A Life of Sacrifice

By Chauncey Haworth

Two young punks, Chuckles and Full Pint, live on the edge in downtown Oakland. Their mundane existence takes a dark turn when they break into a pawn shop, only to unwittingly unleash a malevolent force upon the city in this vampire short story by Chauncey Haworth.

Chuckles and Full Pint sat around their shared record player, playing the game they played most nights, drinking cheap beer and listening to cheap records. The rules of the game were easy. Pick one half of a LP or a full 45, and then it was the next guy’s turn. They were currently half way through Chuckle’s pick of side-one of Lou Reed’s Rock n’ Roll Animal.

Punk nicknames were acquired in one of two fashions, either you were so cool you got something great, or, like most, you stumbled into one through unfortunate life choices. Neither Chuckles or Full Pint were that cool.

Full Pint’s real name was Jason Vala, but after a five-day bender of cocaine and Little House on the Prairie he demanded to be called Half Pint; the name of some girl in the show. After a few years of beer and fast food, the once skinny punk had ballooned to 260 and his once demanded nickname of Half Pint was ballooned to Full Pint.

Chuckles’ case was less in-depth. Originally named Charles Dearth, an evening of laughing fits thanks to huffing nitrous oxide and computer cleaner had forever deemed him Chuckles, and possibly borderline retarded.

The pair lived in a seedy part of downtown Oakland, in an apartment on a corner above a Japanese ramen house. The apartment was constantly engulfed in the smell of boiling noodles and pork belly, something both craved and neither could afford.

The apartment gave them a good vantage point of their corner. They could see everybody coming and going. They could see if friends were bumming around, or getting off the bus at the corner stop, or if there was some creditor out there, someone dumb enough to have lent them money.

One of the best aspects of the apartment’s location was the casing potential. They could see if someone left a bike on the curb, and for how long. They could see the grocery store across the street and how long the produce stand had been unattended. They could see the convenience store across the other street, and see if there were fresh ninety-nine-cent hot dogs on the rollers. Finally, catty-corner, they could see the Ye’ Old Antique and Pawn.

The pawn shop was a source of many of their conversations. They would sit there in the window, listening to old great records, and new shitty ones, talking about the riches that must be inside. Enough for new guitars and drums, more drugs and better food. Their vantage point gave them the perfect angle to fantasize about what they would do. And, isn’t that what young men are best at, talking about what they “would do”?

Like them, the owner, Mr. Kose, lived in the apartment above. They could see his normal schedule as they lived their abnormal one. He opened at eight AM and closed at eight PM every day, except Sunday, when the shop was closed. On Sundays he would leave once and come home with groceries. Every night it was close up at eight, kitchen till nine, bedroom till ten, then lights out.

It wasn’t uncommon that they would fantasize about sneaking in at night after ten and grabbing some goodies, but the timing was never right. Also, as archaic as the pawn shop was, one thing that was always lit up out front was the alarm keypad, a technological leap neither Chuckles or Full Pint were ready to take on.

The over thirteen-minute version of Lou Reed’s Heroin ended, noting the end of Chuckles’ record choice.

“You’re up,” Chuckles said.

“I’m hungry first,” Full Pint responded.

“Yeah, how’s the dog roller look?”

“Put on at five.”

“Six hours ain’t bad.”

“Nope, six ain’t bad at all,” Full Pint said with a smile.

The pair got up and both instinctively patted their pockets, even though both knew what they had; enough for a few more forties and a hot dog each. They each strapped on their hoodies and headed to the door.

The apartment emptied onto a narrow stairwell that spilt unfettered onto the back alley. It wasn’t uncommon to have to step over a crackhead or two, but tonight the staircase was clear.

The transaction at the convenience store was quick, both Chuckles and Full Pint, as well as the cashier, knew what they wanted. Chuckles and Full Pint wanted a hot dog each, topped with the most amount of every possible topping and whatever beer they could afford, while the cashier just wanted them gone as soon as possible.

On the walk home they heard the usual soundscape of far-off chatter and laughs as well as revving cars and distant, reverberating sirens. But this time the revs and the sirens were getting closer. They both knew what that might mean. It might mean free entertainment. They took up a bench at the bus stop to eat their hot dogs and await some action.

