The deader was a gruesome one, even by rotting corpse standards. Its hair was falling out, and one eye was already gone, a blackened emptiness gaped where it should be. It groaned and used its one good arm to claw at the hybrid. From the safety of my living room couch, I flinched. That swipe would be a deadly one to a firsty like me; to the hybrid, it was nothing. The wolf-man growled, revealing his dangerous, razor-sharp teeth, but it was just for show. He wouldn't bite the deader. Its dead flesh had nothing to offer him.

The hybrid slapped the deader hard across its decaying face. Its other eye fell out and hung there, a few new, bloodless cuts were visible. I felt bile begin to rise in my throat and swallowed hard. The hybrid's large claws had sliced through the dead flesh as easily as if it had been a rotting piece of fruit.

"Why do you watch this stuff, Skip?" I asked my older brother.

"Know your enemy." He said with a shrug.

"We don't have to worry about them. When do we ever come in contact with a hybrid or a deader?" I scoffed.

I didn't expect him to give an answer, it was my way of just saying, "Think about it."

I abandoned the television and returned to the book laying open in my lap. It was an Anne Rice book, Memnoch the Devil. I wondered if Lestat was a real superior. Never call them vampires. They are superiors. But Lestat was nothing like the superiors I'd met. Though, it was an old book - written before the superiors took over the world. They could have been like him when they were hiding among us, but I wouldn't know. I've never experienced a world outside of compound twenty.

"You never know, Harper." Skip said in answer to my rhetorical question.

"What?" I asked Skip. "You think you're going to be a firsty superior?"

Firsty potentials were the firsties the superiors deemed fit to be changed into a superior one day. Some firsties were mere firsty breeders - a horrible fate. They locked them in special compounds and demand they produce offspring to grow up and satiate their never-ending bloodlust. I was a firsty bleeder. That meant they took as much of my blood as possible, then let me be so it could build back up before took more.

"Are you kidding? Darn straight, I will be a superior one day!" Skip declared.

He was delusional. Changes almost never happened. A firsty was more than likely going to be a firsty something for their entire life. They called us firsties because that's how we all start out - as a regular human. When we hit puberty, if we turned out to be a hybrid (werewolf by my grammy's terminology), we were good to go. Hybrids are strong enough to kill the deaders (Grammy calls them zombies) and fight off the random vegabond superiors. They aren't as strong as the superiors, but they don't need the superiors' protection. If we die, we turn into a deader. If we're chosen, we become a superior. I've heard of other things; things like spell-casters and the even stronger spellbinders. Those are so rare, it's just rumor that they even exist. The truth is that the superiors probably found a way to kill them all, because they were stronger (especially the spellbinders). Superiors can't stand to be bested in any way.

The fight displaying in front of us was finally over. A superior swooped in to haul the motionless deader away. It hadn't stood a chance. A new opponent, a superior by the look of it, stepped into the dusty arena. His lips were curled in a sinister snarl and his fangs popped out at the ready, a crazed gleam in its eyes. It was the look of a wild vagabond superior. I shivered.

"You know that's messed up, right?" I asked, tearing myself away from the three dimensional image.

"You'll see."

"Oh, really?" I ridiculed. "Do you think Starsky will want to change you?"

Starsky was our usual lab superior. It was her job to bleed us, and Skip was crushing on her. I had seen the way he looked at her. All superiors are pretty - male or female, but Starsky was exceptionally beautiful - in the way that a panther is beautiful. Its sleek black coat was similar to her long, dark, silky hair. The wild eyes were the same as well. Her entire persona gave off a dangerous vibe that I could tell excited Skip.

"I don't like Starsky." he lied. Superior or not, he was smitten.

"Whatever, bro." I said, and continued to read.

My mind wandered as I tried to soak in the words. Could the superiors start fires by will alone? Could they really fly? I knew they didn't come out in the day, that they were strong and fast. Frighteningly fast. I'd witnessed that firsthand when one of the firsties tried to escape once. The firsty caught the superiors talking themselves and took off at full speed for the metal door. The superior was there in less than a second and shoved the firsty into the door so hard, he nearly died. It scared the wiz out of me.

"She's evil," Skip insisted, still thinking about Starsky.

Truth be told, he was probably always thinking about Starsky. I had no doubt that somewhere inside him, he liked the sinister side of her. Whatever it was that allowed him to be attracted to them - the superiors - was the same type of thing that allowed him to enjoy their savage television programs. It was just sick.

I hated the superiors. They scared me. They wouldn't attack unless provoked, but they just made me feel uneasy. It was that survival instinct that would shake me to my bones when they were near; it practically screamed, "run away!" Unfortunately, there was nowhere to run. Where would I go? Out there? Outside the compound so the deaders could get me during the day? So the superiors could just go catch me at night? Maybe I would be eaten by a vagabond before they could even retrieve me.

Inside the building, I was as safe as possible. I could live to be as old as my grandma, whom was so old, she didn't even have to give them her blood anymore. Out there, I was as good as a goner.

