Chapter Text
It was a lively night on the Boardwalk. Excited crowds rolled up to see the arcade and the Thunderbolt and the Tilt-a-Whirl, all under the purple glow of Deno’s famous Wonder Wheel. Boys were trying to talk their girlfriends onto the Spook-A-Rama. Someone who’d had a bit too much to eat was losing their lunch into a nearby trash can. Someone was playing the saxophone. By all accounts, a normal summer night on Coney.
In spite of it all, young Jim Hinton, all alone amidst the crowds, felt uneasy.
Had anyone paid him any notice, they would have seen a slightly-built slip of nothing, too young to really be called a man, not white but still fair-skinned, with a mass of unruly curly hair. His lips were full, his eyes wide and the lashes long; the features could reasonably be called ‘pretty,’ if you were feeling especially nasty. But mostly he just looked alone.
Hinton eyes wandered over the man playing the saxophone, who, for his own reasons, was opting to give his performance with an oiled up torso, yet totally bereft of a shirt. Hinton wasn’t entirely able to explain why, but the sight of the muscles moving in the man’s torso had him fixated. That brief diversion was interrupted by a shrieking from the Spook-A-Rama. Some Heights kids were clamoring off the dark ride, thrilled smiles plastered on their faces. Just a stupid ride, he thought to himself, giving a wary side-eye to the looming Grim Reaper and ghostly Indian perched atop the attraction.
Alonso, his older brother, had snuck off more than an hour ago, probably looking for a fix or some wool. There was bound to be someone selling something. No doubt Alonso would return spaced out of his gourd, if he even remembered he’d arrived with anyone. Alonso preferred to stay focused on “the Now.” And for “the Now,” Hinton was all alone. Still. No loss there. He’d expected to be left alone. He had an appointment to keep.
Assuming they ever got here.
Bored, he decided to rifle through his satchel a bit. As always, there were a few cans of spray paint, and a handful of other low-grade artistic supplies. The tools of his trade, indicating a talent not properly nurtured. There was also some reading material. Whatever meager money found its way into his pockets, Hinton would be sure some of it turned into that month’s illustrated classics. He wasn’t sure what this month’s issue was titled (he didn’t have any problem reading, he told people; he wasn’t stupid. But sometimes words gave him trouble; this title ‘Anabbsis,’ or something, had too many little a’s in it, and they danced back and forth in front of his vision), but it looked to be about ancient Greeks or Spartans or someone, becoming lost in enemy territory and having to fight their way home. Something about that set-up fascinated Hinton.
There was another comic in the bag, too, a freebie almost forced on him by the creepy old shop owner. “You’ll want this, kid,” the man had said, though Hinton hadn’t, especially. “Might even save your life some day. Trust me on this one.” Turning up one’s nose at a free comic (free anything, really) just wasn’t done, but still… it wasn’t Hinton’s kind of thing at all. ‘Vampires Everywhere!’ The lurid cover depicted a widow’s-peaked, Draculesque figure, wreathed in sulfurous smoke, bats and walking corpses in his entourage, looming over the reader to announce: “From the flames of Hell, your soul is !”
Hinton stared at the cover for a moment, then snorted. As he looked up from the magazine, he realized the sun had finally set.
“Thing’s a ripoff,” said a voice in his ear. Hinton very nearly jumped out of his skin, and stuffed ‘Vampires Everywhere!’ hurriedly into his bag again. The Warriors, with stealth that would impress a cat, had snuck up on him.
If you lived in West Coney you probably recognized those colors. Every gang soldiered in its own colors: Locos with their garish purple war paint, Hi Hats with their clown makeup, Zombies on skates with white Stalhelms, Satan Mothers in their biker gear, Fearsome Fivers who were just plain freaks. Besides them, you had Saracens, Gladiators, Napoleons, Sultans, Huns, Panzers. Names and motifs from ancient times were popular. It made the game feel more important, pretending to be soldiers from out of a distant, bloodier time. Last of an ancient breed. The Warriors themselves favored red-brown leather vests, worn over bare chests, set off by trinkets like beads and feathers, like the theme park version of Indian braves. Hinton privately wondered if the ghost Indian atop the Spook-A-Rama had been an inspiration. A totem, of sorts.