Sure enough, the action came. It came in the form of Jefferies in a stolen Honda Civic speeding around the corner and down their street, followed by a patrol car. They knew it was Jefferies because it was always Jefferies, and they knew the car was stolen because it was always stolen.

Normally Jeff was a pretty good driver, but tonight he must have had a little too much of the creature. The car wobbled as he sped by the pair and by the end of the next block the car crashed into a corner, sending up a light show of sparks and smoke.

Chuckles and Full Pint cheered, but immediately went silent when the power for all four of the blocks went out, leaving the area lit by the police car on the scene of the wreck. The pair surveyed the scene. All dark with more cops approaching, adding to the winding red and blue lights.

“Look.” Full Pint hit Chuckles on the shoulder and pointed to the gate at the pawn shop.

“What?” Chuckles asked.

“No keypad lights.”

It took Chuckles a few seconds to register.

Then Full Pint pointed up to the bedroom window, “Poor deaf bastard slept through it. Wait here.”

Before Chuckles could ask why, Full Pint grabbed the beer and was off toward the alley behind their apartment. Chuckles finished his dog and Full Pint returned, carrying two backpacks, a crowbar, and a bat.

The plan was conveyed with a glance. A glance is all it took. After all, the pair had had many a conversation about “what they would do”. This settled fine with Full Pint, but not so well with Chuckles. Chuckles had assumed their talk was just talk, but now, presented with a bat and a look of commitment from his only friend, he knew it was more than talk.

The two scurried across the streets to the awning covering the pawn shop. With little more than a glance at Chuckles, Full Pint buried the crowbar into the wood holding the iron gate and alarm panel. He wrenched back, cracking aside the wood and metal. The two stood back. No alarm.

Full Pint smacked Chuckles on the shoulder and pointed up. As Full Pint moved to pry the wooden door open, Chuckles stepped back and looked for light from the upstairs bedroom. It was still dark.

The door came open even easier than the gate, the old weathered wood softly and silently splitting like porous foam. Once inside, the two pushed the splintered door back into place the best they could.

The shop was dim, not dark, illuminated by the yellow glows of plugged-in stereo systems and the neon of antique beer displays. They passed the front display stuff, deeper into the dark of the store, passing the clothing displays to the back counter, where they knew the jewelry, guns, knives, and other valuables resided in glass cases.

Past the moth-eaten sweaters, past the ethically questionable Muumuus and Dashikis, past the inexplicable socks and underwear they went. They passed the lamps, the kids’ toys, the shoes, and for some reason, another aisle of lamps.

At the back wall they came to the row of glass cases, full of old jewelry and adorned knives. Full Pint slid one open and started stuffing jewelry into his backpack while pointing for Chuckles to go the other way. Chuckles did as he was told.

Full Pint went down his side to the left, finding more rings and necklaces, adorned brooches, and silk old lady scarves in obnoxious colors. Halfway along he found the register. He quietly wedged the claw end of the crowbar beneath the drawer of the register and pried it open, finding only a few hundred bucks. Not even enough for rent. He continued down the glass cases until getting to the corner and finding a locked metal door with two deadbolts.

Chuckles went down his side to the right, finding a collection of silver, jewel-encrusted knives. He set down the bat and took the knives, putting three in his pocket and keeping one in hand. Down the row he found glass cases with luxury pens, watches, and coins, and eventually, at the corner, an open door that led upstairs. Chuckles noticed light from the top of the stairs but it was too late. The old man, Mr. Kose, was behind him with a gun.

“Turn around,” the old man said, with a distinct Turkish accent and a tremble in his voice.

Chuckles turned around.

“What are you doing in my home?”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Chuckles stuttered.

“What are you doing in my house?” Mr. Kose asked again, his voice moving from a tremble to confidence.

“I’m leaving. I promise. I’m leaving,” Chuckles begged.

There was a long stare down between the old man and Chuckles. Eye to eye unblinking, until Chuckles closed his eyes in fear. The old man realized too late that someone else was behind him.

Full Pint cracked the old man across the head with the crowbar, knocking him out and sending his gun clattering across the floor.

By the time the old man woke up he had been dragged to the locked door with his hands haphazardly tied with an extension cord.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Chuckles asked Full Pint.

“Stop being such a fuckin’ pussy,” Full Pint replied. “I’m not risking jail for some old worthless jewelry, some old knives, and some old bitch’s scarves.”

