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The Hunt
by Avery Timmons
Second Place
I pluck my three-hundred-and-twenty-third blade of grass and let out a heavy sigh.
At the far end of the park, people walk past, but none of them are right. First of all, nobody’s alone. They’re all either pushing strollers or bunched in groups or strolling hand-in-hand, oohing and aahing at the Christmas lights strung up in the trees. There’s nobody alone, nobody I can discreetly pull into an alley. And second of all, everyone’s bundled up in their stupid scarves and stupid gloves to protect their stupid human skin. It’ll take precious time to loosen a scarf or push up a sleeve to expose a neck or a wrist.
This sucks. Why couldn’t Hudson have taken his turn this year so I could’ve had more time to mentally prepare? We’re the same age, give or take a few months. And he’s actually been looking forward to it.
Why do I have to be the one out hunting, alone, while they all get to laugh and enjoy appetizers and be together?
Why does the clan’s entire Thanksgiving have to rest on my shoulders?
As I tear my three-hundred-and-thirty-fourth blade of grass from the hard, cold ground, the winter breeze comes at me, lifting my hair off my shoulders and wafting the passersby scents toward me. Under perfumes and colognes and body odor, there’s the sweet, mouthwatering scent of blood. I close my eyes and inhale: O positive, B negative, O negative…
My head snaps up, my gaze zeroing in on the O-neg.
The loner O-neg.
That’s the one. That’s our Thanksgiving meal.
She lingers behind a group of kids her age, but it’s obvious she’s not actually with them. Earbud wires disappear under her multicolored crocheted beanie, and she keeps her head down, gaze focused intently on her scuffed brown boots. Determined steps—not those of a sightseer.
I push myself off the ground and hurry as discreetly as I can to catch up with her.
I match her pace, keeping a few strides behind. Quick as she is, humans still walk so damn slow. But she smells even better up close. I have to bite back a smile, my fangs digging into my bottom lip. They’ll be so proud of me. It’ll be so much better than last year’s Thanksgiving when it was Steph’s turn and she brought home a B-neg that made Uncle Al vomit.
At the next crosswalk, I follow her across the street, parting ways from the big group. She continues straight, onto a side road where the pedestrians are fewer, the streetlights more scattered, and the alleyways more frequent, and—now’s my chance.
I lunge forward, grab her arm, and yank her into the next alley.
I cover her mouth first—that’s what Aunt Michelle advised, anyway, because humans are quick to start making a racket. Her breath is hot and heavy against my palm. Mouth first, then pin the wrists together, then bite. But don’t suck too long—just long enough to make her pass out. Mouth, wrists, bite.
Except, as I’m fumbling for her hands, her teeth sink into my palm.
On instinct, I flinch back. She’s fast, using the split second to dart to her right, towards the end of the alley, but I’m faster; I put my hands on her shoulders and slam her back against the wall, careful not to use all my strength—just enough for a jolt to give me the upper hand again. Everyone’ll be pissed if I bang up our meal too much.
“Please.” Her voice comes out strangled, almost a whimper. “Please. I’m on my way to see my brother for Thanksgiving. I’ll give you whatever you want, money, I– just– please.”
Pinning her by her arms against the brick wall, I take a closer look at her. Her eyes, hazel and practically the size of the moon, wildly search my face. Her lips tremble, her breath clouding the air between us like billowing smoke. And her reddened face is still round and soft with youth—kind of like mine before I was Turned.
Before I gained a family of my own.
“Your brother?” Hudson flashes in my mind. Stupid, annoying Hudson, who was Turned right before me. We’re not biological siblings, of course: I’ve been living in Chicago my entire life, couch-hopping since sixteen, and Hudson only came here when he was eighteen and freshly declared no-contact with his Southern parents. But we went through the newborn phase together, having to be more-or-less babysat if there was a human anywhere nearby, and even experienced our first Turning of a human together.
