Kylar Knight

Kylar Knight saw the hope.

The bond the clan shared was like no other, for the tendrils of each member had been intertwined together tightly to become united as one; it was a single vine, a strong symbol of the clan as a whole. Those who fell, lost to friends and foes forever, broke away from the living of the clan as the lush green of their own offering to the family's bond dried to a parched yellow as it withered to nothingness. However, it were fresh green tendrils of such youth and new blood that grew in the place of those lost, the next generation of the family that would continue to thrive, to expand and to flourish.

A leader had passed on, her own tendril that had once been a part of the strong foundation from which the clan had prospered had shriveled as the life diminished from the once spirited green. When the light inside of her faded, the darkness that had once consumed her eyes finally conquering her crumbling soul, the vine's life force had receded. A heart and spirit had been taken, and the clan had grown vulnerable in death's presence, and as a result, more were lost to its lethal blade.

The clan was fragile, yet to Kylar, the faith was a promise.

Those who had once knelt, stood taller, and those who had once kept their sight within their own shadow, extended their vision to the horizon. Some fell, but they rose, their eyes shining with the raw hope of possibility which was driving them forward. A leader was gone, but not all. Some were lost, but others were not. Despair was looming, but they kept their sight on the beacon of hope that lit not only their own surroundings, but the entire night sky. They held faith within their hearts, and it was only honorable that Kylar did the same.

And so he chose; he chose to fight.

Kylar embraced the hope they shared, and he stood- a guard to protect those who could not themselves, a fighter for those who fell, no longer able to continue. Teeth, his own, flared a white too pure, clean of the blood that tainted those who had immersed themselves within the battle to seize control. They had come to battle, to begin a war, to defeat the weakened clan, and he would give them that. He would fight blood and tooth for his new family, and through every moment of both, light and darkness, he would hold onto the hope as he had learned he should from those who had perished.

It was a bloody massacre.

There were those who leaped her his legs, while there were others who bared their pointed teeth with pride, the luster, a pearly white, shining in the light emitted from the sky of what seemed to be a dulled gray with streaks of red painting it as if it were the canvas, and the red was the paint of blood. Kylar jumped at a challenger, his own legs wrapping around the legs of his opponent. He reeled his curled fist backwards before pushing it out into a punch, making contact with his adversary's soft stomach. The man, young but slightly older than Kylar, coiled back as he spat blood, the droplets of red soaring through the air with his ragged cough. Kylar's grip tightened as his teeth met the flesh of the man's neck, and he bit hard as the taste of blood, refreshing and sadistically delicious, brought him ecstasy. The body crumpled beneath him, falling to a heap on the ground as puffs of dust exploded at the impact.

The life had bled; the death had conquered.

The hope Kylar had vowed to hold until his last breath was fading quickly as bodies dropped at such a rapid rate. Red tainted the dying green of the grass, and the sound of tooth meeting flesh completely annihilated any silence that had once brought peace or the words that often brought verbal conflict. His faith was dwindling like a string of such fine threads as it crumbled to dust as if it had never once existed. He stood amidst a lake of blood whose magical waters rippled, the crimson shade shimmering under the tender touch of the gray sky in the mourning.

A girl, just older than himself, was bit, and as she fell, Kylar watched. She had once been fighting beside him; it had been only moments before. All of a sudden she had been caught by a predator from the shadows, and she had fallen with the smile from a victory only seconds before still reaching her sparkling eyes. Her brunette hair was spread underneath her, the soft waves cushioning her fall as she laid, drenched within the blood in a slumber from which she would never awaken.

An eye for an eye, one life for another, the clan's strength had dissipated.

Kylar wanted a reason to continue, to have hope, but there were none. His clan, his new family, was at the brink of destruction. There were so many who had fled, and there were few who stayed behind to fight for one last chance to protect those too weak to move. He had been one of them, and so many of those who fought beside him had fallen. Between him and them, there was no difference. In any other universe, he could have been someone on the ground, blood drained from his body, just as easily.

His faith was crumbling, the lesson he had learned from those gone already forgotten. He could not have faith when his clan had lost so many. He could not hold hope when their home had been raided and their territory seized. Blood dripped from his teeth, but Kylar didn't care. The deaths he had caused did not bother him, but the deaths of his family were affecting. His clan was losing, its core failing to continue to thrive, and he, himself, found it difficult to fight for something that seemed to be impossible to resurrect.

Kylar Knight saw the doubt.

August Sterling

Dropped Out.

