shaking my head.
"But it's an effective piece of propaganda, anyway. Provided they can convince people that this whole thing is true. And based on the money they're collecting, I'd say that they've been successful."
"I do not understand. The whole thing was such a blatant lie. How can they say it was not edited or cut? Would not such tampering be obvious?"
Mitch shrugged. "People believe what they want to believe. And they all know that Terri and Bob would never lie."
The commercials were now replaced with Terri's face, her attempt at covering her tears with a sad smile would have been heart-breaking in any other context. As it was, I wanted to reach my hand through the screen and...
"Those two murderers are still at large, Bob," she said, sniffing slightly and squaring her shoulders. "And as the quality of our film was so bad, we are now showing another photograph of the two of them on the right hand of your screen. The woman is Deirdre Griffin-Greer, aka Dorothy Grey. And the man is Mitchell Greer, former NYPD police officer."
Somehow they had acquired a photo of the two of us at our wedding; I wonder, I thought, if I could get a reprint of that. All of our personal belongings were gone now, stolen from the storage unit into which Lily had them deposited.
"It is believed," Bob continued the pitch, "that they are still residing somewhere in the United Kingdom. If seen, we advise you to approach them with extreme caution or not at all. And as always, donations can be made and sightings can be reported by calling 1-800 555-VAMPS or contact us at our e-mail address — tips@reallifevampires.com."
"I have a good idea," Mitch said, turning off the television as the theme music came back on, "let's send them an e-mail that says we moved to Iceland."
"If only it were that simple, my love. I wonder what the repercussions of this show will be?"
He glanced at the clock. "No way to tell now and there's not much we can do about it in any event. Can you get back to sleep?"
I smiled at him, "I do not know, that was pretty frightening stuff. I might have nightmares."
He turned off the overhead light and the room darkened completely. "Come, wife," he said, lowering his voice to match the one on the show, "finish your speaking and get ready to sleep. The sun will set soon."
Giving a little giggle, I turned over onto my right side, adjusted the blankets and rolled myself into a little ball. Mitch slid into bed next to me and, avoiding my sore arm, wrapped his arms around my waist.
"I love you," he murmured, "even if your table manners are atrocious."
"Very funny, Mitch." I snuggled back into him, enjoying the feel of his solid body against mine. Sleep came quickly.