My attempt at reading was getting nowhere. I had to put the novel away for later. It was impossible to enjoy it while I was wondering if Anne Rice was a superior now, or if Lestat had drank my harvested blood. It was the fault of the game shows; they always set my mind in a dark place.

I heaved myself from the comfy, fluffy couch and went to set at the window bench. The moon battled with the darkness to illuminate some of the other compounds. I cranked the window open to feel the cool night breeze. In that moment, I could pretend I didn't have to be locked up to be safe, that I didn't have to give them my blood as trade for their protection. I focused beyond the compounds into the wild.

A loud buzz came over the intercom, bringing me back to my reality. All living quarters had an intercom, to alert us for meals and call us for bleeding. A buzz meant a meal, and judging by the time of night, it was lunch.

Skip abandoned his program to await the low mechanical hum that meant the heavy metal door was unlocked. I reluctantly left the breeze behind and followed him.

"Come help me, loves," Grandma beckoned us. "I want to go down today."

It wasn't often that grandma took it upon herself to join group meals; she usually chose to stay and eat the food we kept in our little kitchen. The group meals were always better than the limited food we kept in our living quarters, however, so we didn't question her sudden decision. We rushed to each of her sides.

It was an easy task to tote grandma to the dining area. She was a small woman, at about only five foot tall and about ninety pounds. Skip could have handled the task on his own, but I felt it would be rude of me not to aid him. Besides, grandma's smelled like I imagined roses or lilies would, and I liked to be near her. It helped drown out the scent of the superiors. They smelled like embers no matter how much they showered.

We helped our grandmother get a tray and piled food onto it, somehow managing to get our own as well. Our parents, who'd been busy with their chores, joined us as soon as we found a seat. There weren't many firsties in the dining area this night. Not everyone showed up for lunch. Most firsties preferred only breakfast and dinner, but the superiors urged us to partake in all meals to keep our blood healthy for them.

The guards watched our little group eat with disgust etched in their fine features. To them, it had to be the equivalent of us watching swine feast on slop. Our food was good, but nothing that interested the superiors. They were only interested in one thing, and that was flowing in our veins.

I noticed a new guard, because of his ice-blue eyes staring at me with that cold, dead look they were so good at giving. It was hard to tell what expression they had unless it was disgust or hunger, and occasionally anger. Usually they were just there, with no apparent feelings at all except maybe boredom. I wondered if they did feel the things we felt, like love, happiness, or interest. Lame eyes just glared on with no sign of what he was thinking. It was beyond creepy.

"Pay him no mind, Harper, dear." Grandma told me.

I adverted my focus back to my meal, but I couldn't suppress the urge to check out the guard. I knew it was bad, you should never give them much attention. They loved attention, and the more you gave, the more they noticed. Lame eyes was noticing me very much. He was as pretty as all the other superiors. He had the smooth, pale skin, that could only belong to them, and the same top notch physique they all possessed. His hair was shaggy and tan in shade. He wore the same outfit all the superior guards wore, black jumpsuits and black combat boots.

I was suddenly aware of my own ensemble, a skimpy sleeveless top and regular jeans. The jeans were fine, but the top was possibly a bad choice with a new guard around. Maybe he wasn't as adept at being around firsties as other guards. Who knows where he'd come from or what he used to do before coming here. He could be a vagabond that had decided to hang up his wild ways and join the ranks. I shivered thinking of how his custom before now could have been to just bite any human that came his way. No wonder he was giving me the eye! I was becoming too comfortable around them, not worrying enough. I should have known not to wear something so revealing.

I struggled to finish my meal without giving him too much thought. It was hard to focus on my family's conversations, or what I was putting into my mouth. I tried to shake it off. Ignore them, and they'll grow bored with you. That's what I thought, but every time I chanced a glimpse, he was still staring. I fought back the creeps that were slinking their way up my spine and followed my family up to empty our trays. Father was minding grandma, so I had nothing to keep my mind occupied on the way.

I was standing behind my father, waiting for him to dispose of his leftovers and grandma's. Suddenly, lame eyes was right beside me. I startled and dropped my tray. Here it comes, I thought. This is going to hurt. But he didn't attack. Instead, he just sniffed the air around me. It was terrifying being so close, knowing he could end my life with just one swift action. Instead, he was savoring my scent.

He seemed to jar himself out of whatever fiendish thoughts he was having and mumbled, "Sorry."

I was nearly floored, honestly. Never in all my life had I been apologized to by a superior. What would this mean? Would the others get mad? No superior should ever lower their self as much as to utter an expression of regret to a mere firsty. To my horror he bent to clean up the mess my fallen tray had caused.

"No." I said quickly. I searched the room for any other superiors that may have noticed. Surely they would kill him, or me, for the weak display. No-one appeared to be aware of the situation. I wasn't thinking, or I'd have just backed away while the backing was good, but I had already bent down to take over his self appointed duty. As soon as I dropped and the air around me shifted, I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. His eyes locked on mine, and his fangs extended in a snap.