Rasheen Perpetua

 The thing about Rasheen Perpetua is this: as much as he's a boy ready for blood spill, he also craves pacifism.

-

He awakes from whatever that dream state was, with his hazel eyes capturing and reflecting the intense light of the room he's resting in. They blink curiously, cautiously, unsure as to how he arrived inside the room in the first place; the last thing he clearly remembers – aside from the horrible dream – is standing by Caroline's bed as she took her last breath, looking around at the other New Blood vampires who survived the city-wide lockdown, and pinpricks of pain attacking all of his body before he fell into unconsciousness.

However, instead of worrying about all of this, especially the horridness he saw as he slept, he chooses to key in on the fact that he's inside this mysterious room, decorated by nothing, really, but the bed he's tucked into. He stands up, feeling his body all over to check for damage, as quite a lot it was done in his sleep. The hearing aid is still inside his ears, with their regular setting on; his hair is a sweaty, matted mess against his scalp; there is a dried line of drool keeping his lips shut, and it's tracing downward; his neck still has the two puncture marks from breaking dawn; but, other than that, he's perfectly stable, okay, safe.

That is, until a girl sticks her head in the room – she's a rather pretty girl, her hair poufy in an un-messy way and eyes curious. "Are you Rasheen?" she asks. Before he can reply, she says, "Great. You're late and have a lot to catch up on."

Still confused, he decides her actions are as good as any, and follows her out and into another room.

The room is full, and everyone is situated around the area, with only a select handful sitting at the small, round table in the middle. Eyes fall upon him and he weakly mutters a, "I was...sleeping." No one really reacts to this, and instead he sticks to the nearest wall he can, beginning to hear whatever deep conversation these people were in. However, because he just came in, he's more confused than he's ever been.

The girl, whose name he learns is Blythe, leans over to him and immediately explains what's been happening so far. "There's a rival clan coming here, now that Caroline is dead," she says, voice a whisper as the Elders are still talking. He even catches a look for the timeless man, Gareth, with a crease in his forehead. "They say that these vampires are...unalike us. Violent, cruel, unforgiving – the things in horror films, you know?" He knows, though he wasn't a fan of those films due to their high levels of gore; but, he's a vampire now, so can't do much about it.

She quiets down as a boy of about their age, deadly attractive too, glares at the pair of them speaking. "Who's that?" he asks. The way he was looking at them just now has made shivers run up and down his arms, and the manner in which he continues staring at them makes him squirm.

The boy's cold eyes don't stay on them too long once Blythe gives him a one over. "His name is Kylar, but that doesn't matter." She takes a deep breath, and says, "What does matter is that the Elders want us to split into two groups. One of the groups is to stay here, in this shelter, and serve as a guard if

when the clan comes, they chose to attack Caroline's inner-circle. But because there have been some rumors about the group already, Gareth and the rest are taking precautions and want the other half to flee the city and go undercover elsewhere."

She ceases to speak, and it takes a whole minute for everything to sink in. He should've known there would be more vampires out there, and most wouldn't be like them. He should've known that at one point or another, he would have to meet these other people, and it would potentially be on grounds of war.

He should've known.

"What are you doing?" he asks Blythe. He's indecisive on what to do, and, since she's proved herself to be knowledgeable, Blythe might give direction.

"Me? I'm going to stay here as guard, no doubt," she says, voice confident.

He guesses that leaves him to agree. But he's not sure he really wants to. See, he's doesn't do track and field, he runs for cross country. To stay here is synonymous to the first sprint taken for track and field, and to flee with the rest is a longer trek just as cross country is. Maybe he'd be better out there, fighting the occasional wanderer from the rival clan, but perhaps he could serve here too.

He can't even form a solid solution because the Elders are already calling out for volunteers for both missions. Surprisingly, when the call for guard is announced, more than half of the clan throws their hands up – he chooses not to, sure of himself now, due to analogies. Gareth asks them all to stand to the side and thanks them for their contribution. All goes well and he's about to attend to the ones fleeing when a deep voice calls out:

"Blythe Marie Sullivan," – he tries really hard not to laugh at her middle name – "where do you think you're going?"

"Umm, where Gareth told the guard to go. What are you doing?" she asks the boy, Kylar, with a glint in both tone and look.

He doesn't consider this, and instead says, "No you're not. You're going to flee." This little sentence causes a full blown argument between the two, and it sure gets heated, but Rasheen can't say that he's not amused because he really is.

The last line is an iconic one, and Rasheen doesn't know whether he'll ever forget it. "Fine." They both say it stubbornly at the same time, and instead of going together as guard, they wedge their way to either side of Rasheen, chins pointed and eyes slit.