There were three of them. Hinton only recognized Fox, who was, in broad terms, a friend. At least, he’d kept some toughs off of Hinton’s back before, which was as firm a foundation for friendship as Hinton could imagine.
“This the kid?” one of the others asked in a high, comedian-telling-a-bad-joke kind of voice, skepticism all too obvious. “No offense, Fox, but I picked things outta my teeth bigger’n this squirt.”
“He’s got skills, Vermin. Born writer, and Cleon says we need one.”
“Yeah, right. But can he do anything else?” the third, a black guy who’d gone overboard with the feathers and beads. “Brawl starts up, he gonna paint us a pretty Moaning Lisa fore he gets his ass wasted?”
Hinton didn’t much enjoy being talked about as though he weren’t there, but then again he wasn’t sure what to say in his own defense. Something about the three Warriors, the way they were sizing him up, seemed almost to be surrounding him, was making the skin crawl on the back of his neck.
“Yeah, well, that’s what tonight’s for,” Fox insisted. “We’re gonna find out.” With that, he turned to look Hinton in the eyes. “Tonight’s the night. Cleon wants to meet you. Moment of truth, kid. You either take the plunge, join the family, or you’re on your own. What’s it gonna be?”
Inconveniently, Hinton’s heart began fighting for space with his throat. He tried to swallow it back down without making it clear that was what he was doing.
“Let’s do it. I’m ready,” he said.
***
The first phase of his initiation was a test of strength and, to use the term generously, skill.
Fox and his cohorts, whom Hinton would eventually learn were handled Vermin and Cochise, led him to a rather shabby looking train station, which didn’t look as though it had seen use in this century. There, he was introduced to the Warlord, Cleon. The vernacular was something he’d have to pick up on; a boss was a warlord, to bop was to fight, to soldier was to be ready for a fight, a toy was a contemptible person, and so on.
Cleon chose to complement his colors with a leopard-print headscarf, worn bound around his crown Arabic-style. Even by the standards of boppers, the look in his eye was hard and foreboding. He was black, as was Cochise; Fox and Vermin and the big one they called Ajax were all white. Distinctions like that vanished, when you were a Warrior. You made it in, the Warlord was your father, and the other members were your brothers. You were apart from the rest of the world. You were like a whole different species.
“Alright, little man” were the first words Cleon spoke to Hinton, and they were followed by “You’re invited here cuz you lay down a mean mark. But that ain’t enough to make you a Warrior. This ain’t no after school club. In this crew, every man looks out for every other. That means every once in a while, you gotta be able to wreck a sucka. Dig?”
Hinton managed to indicate that he assuredly did dig, and was promptly instructed to brutalize some of the local bums. Each of the bums, driven by the promise of some cheap liquor as payment, put up as much of a fight as they could (not much).
“C’mon, Rudy,” Cleon jeered as the first of the vagrants wobbled unsteadily into a half-assed fighting stance. “You want your booze or not?”
‘Rudy’ was bigger than Hinton, but not terribly imposing. The homeless man had clearly substituted alcohol and other, less salubrious substances for food more times than was advisable. Hinton wasn’t particularly afraid of losing this fight, but he couldn’t shake the fear that he would lose his nerve the instant his fist connected with that sallow, vomit-soaked-beard-matted face.
He lost that fear after ‘Rudy’ took the first swing at him. Fear could push you better than courage, sometimes. In all honestly, he didn’t even feel the skin scrape off his knuckles as he hit the bum square in the face, over and over and over, and he didn’t hear the Warriors cheering him on until Fox was gently restraining his arms.