Mr. Kose opened his eyes to see the two punks arguing, their faces now concealed behind colorful paisley silk scarves. Behind them was the metal door with the two deadbolts.

“He’s awake, Pint.”

“Oh, good,” Full Pint said, turning his attention to Mr. Kose.

Mr. Kose looked Full Punt square in the eye and said, “You are making a mistake.”

Full Pint responded with fortitude, “Oh, is that so, tough guy? Cuz to me, it looks like we’re the young guys with bats and guns and you’re the old fucker tied up on the goddamn floor. So to me you talking shit sounds like the mistake. Now open this fucking door.” Full Pint tapped on the door with the tip of the gun, not only pointing to his goal, but emphasizing the outcome if the old man didn’t play along.

“You don’t want to go down there,” Mr. Kose said. The statement almost sounded like a plea.

“Oh yeah? Well, shows what you know, gramps, cuz that is exactly where I want to go.”

“There’s nothing down there for you but death.”

“I told you, tough guy, you keep talking shit and you’re gonna take a pistol whippin’ or worse, you old fuck.”

Chuckled interrupted, “Maybe we should just go?”

“Shut the fuck up, Chuck. We’ve come too far. This is happening.” Full Pint turned his attention back to the old man. “Now where’s the fucking keys?”

“There is no key,” the man replied.

“Fuck you, old man!” Again, Full Pint tapped the door, once on each of the locks. “I said keys, two locks, two keys.”

“There are no keys,” he replied again.

“You’re a fucking lying old fuck.”

“I threw them away.”

Full Pint got down close to the old man’s face. “I don’t fucking believe you.”

“I swear it’s true. I locked the door and threw away the key… The keys,” Mr. Kose said, correcting himself.

Full Pint stood up straight in frustration, holding the pistol against his forehead as if it helped him think.

“What are we gonna do, Pint?” Chuckles asked.

“Shut the fuck up, Chuck. I’m thinking.”

“Maybe we should get out of here?” Chuckles suggested again.

Full Pint pointed the gun at Chuckles. “We started this and we’re going to fucking finish it, got it?”

“I got it, Pint.”

Full Pint aimed the gun at the old man. “Here’s how this is going to go. I’m going to ask you one more time, and if you lie to me, I’m gonna hurt you. I’m gonna whip this fucking gun across your face like I’m a rapper and you’re a bitch. Then I’ll ask you again. If you lie to me again? I’m gonna shoot you in the fucking foot. Got that, old man?”

The old man looked at him, “I swear there is no key. You don’t want to go down there. There is nothing there of value, only death.”

“Whatever, you fucking Scarface wannabe-don Eastern-European motherfucker. None of this yippee-ki-yay-motherfucker shit!” Full Pint calmed down and continued in a very deliberate tone. “Now tell me, where… are… the keys?”

“There are no keys.” The old man had barely finished his sentence when Full Pint slapped him across the cheek with the side of the gun, breaking his orbital bone and flushing that side’s eyeball with blood. The man fell sideways, lying on the floor in the fetal position.

“No, I’m gonna ask you again, you old fucker.” Full Pint stood tall over the injured old man and pointed the gun at his leg.

“Pint,” Chuckles says.

“Shut the fuck up, Chuckles!” Full Pint was in the zone. “Now, old man!”

“Pint” Chuckles said again, softly, but Full Pint ignored him.

“Now tell me, where… are…”

“Pint!” Chuckles said louder.

Full Pint turned to him, keeping the gun on the old man. “What the fuck is it? Fucking what?”

Chuckles just pointed down to the old man’s neck. Blood was dripping down from his head wound, soaking his shirt color, and eventually dripping off a pair of keys he was wearing around his neck.

“Well, fuck, Chuck, why didn’t ya say nothing?” Full Pint reached down and ripped the two keys from the man’s neck, breaking the chain. He wiped them on the man’s sweater, getting off most of the blood.

Full Pint waistbanded the gun and walked to the door while he directed Chuckles, “Watch that lying fuck.”

Chuckles held the silver knife and watched the old man, knowing the man could do nothing to hurt him. But, still terrified to just shy of pissing his pants.