Hoo boy, he thinks. At least it will be fun.

Gareth address the larger team now, telling them that all they are to do is run like hell, escape the city without many casualties, and lay low for a day or too.

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

Deciding it will be easier to steal some things from convenient stores, the group simply changes

into whatever garments are lying around in the safe house. For Rasheen, this includes solely a burly coat, but, when they step outside, it doesn't do much once the cold, brisk air of the night hits them as much as the reality of this night.

Since no one takes real command outside the doors, Rasheen decides to take the job upon himself. Turning to them, he says, "You guys are welcome to disagree with me on this, and we'll even take a vote at the end because I believe in true democracy," he laughs at this, and continues, "But I say we split into four groups. There are about forty of us, so we can divide into groups of ten or so. That way, it will take a while for the other clan to sniff us out, instead of having a large group easy to track."

People consider this and once faces become certain, he asks how they want to proceed. Many, though they agree it would be easier to be smaller in number, don't want to leave the company of so many familiar faces – they chose to stick together in a large group.

Alright fine. But when the clan falls upon us, there will be chaos in escaping, and the death rate will be exponential. Not like I care for the well-being of us all, or anything. Nope, not at all. "Alright. Excellent, lets head out then."

This time, people do begin to decide where they want to walk. Many people walk in groups of five; some in pairs, like Blythe and Kylar, though they don't speak; and others, like Rasheen, walk all by their lonesome. He doesn't mind it, really, because staying ahead of the pack, with his hearing aid turned up as much as it can without it screeching with the smallest of inhales, means he can be of us some use and warn the others of anything off-key.

Plus, he was eighteen when he moved here. He didn't waste any free seconds stuck in his room. No, he went exploring whenever he could, finding the coolest alleys and grungiest alcoves to spend alone time in. He may not be a local, but he's positive he knows this city – his city – more than some who've lived here their entire lives.

Confidence is key, he quotes someone. He doesn't know who, exactly, but that hardly matters.

Thinking it would be grander if he walked even more ahead than the rest, just in case the sounds of the large group are interfering with his sensitive hearing aide, he strides right on over, being unsure of when he begins breaking into a fast walk, then a jog, then a run.

It's like running for cross country: one moment, he's in line with the team, keeping in stride; the next, he's at the finish line with only a broken streamer, dripping sweat, and throbbing legs to prove it. He enjoys running, but maybe so much he doesn't realize he's doing it until it's too late.

He jumps to halt, then. Not because of any suspicious noises, but because of the lack of. He turns, and doesn't see a single soul. Deciding maybe he went too far out, he runs back and is delighted to see the vague silhouettes of his group, attempting to catch up to him.

The first person he sees is Blythe, boots clicking away as much as her tongue. She shoves him, hard. "What the hell! You freaking scared all of us when you just started running away for no reason. Kylar and this other boy ran the opposite direction to see what was going on. Jesus Christ...fuck, dude."

"Sorry," he says. And he really is, but it sounds insincere because he keeps laughing, and then he wheezes because he's out of breath and the chuckle is taking every last amount of oxygen he has left in him. "Hoo boy, you guys are funny."

An angry Kylar is approaching, but he doesn't lash out violently. With an unnerving voice, he says, "Next time you run, no one will be following you and you'll be alone. Got it? I don't care if you're half-death or something, everyone'll ditch you."

"Shut up," Blythe says. "Don't pick on him, it was funny at the end. And if you're so sure people will leave him now that he's gotten us this far, then split up and get your own group." Everyone has caught up, grinning albeit tired. They look at the scene before them, unsure of what's occurring.

Rasheen, not wanting to wedge his way between the friends, says, "Stop, Blythe. It's fine, really." He addresses Kylar now, staring at him with a coldness he didn't know he had. "If you're so sure of that and yourself, why don't you take a group? Just tell some people to follow you and I'm sure they'll blindly do it – oh, wait. They voted against it when it was me. They won't do it for you either."

He glares back, but doesn't step down. "I will." He turns to everyone and shouts, "Me, Rasheen, Blythe, and Eugene here, have agreed to take four separate groups and approach the situation differently." He doesn't stop talking even if Blythe and Eugene, an innocent bystander, protest. "The ones with Rasheen will be the runners of the group; they'll be the first to go and they'll probably get out faster though they'll cause ruckus. Blythe will take people who are a little more mischievous, and therefore difficult to find; one mistake can cause the downfall of this, though. Eugene wants people who are more diplomatic and can convince the clan to leave them alone, if they chose to attack at all. I'll take anyone with a brain."

