Chocolate Milk

The clock radio on the dresser said it was nine o’clock when Delilah woke to the sound of Sam shuffling around the darkened room. After a moment she sat up and looked about herself, still unused to waking up in a strange place every night.

Sam stopped in the center of the room, “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” Delilah answered, before she thought of what that meant. 

Delilah watched Sam as he opened the cooler and placed its contents in the ancient microwave. The abrupt ding shattered the silence that had settled around them. He handed her a plastic pouch. 

She looked at it but didn’t take it. “I can’t drink that.” 

He sighed, “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Delilah.”

“Don’t call me that.” She turned away from him.

Samson opened the second pouch and raised it to his lips. The smell made Delilah’s stomach stir.

He took a sip, “Look, I know this is a lot to take in all at once, but. . . I don’t know when I’m going to be able to get fresh blood again. This was taken humanely from willing volunteers. A lot of people don’t get that luxury their first time.”

Would you rather starve to death or drink a pint of human blood? 

Reluctantly, she turned and took the pouch from him. 

“If you close your eyes it’s just like chocolate milk.” Of all the lies he had told her over the past forty-eight hours, Delilah wanted to believe this one the most.

It was nothing like chocolate milk. Delilah felt every mouthful slide down the length of her throat. It was repulsive, but once she started she couldn’t stop. 

Sam got up and turned on the TV. 

“Don’t bother,” Delilah said, between gulps, “It doesn’t work.”

He dropped to his knees in front of the old set, then brought his fist down on the top of it. The picture flickered into focus out of the static and Sam shot her a look of triumph. He watched it for a moment, then leaned forward to adjust the volume.

“. . . Investigators are still searching the charred remains of the home of Victor Thelp’s for any clues about the brutal deaths of the senator, his wife, and their two children.” A photo of a burning houses flashed across the screen. “The family home went up in flames around five o’clock this morning. Their neighbor spotted the blaze from her kitchen window and called the police.” A few shots of the crumbling interior came up, followed by a portrait of the deceased, posing together, in red, white, yellow and red sweaters, hands folded neatly in front of them, big smiles plastered across their faces. “But, sadly, by the time fire rescuers were able to make their way inside, it was too late. The senator, his wife and two young children burned to death in their beds. The fire is thought to have started in the basement. . .”

“S**t.” Sam whispered, barely audible over the television. 

“What?” Delilah asked, sucking the final drops out of the little plastic bag and feeling the post-feeding euphoria sink in. 

He glanced back at her, “He’s one of ours.”

Delilah blinked, “The senator??” She asked, “The senator is a vampire?”

“Was.” His voice was heavy like a brick. 

“Oh. That’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Yup.” He said, without turning to look at her. He shut off the TV and silence rushed to fill the space where the reporter’s voice had been, like the tide crashing down on the rocks. The zipper of his bag squealed as he opened it and pulled out a map, which he tossed to her. “Pick a state.”