After fumbling with the keys, Full Pint opened the metal door. A flood of musty old air rushed out, causing both of them to cover their noses. Inside was a rusted out old metal staircase, descending into the darkness below. Full Pint ran the walls inside with his hand until he found a light switch. Turning it on only illuminated a single bulb at the top, barely revealing the descent to the bottom. At the bottom, nothing but concrete and shadows.

“Check that old fuck’s ties and follow me. We hit the fucking motherload, I bet.”

As Chuckles checked the ties, the old man whispered to him, “Don’t do it, boy. The only thing down there is my brother. He has been there for fifty years… and he is hungry.”

Chuckles popped up and stepped back from the man, having heard, but not really registering the words.

The man continued. “I’ve sacrificed my life to keep locked up what you may release. Please just close the door and walk away. I’ll give you anything. I’ll give you both everything I have.”

“Come on, Chuck, hurry the fuck up,” Full Pint yelled from halfway down the stairs.

Chuckles backed away from the man and made his way down the stairs.

The two descended the staircase into the darkness, Chuckles scared and running through the words he’d just heard; Full Pint dreaming of the riches that must lie at the bottom. But at the bottom there were no riches, just a dog hatched door, large and made of iron, set into the concrete wall.

“Fuck yeah, that lying fuck. He’s got a mother fucking vault down here,” Full Pint shouted in success.

At the direction of Full Pint, the two of them went to each side of the door, undoing the large iron latches. Full Pint gave the door a yank and the seal was broken, audibly spraying out more putrid air from inside. The door was heavy and it took both of them to open it all the way. Beyond the door the air was more rancid and even darker.

Full Pint stepped inside the black. He fumbled in his pocket for his lighter. Discovering it, he kept one hand with the gun pointed forward, and with the other he flicked the light. In the darkness the lighter did little to dispel the shadow, all it did was cast two small reflections on the pair of hungry eyes in the corner.

The eyes leapt upon Full Pint, the emaciated, naked figure devouring the overweight punk like a first meal from a released prisoner of war. The blood splattered out of the room and up the front of Chuckles. Chuckles just held the knife up as if it would protect him from his friend’s blood; as if it would protect him from the voracious creature that fed upon him.

Possibly making the most proactive choice he’d ever made in his life, Chuckles moved quickly to the iron door and pushed it shut, the slam echoing through the bottom of the stairwell. He reached for the dog latch, but it was too late.

The creature threw the door open with ease, sending Chuckles across the room, sliding across the floor to the wall. With a hunger of fifty years, the creature leapt across the room in one bound, landing above Chuckles, but immediately reeled away from the silver knife Chuckles still clutched in his hand.

It hovered at the far end of the room, pacing like an animal, its once human face, fanged and skeletal, tracking Chuckles as it strode side to side. Just as it appeared ready to leap again at Chuckles, both he and the creature were startled by the slamming of the door at the top of the stairs. Mr. Kose had locked them in, down in the concrete stairwell, together.

Chuckles’ reaction to this situation was to immediately piss himself. The creature’s reaction was decidedly different. It pulled its eyes from Chuckles and focused on the stairwell. It bounded up the stairs like a large cat after prey.

At the top of the stairs Chuckles could hear a crash and then the old man pleading, “Please, Victor! I just wanted to protect people; to protect you. I have given you my life to keep you safe. Please!” But the pleading stopped. There were no more words, just the sound of flesh being chewed and blood being lapped; then silence.

It took Chuckles fifteen minutes to finally move from the piss puddle he’d been sitting in. He slowly walked up the stairs, holding two of the jewel encrusted silver knives in each hand. At the top of the stairs he held back vomit as he stepped over the pile of flesh, bone and blood that was once Mr. Kose. He mindlessly walked through the pawn shop, through the front door, and back onto the street.

Chuckles stood in front of the store in shock, looking at the plumes of smoke from one of the buildings, listening to the screams in the distance and the sirens he knew wouldn’t make it in time. He listened to the havoc the creature was unleashing upon the city and knew it was his fault, for there was no one left alive to blame.

“A Life of Sacrifice” is included in the vampire-themed anthology Vampirology: A Bloody Book of Vampire Tales from Screaming Eye Press. With its gripping storyline and thought-provoking themes, “A Life of Sacrifice” adds depth and complexity to the anthology, offering readers a fresh perspective on the timeless allure of vampire lore.