He finishes his monologue, thinking people will buy into his crap. And – goddammit, they're actually listening to this guy. Rasheen rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest. It was his idea in the first place, but he wanted to split the people up evenly, none of this grouping stuff. Still, still, still; his idea, his fault.

A small cluster of people approach him, and he takes them away.

"I'm going to take you guys to my work place," he says. Because in the chaos of this ordeal, which vampire would be dumb enough to think: Hey, let me check this suspicious looking frozen yogurt place because frozen yogurt is the symbol for the devil and I hate the devil as much as I hate the enemy clan.

No one, that's who.

"Okay," he addresses the group again, "there are only five of us in total, which is cool because we can get out there faster. Are any of you guys distance runners?" Of the four, two raise their hands. "Alright, cool, me three. We're going to stick in the middle, then. But that means you two," he says, pointing to the two that didn't reply, "are the most useful. One will be in the back, one in the front. Whichever one of you scouts in the front, you'll be in charge of getting to Pinky's Yogurt A.S.A.P and simply observing once hidden; at the smallest sign of danger, though, come running back. And whoever stays in the back, you're in charge of watching our backs from afar and sprinting toward us whenever

you sense something wrong." He takes a deep breath, saying, "If we stick together until about 6th and Pine, I think, our split should be easy."

He doesn't ask if they're ready because they stride in tune with him. It seems difficult for the short-runners because they look as if they want to go faster than Rasheen is allowing them too, but they know they need to conserve their energy.

The run is brisk like the air. He hears people trying to speak, and he hushes them. The closer they get to the city, the antsier they get, but that means the closer and antsier the enemy clan can be as well. Everything has been too peaceful for his taste; while he wants everything to be this way in the end, he doesn't want to be tricked into a false security.

(It's happened before and when he realized what was occurring, he turned into a vampire – it wasn't the outcome he thought would occur once he called someone a "conservatit." But, hey, that's what happens when you're prejudiced against someone due to their – incorrect and unmoral – political beliefs.)

Ignoring this for now, however, he even tells his group to stop breathing so loudly. Maybe he's being unfair to them – the two scouts are tripping over their feet and the other two are surprisingly tired – but he really doesn't want any of them to die, even if he met them all but half an hour ago and doesn't know their names at all.

They keep running this way, with tripping and hitches and shushes, but the fact of the matter is that they continue, and that's all that really matters.

At about fifteen minutes from his store, right at about where he estimated their halting point, he slows down and they follow. "Alright, my sprinter in the front, do your thing. Pinky's is the easiest shop to spot, even if it is about midnight. Second sprinter, stay here until you can't see us. Even then, wait like five minutes before you begin your trek." He addresses the final two, "You guys...just stick with me."

Once the first sprinter has a five minute head start, they begin their own journey. This time, their breaths don't hitch and quiver as much, and he's glad because of this and because now he's able to pick up the smallest of sounds with his aid. Even the rustle of the girl's hair, the one of his left, against her shoulders causes him stiffen, ready to protect the two of them.

At one point or another, the other girl to his right begins to sniffle a little, and he just hopes she isn't crying. Being sick is one thing because it comes at odd times, but crying would create a downpour of emotions and sounds into Rasheen's system.

It's something he doesn't need right now, thanks.

What he does need, however, is a timer because he's unsure if five or ten minutes have passed. Though, it's not as important as the fact that neither sprinter has come back to group, which is a good sign because it means the coast is clear from as much as the two can see.

And because life happens to dislike Rasheen at odd intervals, there is a ringing in his aide, the voice distortable and murky. He wants to ignore this, he really does, but it's impossible when the pitch keeps getting higher and higher and higher. Either whoever is approaching is secretly blowing on a dog

whistle, or they're a laughing mouse.

Or it could be a person, but who knows.

He tells his running partners what he's hearing, and they, too, stiffen. This newfound sound gives them more motivation or something because they pick up the pace and begin sprinting. They need to get to Pinky's now, they need to warn the first sprinter now, and they need the second sprinter to catch up them now.

Now, now, now.

But now doesn't happen now; it happens never.

There is a second hitch in his hearing aid, and he really hopes it isn't a friend joining in on the fight. There are level one disasters, and then there are level two disasters; this would be level three, despite the impossibilities.

He and his duo are but five minutes away from Pinky's when the noise really starts to pick up. It burns his ears rather than irritate them, and he almost wants to take the aid out and crush it against the concrete floor – but at least it has warned them of the dangers approaching them, so for that he is thankful.

