Post - Mortimer

Chapter One



      Mortimer Shultz was a sprightly middle-aged man of forty years young.  As a man who sat hours on end as part of his computer programming job, he was in surprisingly good shape. His mornings consisted of fruit shakes with a side of granola as he often reminisced about his childhood and all the lessons his grandfather taught him will into his nineties. At his age most men were starting the process of falling apart. Beginning from his head downward was an expanse of five feet, nine inches of chromosomes.

        Mortimer could easily be mistaken for someone years younger. His naturally chestnut roots were beginning to show through his chin length bottle blonde hair. Continuing down his forehead one would eventually come to two distinctively colored eyes, as Mr. Shultz suffered from a rare condition called Heterochromia. This caused his left eye to be a deep cobalt and his right to be that of a shined up silver spoon. They were quite stunning by themselves, but when placed together it made him extremely unique.

    Once one was finished being mesmerized by his shiny orbs he could follow the natural triangle of the human face to a noticeably bent snoz. When Morty had been much younger and far less graceful, he’d taken a tumble on a pair of ice skates. The doctor who’d treated him set it wrong, which in turn, left him with a permanent ‘bend’ in his otherwise flawless features. The only thing that made up for the failed symmetry was the careless dashing of freckles across his face. They seemed to do a good job of ‘straightening’ him up.

    As soon as the freckles dispersed one would reach well rounded feminine lips. Under the bottom lip came a stud and then a sharp chin to finish the man’s face. Despite the awkward nose, the piercing in his chin was the most noticeable feature on his face. When he was still fresh out of college he’d thought it be a good way to enhance his ‘good’ charm, and up until now he’d never made a decision to let the skin grow back in. It made him feel a bit livelier whenever he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

  Still, just because his Y chromosome and X chromosome got along well didn’t mean he had any sense of fashion. Mortimer was the very definition of a shut-in, living in a small town didn’t help this fact.  His wardrobe consisted of sweaters, yoga pants and the occasional dress shirt for special occasions.  The man’s most worn accessory, other than necessary clothing this winter alone, was a black & white scarf that reached down to his feet. The computer programmer had never felt the need to buy anything expensive.

    So, it was of no surprise to anyone when Mortimer showed up at the library in an oversized black sweater, faded grey jeans and scuffed black Ugg boots. No one had bothered to tell him his footwear was generally worn by women.  The librarian, Marge, had considered telling him the last time he’d returned an overdue book, but she couldn’t find the heart to do so.  Although, she was glad to see him.

      What on earth is he doing with that computer?

      At least, she thought it was a computer. It had to be quite an old model.

“Mortimer, dear, what on earth are you carrying?” She asked tepidly.

As a gracious lady in her sixties, Marge was known for knowing everything about everybody, except Mortimer.  He was like a puzzle box.

The man in question stopped in front of the check-out desk just as he was about to pass by and gave Marge a warm smile.

“I’m trying to find some information on this 1984 model Macintosh. The monitor screen is broken, but I figured I could still get something off it.” Ah, there it was, that beautiful hint of a British accent. There were never any foreign visitors in the small town where Mortimer and Marge lived, despite living in the expansive state.  Therefore, whenever the man came around to the library, Marge did her best to strike up a conversation. She lived for hearing the wonderful treble of his alto voice, tainted with that of his heritage. Had she been a younger woman, she’d have done her best to catch his attention.

    “I see, do you need me to look something up in the directory?” Marge offered.

    “Not right at this moment, but thank you.” He replied. With that he left her at her station journeying further into the two story library.

    She watched him go with a gloomy expression plastered on her face. Why couldn’t she be thirty years old again?     

    It was almost two hours later when the recluse emerged from the bowls of wherever he’d run off to, Marge had just finished her mid-morning snack. He was already headed out the door with his clunky machinery in his arms,when Marge hollered after him.

    “See you later, Mortimer!”.

    “I’ll be sure to drop by for lunch tomorrow Mrs. Potts.” He called back as he headed across the street and down the sidewalk back to his house.

    “What a beautiful man…” Marge whispered to herself as she continued to watch him until he became a black speck in the distance.

      She didn’t notice the blue truck pull out from the library parking lot to follow the computer programmer home.