“Easy, new blood. He’s had it” Fox was saying, a touch of pride in his voice. He spotted Hinton’s bloody knuckles and his eyes seemed to glaze over. “Shit, man, don’t want to be wasting that.”
‘Rudy’ was bleeding too, from the pitiable crumple on the ground where he was breathing shallowly. The spectating Warriors seemed fascinated by that blood, fixated. When Cleon finally gave the bum his bottle and bade him depart, it seemed almost like he was coming out of a trance. Hinton, with his artist’s attention for detail, took uneasy note of it.
There were a few more bums to wreck before the Warriors decided that Hinton had passed. A hopeful sign. That was bound to be the most difficult trial.
“Alright,” Cleon said. “Next test.”
***
There was a trial for courage, and a trial for artistic talent (passed with flying colors). And when the trials were over, they brought him back to Deno’s boardwalk. It was no longer a lively night there. The whole place was quiet, empty, and utterly still. Dead. Alonso had no doubt headed home, or maybe to a bathroom somewhere with some chick who wasn’t too picky about looks. The Wonder Wheel was still lit up, casting purple light on everything.. Lack of sleep made the park feel somehow unreal for Hinton, and the sweat on his skin made the air cold and harsh. The Warriors didn’t seem bothered by either. Whooping, vaulting, chanting, they all seemed energized by the night.
There was some kind of celebration going on, Hinton could still piece together that much. That must mean he was in. He’d done it. Tonight he would become a Warrior.
His new family led him to a secluded spot, beneath one of the boardwalk’s wooden stairwells, then underneath the boardwalk deck itself. Further… further… it was some kind of tunnel. But who had dug it? How long had it been here? He was sure he would have seen such a thing before, if it had always been there.
The tunnel eventually popped back up into some kind of den. A lair. A nest. The inside of some abandoned warehouse, maybe. The whole thing was poorly lit, but there were signs of habitation. If the amusement park was their front porch, then presumably this was the Warriors’ barracks.
“Here, New Blood. Eat somethin’. You gotta, while you still can.” Vermin forced a small flimsy cardboard carton into his hand. Something from the local Chinese place, he guessed. Hinton was hungry enough to eat just about anything, so he popped the top and scooped out a clumsy fistful, choking it down. Didn’t taste like chow mein to him. He was sure he heard Vermin suppressing laughter, and Fox tching in disapproval.
Then Cleon spoke up. “Everybody, listen up.” And there was an ‘everybody.’ Not just the four or five who’d tested him. Hinton could see glowing eyes opening in the darkness, maybe a dozen pairs. They were high up, probably standing on some mezzanine, unless they were, somehow, hanging from the ceiling. “We got ourselves a new blood brother. You heard me say we gonna need an artist to carry this gang’s rep? He’s it, man. He’s passed his trials, except for one. And we’re gonna do that right here and now.”
Somebody handed Hinton a glass bottle. He couldn’t quite make out what it contained. Something thick, dark, possibly red. Something told him it wasn’t cherry pop.
“Drink, man. Join us.”
The glowing eyes were staring, urging him on. There didn’t seem to be any turning back, now. He’d already come so far. Hinton unscrewed the cap from the bottle and took a swig. It was nasty, tasted like sucking on pennies, but he couldn’t afford to show weakness now. He rallied, refused to pause, and drank the whole thing down. And that was when his world exploded into pain.
His head was splitting open, he was sure of it. He could see everything, hear everything, smell everything. The worms six feet below the dirt, carving new veins in the soil, were so close it was like they were burrowing in his brain. If only there were another living heart in the building, Hinton was sure he would have heard it beating. This must be what dying felt like. This must be what being reborn felt like.
“Warriors, welcome your newest brother,” Cleon said. “Since he’s born all over again, he’s gonna need a new name. Why don’t we call him… Rembrandt.”
There were cheers. He could see the gleam of pale, anemic beams of moonlight off of long, sharp teeth.
A new life was stretching out before him. Sleep all day, party all night, never grow old. It was going to be fun to be a vampire.