The noise continues to become unbearable and he turns back, two vague outlines running at him and the two girls with speed he's never seen before. He's awed for a moment, that there are humans – err, vampires – who can run this fast; then he recalls they're chasing him and his friends for a tasty snack, and he ignores the thought completely.

The heavy panting is clearer by the second, and the girls on either side of it pick up on it as well. One questions what they should do, and his reply is: "Keep running. Don't stop." He probably shouldn't have replied at all, but Pinky's is so close and he's sure that with his first sprinter's reinforcement, they can take down the two opposing vamps.

For the first time, Rasheen turns around just to size up the two clan members. If they seem small, he'll take them on here and now. So when he looks back, he's damned. Because not only are they both tiny, one of them is his freaking second sprinter. And the sprinter doesn't look worried, and that's what concerns Rasheen the most; he should've attacked her by now, but here they are, running side by side.

Deciding to do as his team-member has, he gives some doubt to the girl. Maybe she's here for redemption. Maybe she wants to brag about the horridness she's caused. Maybe, just maybe, she happens to be on their side, and has been since the very beginning.

But who knows.

"Who is she?" he asks his sprinter. "Is she one of them, or something?"

"No, you idiot," he replies, both of them struggling to catch up. "She was in the original group. Remember?" He doesn't. "When she saw me, she was yelling her head off for help, so I ran to her and she told me what happened."

He considers this and asks the girl, another one whose name he doesn't know, "So what happened? Whose group were you in?"

It takes a minute for her to stop quivering and quaking so much.

"I've been trying to catch up!" the girl says, face red and puffy and blotchy from sobbing. "They...they almost got me," she heaves, trying desperately to catch her breath; she fails. "But they...they got the rest, they got all the groups." Another sniffle, and, "They got Eugene and Kylar and Blythe, Rasheen...

"...They got them all."

-

The thing about Rasheen Perpetua is this: as much as he's a boy ready for pacifism, he also craves blood spill.

Bōluó "Pineapple" Wen

He is so tired.

His brain is a heavy lump positioned on his neck, weighing it down; he just wants to sleep a little longer- five more minutes. His alarm blares in the distance, easing him from unconsciousness to the ready mind he always carries with him to class each day. Slowly twitching awake, he realizes just how cold it is- perhaps the dawn of winter has finally arrived. It always does, right around the middle of the first semester, and he loves it every time. Snowflakes trickling from the sky onto the campus always makes it so much prettier, swathing all the stressed students in a white blanket- almost as if the buildings don't represent all their worries and challenges, their endless assignments and little joy. Almost as though it's not a place where a boy's only comfort can be the pineapples he carries around with him.

Something keeps slapping him. Five more minutes, he pleads, but the words are an incoherent mutter. The unforgiving palm rams into him once more, and he jolts awake at the pain, hand darting up to the smacked area. Cheek cherry red and incessantly stinging, his eyelids crawl upwards, revealing the narrowed eyebrows of a pale, hostile face. It is not his roommate- a stranger, some random clan member callously shaking him to his senses. The grimy floor beneath him is not the bed of a thousand pillows back in his dormitory. A sweet, tangy smell slithers its way into his nostrils, but it is not the scent of pineapples. It's blood, the odor he's grown all too familiar with.

He scrambles to his feet, pulling his hand from his cupped cheek. The pain is trivial, and he is weak to react to it- new expectations have been set for quite some time now, and he is not as weak as that boy in college, a collection of pathetic fruits piled underneath his bed. He is part of a clan; he matters now, has a purpose. He is needed.

"There's been a breach."

The words are surreal in his mind, and the neurons try to connect quick enough, but his comrade is already racing away, sprinting to the battlefield. The room he has resurfaced in has been abandoned, and his senses tick, rushing towards the door. The stench of blood grows stronger as the street nears, and the clang of weapon meeting weapon repeatedly cracks in his eardrums. A symphony of battle cries and scuffles and death blares, and there is so much blood. He peers outside, the door still wrenched open by his colleague; the road is paved in fallen friends and enemies, glassy eyes and limp limbs wishing, waiting for a postmortem victory. For a moment, he is dazed, caught in the whirlpool of violence- yet he remains emotionless. His heart is as cold as the biting wind, callously prowling from warrior to warrior, ignorant of the hardships they already face, the lives they are fighting for. It howls and shrieks, sends slack frost pummeling noses and ears until there is nothing but cold and mindless defenses, endless rows and columns of dead, unsheltered bodies.