I look into this girl’s eyes. What if she leans on her brother as hard as I lean on Hudson? What if she has a grumpy uncle or overly helpful aunt waiting for her?
Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I step back from her, not stopping until my back hits the opposite wall of the alley, the rigid brick the same cool temperature as my fingers. She stares like a deer caught in headlights, like she’s not sure if I’ll just slam her against the wall again if she tries to run.
“Go,” I sigh. “Go while I’m feeling generous.”
She doesn’t waste time in darting away. Even after she’s long out of my sight, I can still hear her boots hitting the sidewalk in short, sharp bursts.
I step out of the alley, staring back toward the park. Watching the little hands reaching out from strollers, the hand-holding, the side-hugs, the heads thrown back in laughter.
I can’t do this.
It takes me another hour to bring myself to head back home. I can hear them before I even open the door, as I descend the steps to the below-street-level apartment.
“I hear Sammy. Took her long enough.”
“I don’t smell anything though. Think she backed out?”
“Sam? No way. Well, okay, maybe.”
The door opens as I’m stepping on to the landing, revealing a grinning Mirabel, her fangs gleaming. But her smile falters as her eyes dart over me.
“Oh, Sammy.”
As I step into the living room, it erupts into noise. Aunt Michelle raises a half-empty glass at me, and when she smiles, her teeth are stained red. Great-Great-Great Grampa Charlie is in his usual armchair, scooping blood pudding out of a bowl. But as I stand still as a statue at the head of the room, the chatter quickly dies into silence.
It’s broken by Hudson, who stands at the back of the room.
“Told you.”
I sigh. “I know. I’m sorry.” I raise my voice to address the vampire-packed room in front of me, a habit that’s rolled over from my human days. Now, it’s not necessary: we could hear a pin drop from miles away. “But, just, hear me out. Everyone is out enjoying the holidays together, and the one person I was able to stop was on her way to spend time with her family. I mean, that’s what we’re doing, right? Why shouldn’t everyone else get to?” My voice echoes. “I mean, do we really need the main course? Why can’t– why can’t we just enjoy Maribel’s blood pudding and Laurie’s drinks? What matters is that we’re all together. Right? Who’s with me?”
Cars roar past outside; snow crunches under boots.
“Is being together going to make me less thirsty?” Charlie calls. “Because I’ve been in this clan two hundred and twenty seven years and it hasn’t worked yet.”
From across the room, Hudson boos. I glare at him. Maybe I was too sentimental earlier; maybe I should’ve put the girl out of her misery, because maybe her brother sucks, too.
“Hudson,” Uncle Al sighs. “Go get us our Thanksgiving dinner. And if you bring home a B-neg like Steph did last year, I’ll kill you. Again.”
“But I like B-neg,” Laurie protests. “Michelle likes B-neg, too.”
And just like that, everyone’s forgotten all about me and my shortcomings. From beside me, Mirabel squeezes my arm.
“You’re right,” she whispers, her lips a mere inch from my ear. “These geezers have been undead for so long they’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a little bit of humanity. Don’t let ‘em get to you.” She squeezes my arm again as she pulls back, and winks at me before she saunters off to the kitchen.
I let my gaze drift over the room. Hudson’s bundling up like a human, and Michelle is helping him, tugging his scarf up over his nose; Al and Charlie are arguing over their World War I days; Laurie nods sympathetically at Steph, who’s complaining about Al.
I smile a little to myself. Even if they are irritated with me—there’s no place I’d rather be.
Winning pieces are published as received.
Fiction Potluck
October 2024
Second Place Winner:
Avery Timmons
Avery Timmons is an Illinois-based writer holding a BA in creative writing from Columbia College Chicago. Her short fiction can be found or is forthcoming with Querencia Press, Fiery Scribe Review, Wild Ink Publishing, and other print and online publications. Her debut novel Thicker Than Water, the first in a YA fantasy series, will be published with Wild Ink Publishing in 2025. More information about her work is available on her website at averytimmons8.wixsite.com/my-site.