The Murdered Generation

It had only been a look—a smile from the mullet-clad stranger across a dancefloor of shoeless drag queens and sweaty men. It was also all Miguel needed. 

He made his way over sticky floors that sent vibrations through his feet while bodies upon bodies surrounded him in a haze of sweat and moving hips. Gloria Gaynor’s voice flooded the nightclub and a wave of jubilation rose from throats wet with liquor. When he finally emerged from the crowd, he saw the stranger’s face painted in ephemeral lights from the disco ball above.

“Hey.”

“My friend said you were staring.”

“Was I? Sorry, I guess.”

Miguel shrugged. “I get it; give me a mirror and I’ll have fun for hours.”

The man chuckled. “You think much of yourself, don’t you?”

“So do you,” Miguel said and gently took the beer from his hand. “That’s why you stared.”

Miguel walked away, teasing the bottle high in the air. He didn’t look back, knowing the man would follow him as he led them into the cellar and the empty darkroom below. He took the man’s hand as they traversed a labyrinth of cork walls, concrete floors, and dim, red lights that concealed everything and nothing—a seedy refuge for the clubgoer’s carnal desires. Miguel knew the place well, so he guided them deeper into the darkness and stopped only once he found his usual spot in the heart of the darkroom. There, cast in a dance of shadows and red lights, Miguel tasted the beer on the stranger’s tongue, bitter from the bottle but sweet off of him, and drank his fill. He felt the stranger’s hand wander down the small of his back, into the back pocket of his Levi’s, pulling him even closer to press his erection against Miguel’s own. Miguel’s eager hands raced up the man’s torso, removing his shirt and revealing a scattering of dark purple markings that he traced gingerly.

“It’s nothing,” the stranger said. “Just bruises.”

The man leaned in again but, as he did, a frog-like croak echoed through the darkroom.

“Was that you?” Miguel laughed.

He found his answer not with the man, but with the shambling abomination that emerged from the shadows and paralyzed him with fear: It was a sickly, gangly creature that looked human only at a glance. Tremors shook its long limbs as it inched its way over the concrete floor, its pale skin covered in orange, pulsating pustules. As it crouched closer, Miguel could see that it didn’t have a face, only a dark maw with neither teeth nor lips from which the croaking came. 

“What the fuck…” Miguel whispered. 

The creature snapped to a standing position, dropping the facade of feebleness. It tilted its head back until the two men could see into its mouth and let loose a long, guttural note as a bubble of blood formed. The bubble expanded; growing as the creature’s croaking grew louder, grew until it resembled a crimson balloon, until it reached the ceiling, until it—

Pop.

Hot blood splattered Miguel’s face. As if unfettered from a trance, he sprinted towards the emergency exit while his would-be lover ran back into the main hall with the Bloodbeast in a chase. For a brief moment, guilt compelled him to follow until reason prevailed. 

I need to find people, he convinced himself. I need to find help.

He closed the final distance to the exit, rushed up the stairs, and put the full weight of his body onto the door. He barged through and entered the night’s chilling embrace, tackling the alley’s brick wall to stop his momentum. With a quick left turn, he made it onto the main street as screams of death and terror broke out inside The Matador. Tears burned scores into his bloodied face while he ran, not just for himself but for everyone inside. He made a sharp turn and collided with a young woman, knocking her into her friends.

“Watch where you’re—”

“Please, oh thank God, please,” Miguel managed between breaths. “There’s something… there’s something at The Matador. It’s still there, or it’s after me, you—”

“Fuck, is that blood? Oh my God, that’s blood.”

“Yes, but it’s—”

“It’s on me!” The woman cried, wiping herself furiously with her sleeve. 

“What? No, no, you don’t understand. We need help!”

One of her friends stepped closer, a look of disgust clear on his face. “You need to move or I’ll crack your skull, faggot.”

Miguel froze. In an instant, the familiar sense of shame and fear replaced whatever relief he may have once felt. He saw the look in the man’s eyes—a look he had known all his life—and obeyed. Slowly, he started moving, forcing his feet forward in fear of what it meant to stop. He left the group behind, the woman’s panic ebbing out until only silence remained. It didn’t last long, however, as the night came alive with a croaking sound that was loud enough to deafen: The Bloodbeast’s hunt had resumed.

He started running, taking turn after turn on dark and empty streets. His legs were numb and only pure willpower drove him forward in search of help and haven. He saw a police station; its illuminated windows like a lighthouse on the street corner. He crossed the desolate road and sprinted up the granite stairs to the glass door, an empty desk, and a framed portrait of President Reagan inside. When the doors didn’t open, he pressed the buzzer once, twice, three times until an officer’s face appeared.

“Let me in,” Miguel pleaded. “There’s something out here, something… fuck! Just let me in!”

The man watched him. Close by, he heard the creature’s croaking again, getting nearer by the second.

“I know you can hear me!” Miguel screamed, slamming his palms against the doors until they rattled and his hands felt like needles. “We need help! I need help! It’s killing us!”

Still, nothing.

“Please! Help us! We’re dying!”

The look of indifference remained on the officer’s face. He’s not letting me in, Miguel realized with rising nausea. He’s going to let me die, they’re all going to let us die.

He heard his death behind him now, dragging itself across the road. Miguel didn’t look, his eyes remaining instead on his executioner behind the desk. He spat a thick glob of saliva that oozed down the glass, pressed his hands against the doors, and challenged the officer to watch as he died. The croaking got louder, and louder, and louder. 

Pop.