He runs. The corner of his eye catches an unprotected group, and he dashes toward them, intent to make himself worthy, needed, purposeful. His sneakers slap the snow-crusted sidewalk, breaths sparse and cloudy in the frozen air. Even oxygen feels the discontent, the rivalry; it, too, is paralyzed. He flees with honor- to protect- and though he cannot help but glance back at his battling allies with guilt, he does not tarry. It shifts in the pit of his stomach, his fatigue long forgotten- all he wants is to join the battle, but he senses need elsewhere, and he cannot disobey the clan. A craving for blood flutters into his mind, but he pushes it away, focuses on the safety of the unsafe. He is needed. He is wanted.

He has a purpose.

He leads the group, fueled by adrenaline. The streets are infested, and he cannot linger a moment longer, for invaders close in from all sides. Anxious footsteps march behind him and he knows he has finally stepped up to the plate; he has one chance. The world zooms in and out of focus as his eyes dart from building to building, searching for a path, a way out. His heart hammers in his chest as he processes, for their lives are in his hands- his responsibility. There is no clear road.

The boy with the pineapples never had to think so quickly. He learned at his own speed, thought at a pace often considered slow despite the bright, curious mind underneath. He never worked well under pressure, always sought the comfort of a useless fruit to guide him as he debated.

And it is clearer than ever that boy has disappeared. Vanished.

Survival mode remains. A weathered door hangs by its hinges in a nearby building, and he darts across the landscape, carefully signaling the others. The door creaks open slowly as he pushes, ever so cautiously. Peering his head through the door, he rapidly surveys the room, taking in nothing but dusted, blanket-coated objects and cobwebs lining the corners. The windows have been smashed- shattered glass litters the planked floor. Each hesitant step results in an ear-splitting grate beneath his toes, and he knows nothing has passed through here in ages.

Determination courses through him; he walks with the heartbeat thumping in his eardrums. Sweat tickles the back of his neck, and he clenches, unclenches his fists. The group retreats to the back wall, and he leads them across the expanse of the room, out of sight, movements so minuscule few could pick up on them while occupied. Every gentle placing of his foot electrifies him, and he feels the exertion of fear in every tense muscle, every struggling artery and vein, every nerve pulsating within him. He is alive- so, so alive. He has a purpose.

The wall ends, and he locates another passage, leading to a musty alley. He counts each head as they pass by, confirming the safety of his people. A body gazes at him from the main road, half submerged in a pool of its own blood- it is mangled, and he cannot go that way, cannot see one of his own with such deadly wounds. A brick wall faces him, tall and menacing; grayed with age- almost ready to crumble. He cannot go that way, cannot risk a fall, the shattering of fragile bones upon asphalt. No, only the clamber up the dumpster is left, over the fence of rotted wood into what he hopes will offer safety. He signals the others upwards, watches the street for danger.

His heart skips a beat.

He knows how cliche it sounds- the boy with the pineapples had always been a nerd, delving into novels and literature of all kinds- a freak in all ways. Memories return of the campus library, of crouching behind the fiction shelves and feasting on letters, words, fragments of sentences combined into chapters upon chapters of escape. He has read that phrase countless times, always wondered what the sensation feels like- if it was even true. It has taken a complete and utter transformation to truly feel that skip, that pause, where everything in time misses its part. As if the conductor freezes for a split second, and every instrument grows unsure, drifts off track. That moment of pure silence on the stage as someone's brain malfunctions, and the line is caught on the tip of their tongue; the audience is staring nonchalantly.

An enemy watches them.

She stands at the edge of the alley, clutching a sharp, blood-tinged blade, and he is not prepared. "Go," he urges, voice soft at first. He does not turn, does not cease the eye contact, however terrifying it may be. Unarmed, he is hopeless, doomed. But he has a purpose, a goal- to aid the others in their escape. And the 'go' is suddenly thundering, booming as the clan members scramble over the garbage to the other side, where he hopes the grass is greener. She is running, sprinting towards him, feet pounding a dreadful, horrifying beat that only quickens the pace of the one echoing inside him, the beats he fears will be his poor heart's last few. He tries to shield them, block the dumpster, conquer his fear. He will not let his adversary take their lives. The blade shimmers, and he swallows deeply, stands his ground. He will not back down.

Glancing behind him, he witnesses the last of his allies hop the fence, and his gaze swivels back only in time to see the weapon barreling towards his face. 

Apollo Finn

Guilt was a feeling I avoided.