Mortimer arrived home just in time to answer his mobile phone that had just started ringing as he walked through the door. He placed the broken technology on the floor to pick up his cell off the kitchen counter.

“Hello?” He wasn’t entirely sure who’d be calling him at this time. It was still pretty early for a winter morning. When no answer came he repeated his shy greeting.

”Hello?” Static popped and whizzed over the speaker before the feed went dead leaving Mortimer very perplexed.

”Wrong number, I guess.” That was the most logical explanation anyway.

“Maybe they’ll call back.” His lips pierced into a mock of a goldfish as he placed the cellphone back down on the counter.

Shultz had removed bolts, pulled out precious hair and had almost considered reenacting Faust in the time he spent with the machine during the next hour. Later the clock struck twelve. With numb fingers Mortimer picked up the T.V remote and collapsed in his leather arm chair.

      There was not much in the way of entertainment but to read and watch the channels. It was a one bedroom, one bath, and one living-kitchen area type home, perfect for a single middle-aged man. Unfortunately, Mortimer’s sense of fashion or lack thereof, also leaked into his home design. As one could roughly describe the interior of his house to be a mix between a college dorm and a cat lady’s abode.

    There were posters on the wall from bands that he use to enjoy, to books laying scattered about with some semblance of organization. All the furniture was several years outdated, regardless, it was in excellent condition. Essentially, his house was so bare, except for the essentials, that one would think he was poor. Which, wasn’t entirely the case. Mortimer couldn’t see the need to replace the furniture. Much like an old lady, he had grown far too attached to the baubles and bits that he owned.

Missing were the actual cats.

Mortimer had been watching the weather report and munching on mint cookies for fifteen minutes before his eyes began to droop. He hadn’t slept nearly long enough last night and food ‘coma’ was setting in. A small nap never hurt anyone though, so with that in mind, Mortimer decided to let himself drift off into pleasant empty space.

Outside the house, just off the sidewalk, the blue truck from the library stalled quietly. There were only four windows plastered on the tiny home and every single one of them had the shutters closed. Mortimer didn’t like prying eyes, but this left it open for someone to just sit outside without raising his suspicions. Which meant just about anyone could walk up to his door without him knowing.

In spite of that, Juno Monday was not just anyone. He probably could have snuck up on the house with all the windows open in the middle of the afternoon. This town was far too quiet and far too trusting, however he had to be patient. He was going to wait until the fall of night to begin his work, he had only wanted to confirm Mortimer’s address.

“Soon.” An accent that sounded of old English trickled from lips curled around a cigarette, as Juno slowly pulled away from the home to head back to his motel.

Mr. Monday was a very eccentric man, assuming that word could be used for a man like him. If one somehow was able to, say, ignore that. They would find a very handsome gentleman. He stood at a startling height of six foot, two inches tall, Juno could stick out in a lot of places. Arguably, it wasn’t actually his height that made him stick out, it was most likely his other features.

To start out briefly the man had a full head of shoulder length hair the color of powdered snow, despite being thirty-six years old. He often kept it in a ponytail to keep it away from his face that never prevented a few loose strands to fall on his forehead though. On down, fine brown eyebrows met with two glassy red eyes. When he was young many of Juno’s friends, had commented that his eyes were that of an emerald fish, but they were no longer a bright pretty green.  Further along his face was a sharp nose, that had it been even ten percent more accentuated Juno would have been classified as a new species of bird.

One could imagine that being so tall, Juno was possibly a very thin man. Which was true, but under all that implied lankiness was a body that could lift almost twice its own weight. If he had trouble getting into the home it would be no trouble to rip a shutter off and break a window. Being strong had many advantages in his line of work.

By court of law Mr. Monday was the definition of an everyday serial killer. One had to at least have killed more than three people to be fitted with such a ghastly title, and Juno had more than likely filled that quota.  Still, could one be considered a killer when their subjects weren’t ‘strictly’ dead? Yes, under all intents and purposes their hearts were no longer beating, but a lot of people speculated lawyers suffered from the same problem. Juno’s victims were still unconventionally ‘alive’. He was still ‘alive’ and he’d died almost over three thousand years ago.

