The Vampire Bat Man

The Vampire Bat Man - Part 1

A pile of filth-soaked bandages in the vague shape of a human being shambles through the back alleys of downtown Chicago.

The man beneath those bandages doesn't recall how he wound up there. But that's not terribly unusual. There's a lot that the poor bastard doesn't remember. For example: his name. His age. Where he came from. Or where he's going.

The one thing he does remember, because it echoes like a mantra in his head, are the words "don't drink". He doesn't remember why, or who told him. But there is a heavy weight to those words that lets him know that it's deadly serious. And, since it's the only thought he can manage to hang on to, he obeys it.

Despite an omnipresent headache, and the logical certainty that he probably should consume something to survive, the man has not had anything to drink (or eat, he suddenly remembers. Though that, somehow, seems far less important) for at least...Oh God... a year? Maybe more? Is that possible?

The man doesn't speak. He sleeps during the day, but he doesn't dream. He is essentially an insect, barely self-aware, and operating on only the most basic of animal instincts.

But a piece of himself that has been dormant for a very long time stirs awake as he turns a corner and happens upon the sight of a trembling meth-addict, stalking a family of three from the shadows.

There is something familiar in the way the would-be predator tiptoes, to avoid being heard. The way his heartbeat speeds up as he removes the gun from his waistband and moves into the light, so that the father can see him.

The Man-In-Bandages merges with the shadows as he watches the violence unfold.

"Stop right there! Not another s-step!" the mugger shouts at the family. His voice cracks.

The Man-In-Bandages is surprised to find himself judging the mugger's technique. When addressing a potential victim, one should speak clearly, and calm-- with authority. The Man-In-Bandages doesn't know how he knows this. But he is certain of it.

The little boy screams.

The mother pulls her son close to her. But she never takes her eyes off of the mugger. Her hand grips her necklace tight. Because it's expensive? A String of pearls?

No. The Man-In-Bandages peers closer.

It's a rosary.

The sight of the tiny wooden Christ, writhing in agony from being nailed to the cross, causes The Man-In-Bandages to recoil.

"We don't want any trouble," the father says. His voice doesn't shake at all. Despite the obvious danger he and his family are in, he is cool. Calm. Collected. This is someone accustomed to commanding men. A lawyer, maybe? A soldier? A doctor?

"Well, then, you walked down the wrong alley..." the mugger says.

KA-BLAM!

The sound of the mugger's gun firing echoes throughout the alleyways. It sounds like a thunderclap.

The Man-In-Bandages doesn't think. He just moves.

He leaps from his hiding place amongst the shadows and plucks the bullet out of the air, moments before it would've entered the father's left eye socket.

The Man-In-Bandages turns to the mugger and roars. The sound is not just unnatural. It's unholy.

The mugger, terrified, fires his gun again. This time, his bullet finds its mark. It slams square into the chest of The Man-In-Bandages, knocking him off his feet and onto his back.

For a minute, no one moves. Not the mugger. Not the mother, the father, or their strange little son who watches everything with huge, unblinking eyes.

But then The Man-In-Bandages gets back up. And-- possibly even more surprisingly-- he does it without bending his knees. His hands are crossed across his chest, like a corpse. His legs are as straight as a board. He simply wills himself back to his feet, and the natural world distorts the laws of physics to make it so.