It was as unappealing as writing a twenty-page essay. Although it hurt my chest a lot more to deal with the former. The emotion was something that ate away at you in the back of your head, made you make stupid mistakes and yell unkind words. Now I felt more guilt than I ever had before.

I remembered waking up after having some strange dream, another girl pulling me to my feet. She would've been even more beautiful if her face hadn't been drained pale or dark circles hadn't hung from her eyes but lately everyone seemed to look like hell. My own hair was so knotted that I couldn't even get a comb through it, my eyes wanting to close at every opportunity. We had had time to rest since then but not much maybe half a day or so.

No one had bothered to leave the house Kors had brought us to the night before, which I had since learned was owned by a man named Davidson. We had all been busy recovering Kors and the others busy mourning. I had spent most of the day on a small couch staring out the window where rain had begun to pour. It had been more relaxing than talking to anyone else would have been. Until a woman named Pemele went from room to room telling us all to get ready.

We had met in the kitchen everyone nervous the feeling of something lurking in the air. Kors had entered last his eyes red and bloodshot giving Pemele a distressed look. She hadn't backed down though instead, she had kept her voice steady as she told us all what was coming. A rival clan was on its way to rip us to shreds.

I had never considered myself a coward but here I was walking away from a fight that seemed to need every combatant available. It was true I was young and inexperienced my legs still shaky as I walked down the narrow street but that didn't stop my guilt from pelting me as heavily as the rain. I could still smell the blood of the other clan even though we had made in several blocks from Caroline's final resting place.

We had split up into two groups those who were still too weak to fight and those that wished to remain behind and defend our clan's territory. It felt weird to use the word clan and even stranger to call myself a part of it. Negate the fact that I was new to the idea of sucking blood and killing to survive, even in its simplest form I had had so few things to be a part of while growing up. I didn't have parents or siblings then, had never had a family for me to call mine or a steady home for me to latch on to. Whether what was happening now would last or not, however, was a mystery. Seeing as such, I let the idea slide to the back of my mind; there was a much more pressing matter at hand.

The group crept along the street, the sidewalks emptied except for us. Rain continued to pour down, disorienting my vision and obscuring the path. Everyone looked like blurred shadows and I had to continuously push wet curls from my face and tuck them behind my ears. No one dared to speak the only sound an occasional splash as someone stepped in a puddle. My teeth began to chatter and I clamped down on them hard after receiving a warning glance from a woman I believed to be named Zoe. In the dimming light of the day her eyes had looked so pitch black that I almost whimpered.

From what I had been told we were going to a safer location to recover. Unfortunately, how far away it was or where it was was outside of my realm of knowledge. Just as my legs began to ache, Kors, stopped suddenly. Being in front this caused everyone else to pile up behind him. I bumped into another blonde boy his frame much wirier than mine. For half a second relief found me; then I realized why we had stopped.

My eyes darted frantically around, everyone else's body as tense and rigid as my own. After a few seconds, however, Kors relaxed again and even Davidson's fangs slipped back into his mouth.

"Are we safe?" A girl by the name of Bee asked, her arms wrapped tightly around her shivering form.

Pemele looked behind her and brushed her soaking blonde hair away from her pale skin as she dipped her head. "For now," she responded vaguely the answer less reassuring than I wished it had been.

Continuing forward again was tougher this time. Already soaked to the bone with nerves frayed to the point of splitting no one seemed to like our odds. Everything was masked by the sound and smell of rain, the once comforting noise turned sour as the sun set in the sky. I was sure there had been darker nights but not ones that I could remember. Even once my blue eyes had adjusted I could see nothing but mere shadows the street lights few and far between.

The next scare came from a boy with green and yellow hair that had hung over his eyes in its drenched state. "Did anyone else here that?"

A few of us nodded, it was the sound of an engine growing closer. If squinted hard enough through the rain I could even see the brights of the pickup truck.

"Do we really need to be that careful?" Someone else asked although their own voice was barely above a whisper.

Kors nodded reluctantly though it was hard for me to be sure it was him in the faint lighting. "We'll turn here to be safe," his voice croaked out of his throat sorely.

He hadn't been the same since Caroline died the night before. I had thought his sunken eyes and scruffy appearance couldn't have gotten worse but I was sorely mistaken. If I had been able to see his face now I would have been afraid to find more water than the rain could supply. It was clear that he had been close with her but how close I was ignorant on.

Following Kors instructions, we all slipped onto the side street to the left of us just before the truck sped by. It was black in color and would've blended in with the road if not for its headlights. As it drove past it threw our shadows against the walls behind us, making the faces of the others look like skeletons and ghosts. A shiver ran up my spine that wasn't related to the cold and I let out a heavy breath. Whoever was driving thankfully didn't notice us so we continued onward.