There were books upon books about people like him. Some romanticized and others made out to be brainless beasts. He’d come to disdain the name given to his kind. The word vampire, had no flair, it had no originality.  By definition it meant that he was a corpse that had risen from the grave to feed on the living. Juno found this far more like an insult, he wasn’t some kind of walking dead. He had provoking thoughts, dreams and goals in mind that went far past snacking on the nearest human neck.

It seemed as though others of his, lineage, didn’t mind the name however. The younger generation seemed to find it refreshing. So as it were, Juno lived with the name his species had been given by European folklore. Even if it was a heavy misinterpretation, especially the sunlight thing. Who on earth had ever come up with that ridiculous idea? Sure, his eyes were quite sensitive toward sunlight but it didn’t prevent him from going outside. All he needed was a plastering of sunblock and some fancy sunglasses to get him through most of the day.

Granted, if someone was to use concentrated light on him, or any of his kind,it may actually work, but who has a portable sun?

So, by humanity’s definition Monday was a serial killer with a biting problem, but in reality he was a creature ‘reproducing’ and ‘eating’ like any other species.  He just wasn’t doing it in the most traditional of ways.

All that aside, why had he chosen Mortimer for his prey?  There was nothing immediately special about the introverted male. He was an average human to everyone in the town, but that was just it, to anyone who was human he was just another one of them, but to someone of Juno’s sort. Mortimer was a rare find.

  Mortimer was AB negative.

The rarest blood type known to the scientific community, and that was also on the list of blood types that could regularly show up, was this exact kind. To put it into perspective, it was like a three hundred year old wine hidden amongst convenient store brands, and the lucky shopper just happened to be Juno Monday. The vampire was shivering with anticipation. He had been planning on blasting right through this town, but during a short stop at the local restaurant to scope out dinner. Juno had caught wind of Mortimer’s highly specific scent.  There was no physical way for him to ignore it. Juno could not pack up and leave now that he knew that Mortimer existed.

So, like any practical hunter he decided to stick around and watch the patterns of his new target until he was sure that he could find an opening. Tonight, would be that opening.

It was going to be perfect.



      It was nearly midnight in the small town, with its single red light, and old school crossing guards. Dimilin was located in the middle of the United States in the state of Nebraska. There was no road map that could lead one to the town, you just had to stumble upon it. It was a misfit on the island of misfit toys. So, if a murder needed to take place, this was quite a place to do it.

    It was just the kind of place Juno loved most.

    Monday had walked his way from the motel to Mortimer’s house. He didn’t want any possible witnesses to see his blue truck pull away from the small house. The trip had taken him roughly an hour, and not even at a full pace. Now the ancient being stood in front of the home staring at it with reserved excitement. He’d already formulated a plan on how to enter the abode, now all that was left to do was to execute it.

    It was nothing so impossibly brilliant that it could only be seen in a film, although it may be common in such a medium. The plan heavily relied on the kindness of Mortimer’s conscious, at least right up until Juno was able to get him inside. So with a final sigh of reservation Juno stepped up toward the door as his hand snaked up under his loose flannel t-shirt. He brought his long slender fingers across his chest, digging his nails in deep. Blood bubbled up from the injuries he was leaving staining his flannel with precious cells, the injury would not last long, as the lesions were already healing.

    Juno put on the most convincing and heart wrenching feign of desperation he could muster as he slammed his fist on Mortimer’s door.

    “Please, someone…can someone help me?” The old English dropped from his voice and was replaced by a southern twang that could only originate from a state well below the northern border. He knocked again, the fake distress increasing with every ‘bang’.

    Within minutes the door slowly creaked open and tired bi-color eyes peeked out from the darkness that laid beyond.

    “C-can I help you?” Mortimer’s voice trembled with uncertainty. He was not use to visitors of any kind, and this one had come at a very unusual hour. He watched the stranger struggle and teeter forward leaning on the frame of the doorway. He was hurt.

    “Please. I need help…I’ve been attacked.”

    “T-there’s a clinic, j-just a few miles from here.” Mortimer had still not opened the door any wider and it almost appeared like he didn’t intend to.

    “I can’t go there…” Juno entreated, as he continued to scrap and tug at his self-inflicted wound. Mortimer’s face contorted and his eyebrows fell into a flat line. 