It was another minute of walking in the cold before someone spoke.

"Do you smell that?" Austin asked the group his nose turned upward in the air.

I sniffed the air and grimaced. It was the smell of blood but not the sweet tea like the kind I was used to. This blood smelled sour like lemons that had been squeezed dry, the taste on my tongue bitter and terrifying. Shuddering, I managed a response, "I do."

Kors stopped and the other leaders paused as well. He turned back to look at us his eyes narrowing like he was trying to tell if we were lying.

"I think it's behind us," Bee supplied anxiously.

Davidson shook his head, a fire burning quietly in his eyes. "It's ahead."

The man looked around the group tiredly, his shoulders slumping in silent defeat. "If we can't decide then we'll have to split up. It'll be harder to find us all that way."

My heart lurched with sudden fear but I kept my face indifferent. No one else looked overly frightened, I had to play it cool. Scrutinizing the group Kors turned to Davidson, his dark brown eyes meeting the younger man's bright blue ones. "You know how to get to the safe house don't you?"

He nodded silently and Kors let out a heavy breath. "Alright then, you three come with me," he instructed pointing to me, Austin and Zoe, "And you two go with Davidson and Pemele," he told Bee and the other boy.

After we all gave a sign that we had heard him, he spun on his heels and turned down the nearest street. I shot the other group one final look and then took after him. From now on I had to be on my toes. Every sound a cue to act every smell a reason to run. Yet I wasn't completely foolish, I knew well enough that the most important thing was keeping Kors alive. We had already lost Caroline we didn't need to lose anyone else.

The new street turned out to be quiet, almost too quiet. That have might have been my own opinion though for it was hard to hear anything when my heart was as loud a drum solo in my head. There were more street lights down this route which Kors didn't seem to like and with the rain beginning to let up we had almost no cover. Biting my lip I traversed forward with my footsteps keeping their sound to a minimum.

A scream sounded. I whipped around in terror, the sound coming from where we had left the other group. My blood rushed ever faster. We had to save them. I tried to go back but a hand stopped me, the women's iron grip causing my shoulder to seize up. "Don't, we need to keep moving."

The older man nodded, "They can handle themselves."

But could we? I swallowed the fear that had lodged itself in my throat and dipped my head. We began moving again, faster this time if not only slightly. It was as if Kors didn't want to worry us even though we were all far beyond high alert. Everything in my body was telling me to run and I found myself sniffing the air every few seconds to make sure we weren't being followed. The wind was blowing from behind us which helped with that and the rain had died completely even if we were still soaking wet. If we hadn't turned that next corner I might have even suggested that everything was fine.

Blood flooded my senses. Kors went flying to the ground, his nose leaking crimson. My stomach flipped over as I looked ahead of us to find two vampires. They smelled just like the sour blood from before marking them as the other clan. The taller of the two was a thin girl who had a large scar raked across her cheek. She grinned widely showing off her fangs as the lanky boy next to wiped the blood from his fist.

"Look what we have here," he practically purred, his voice low and chilling.

"Cowards," the girl agreed.

Before I even bared my fangs they were upon us. Austin was flung to the ground by the girl, blood spurting from his chest. The boy tearing into Zoe's throat as he pinned her against a nearby wall. My vision swam but I swallowed my bile and slashed out at the girl's back. Her skin ripped beneath my fingertips and she howled in pain.

"Mind your own fucking business," she screeched backhanding me.

My balance failed me and I went sprawling to the ground. Without even regaining my footing I launched myself again, this time, my jaws finding a soft spot between her jaw and left shoulder. A gurgling sound pushed past her lips and Austin shoved her away, his hands finding her chest and making a sizable hole within it. All I tasted was blood my head woozy and my knees weak. There was a scream to my left and I stumbled back in horror as I watched the neck of the boy get snapped.

We had won.

"Are you two alright?" Kors asked as he managed to push himself back to his feet, wiping his own blood on his sleeve.

Austin huffed out an, "Uhuh," and I nodded numbly.

It took me a moment to realize not all of us had made it. I tried to ignore this as I rubbed the blood off of my face and caught my breath back. The fact that I was becoming used to this silently dragging me down as I stood back up.

It wasn't something I should have had to get used to.

At the same time, however, it was too late for me to turn back now.

Eugene  Macmillan

Automatic 14

Yu JiaMing "James"

No entry.