    ”I-I’m on the run…there are people trying to kill me.” With one last scrape cross his chest Juno brought his blood covered hand out from under his shirt placing on the door right next to Mortimer’s head. The red liquescent fluid began to trickle down the grooves of the wooden frame as though it was trying to form gruesome icicles.

    Mortimer’s eyes drifted to the hand as it began its work to repaint his house. This man that had come to him looked as though he’d been beaten and left for dead, maybe he’d even been stabbed a few times considering the amount of blood he appeared to be losing. What threat was this man to him?

    “Is it bad?” His voice was it barely above that wind chime.

      Of course it was a bad.

    “Please.” Juno’s voice cracked with anxiety as his breathing began to slow, as though his lungs were clutching for every single piece of air that they could find. This had to be the turning point that caused the small male to open the door the rest of the way because Juno soon found himself in the home placed in a leather armchair. He didn’t say anything as he watched the human scramble around for what had to be some kind of medical aid.

    So, he really wasn’t going to call for help after all?

    “Thank you, for this.” Juno emphasized each word as Mortimer knelt down in front of him, his arms full of bandages and antiseptic.

    “It’s not much really.” Mortimer was almost positive a doctor could do a much better job than he could, but wasn’t going to turn the man away now, if he did the stranger would most certainly die. With trembling hands and spirit he began to unbutton the bloodied flannel shirt clinging to stranger trying to think of something else to say.

  “Can I have your name?” he asked shyly not really keeping eye contact as his fingers trembled with uncertainty.

    “Juno.” The vampire answered his lips turning up in a smirk. When the last button was unhooked from his shirt and the pieces were pulled apart he watched the emotions dance across the human’s face. There was confusion, concern, distrust, and most importantly, fear.

    “You’re not..”

    “Injured?” Juno finished the man’s sentence as his hand lashed out to grab the other’s shirt collar tugging him forward. “No, I suppose not.” His undistinguishable old accent had returned with his change in character.

    Mortimer couldn’t even muster up a decent cry for help. It was as though his vocal cords had been completely removed from his throat. He was brought far closer to the man then he’d been to anyone in a long time.

    “A-are you going to kill me?” A pathetic question, but that made the situation all the more real.

      Juno didn’t answer as he tilted his head inspecting the other’s neck, the thick veins were strained and looked like they might burst like a frozen pipe. When the vampire trapped someone they were usually covered in bruises by this point. He did prefer not to wrestle his prey into submission. Mortimer began to whimper as the vampire took him by the shoulder in one hand and leaned down brushing what could only be filed teeth against his neck. Shultz couldn’t move, his body was bent toward Juno, while his knees were being crushed into the floor. He’d have had a better chance escaping whilst being handcuffed.

    This is a horrible way to die!

      All sense and reason was draining from his head as every second ticked by. His will begged him to fight back, but he could barely lift a table on a good day. Could this really be the end of him? To die in such an unnatural manner? Mortimer had heard about killings like this on the news, was this man the cause of all the speculation?

    When Juno bit down, Mortimer had not been prepared, it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Even though he’d been unable to speak, he was still able to let out a frantic wail as he thrashed in the other’s grip. The instinct to survive was beginning to wilt, the pain began to wane and an euphoric numbness flooded his system almost immediately.

    Monday had not expected his meal to taste quite as good as it did. Sure, he’d known it been awhile since he’d had his preferred blood type, but this, this was something entirely different. He brought Mortimer closer and removed his teeth only to bite down in another area across supple flesh. At this rate Mortimer would be an empty juice carton.

    When the human began to go limp in his arms, something he as use to, Juno stopped feeding. The vampire did not want to lose this. There would be no one else like this, blood was specific to its vessel.

    I have to preserve this.

      So many failed attempts to create his own kind Juno had figured he just was unable to do so, but maybe this was a sign, maybe this would be his chance. If he didn’t do it now, Mortimer would die anyway.    Even though his head could be removed, body torched and blackened soul sent to Styx, Juno had made up his mind.

      Without a moment’s thought, Juno plunged his teeth into his wrist drawing tainted blood to the surface so that it could drip down across Mortimer’s paling lips

    “Come now…you just need a little...” Monday pleaded when it seemed like Mortimer wouldn’t respond. With desperation, he pushed his wrist up against the other’s mouth to tempt him to bite down. “Allow this to work just once…”

      You can’t die. You’re far too important.