They Won't Say What Happened

The sun had set over two hours earlier but the international terminal at JFK was still crowded and busy outside the boarding gate for the red eye flight to London-Heathrow. The bar just across the way only had a few open seats when the man in the light grey Brooks Brothers suit walked up, trailing a roller-bag behind, and took one up. He ordered a Bushmills on the rocks and made a phone call. He looked to be around 35 years old. Surely no more than 40. He wore a Panerai Luminor wristwatch that cost more than many fine luxury import automobiles.

“Hey, I’m here at the gate. Flight’s on time. Should touch down in London right around 5:00am GMT. Can you pick me up outside the baggage claim area where we usually meet around 5:15? I’m not checking any bags but we can just meet there.“ Then after a pause, “Okay. Cheers, Nigel. I’ll call you when I land. See you in the morning. Big day tomorrow.“

As soon as his phone call ended his laptop was open on the bar before him. He seemed oblivious to everyone and everything around him, a man so pre-occupied with the happenings of his own world that he was almost unaware of all else. The glass of scotch just sat there on the bar next to him, the ice slowly melting. Eventually he took a sip and then returned his attention to the screen. He had been speaking a bit louder than necessary on the phone due to the background noise and the two well-dressed, attractive women at the end of the bar looked down at him for a moment. One smiled slightly but the other rolled her eyes before sipping on her chardonnay.

“Oh no, please. Look at this now.“ The black dude sitting next to them made a tisking sound, dropped his chin and threw one hand up dismissively towards the TV over the bar, disgusted with the way that the Knicks were blowing their lead, again. A few other viewers around the bar groaned as well. Where the hell was Jalen Brunson?

A tall, pale-skinned but broodingly handsome kid who looked to be in his early twenties, wearing a long-sleeve black Sick Of It All “Death To Tyrants“ concert t-shirt with a tangle of black hair, black pants and black sneakers walked up to the bar, black roller-bag in tow, and took one of the last remaining seats. When the pretty bartender from Saint Thomas with the lilting Caribbean accent got around to him he ordered a Bombay gin and tonic with a devilish little wink and a smile and she couldn’t help but smile back. But she also asked to see his ID.

“Really? I assure you I am of legal age, my dear. I was born in 1757,“ he said this with a vaguely offended tone in an accent approaching some parts of London’s east end. Not exactly cockney, but close. Then he showed her a U.K. driving license and tilted his head slightly and smiled in a charming fashion, simulating the photo. She mocked the same gesture in return, then poured the cocktail.

“It says there that you were born in 1999. Just like me.“

“And so the story goes...“

She gave him a playful look in return and then moved on. There were thirsty customers awaiting her attention and she mostly survived on gratuities.

The Knicks coughed up the ball in transition again and now they were behind with less than a minute remaining. It was getting ugly there at The Garden and the fans in attendance were on their feet.

“Man, I can’t even watch this no more. Just shut this shit off...“

The two women at the end of the bar spoke quietly together, oblivious to the game up on the TV. They ordered two more chardonnays when the bartender came past again. One sent a text message and the other casually inquired about it.

"Just letting my sister know we are set to take off. She's cat-sitting for me."

The man in the Brooks Brothers suit was watching the end of the Knicks game as well and he slammed his fist down on the bar with moderate restraint when RJ Barrett missed a wide-open shot from the perimeter that would have put them back in the lead. The black dude a few seats down picked up his beer and moved over to the empty seat next to him.

“Can you believe this nonsense?,“ he asked.

“Unfortunately, I can. Very easily. I’ve been a fan since the mid-nineties when they were losing to Chicago in the playoffs every year, or getting the throat-slash from Reggie Miller. Then there was the Latrell Sprewell incident and the short but exciting rise of Jeremy Lin. It always turns ugly in the end.“

The black man in the white button-down shirt and black jeans just nodded and looked back towards the TV, morosely. He knew the history all too well.

“That’s a nice suit. What do you do, man?“

“I’m in finance. I work for a hedge fund.“

“You work for one?“

A brief pause.

“I’m a partner actually.“

The black man flashed a pure white smile. He looked down at the wrist of the man seated next to him in the expensive suit.

“I had a feeling. Nice watch too.“

The man with the nice watch and suit briefly shot him a questioning look but did not reply. The two attractive women at the end of the bar were speaking quietly together, the redhead behaving a bit flirtatious and the brunette seemingly more subdued. They ordered an appetizer.

“If our connecting flight is on-time we should be in Paris by 8:30 local time in the morning. I’m sure we’ll be wiped out. Should we just plan to check into the hotel for some rest and then head out to dinner later, after a bit of l’amour maybe? Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?“ She didn't say it, she sang it quietly with her eyebrows arched in a seductive fashion.

“I guess. I just don’t want to screw up my sleep cycle too much and end up feeling jetlagged for days. I have some Ambien so hopefully I’ll be fine, but when I went to Honolulu last year I was walking around like a zombie for the first three days.“

“You’ll be all right. Good French Cabernet...Ambien...I have a vape pen in my bag. I think you’ll get some sleep, Chelsea.“

The brunette just smiled, weakly, and took a sip of her wine before looking around somewhat distractedly. Her partner’s eyes showed a flash of displeasure. This trip was expensive and it was supposed to be fun.

When the bartender had taken care of a few more customers and came back down the bar to where the dark, handsome young man was seated the Bombay gin and tonic was finished.

“Are you ready for another, Mister 1757?“ She smiled at him. She was at least somewhat attracted to him. It was obvious.

“Why yes, I am. Thank you, my dear.“

She poured the drink.

“You look quite good for someone who is almost 270 years old. What’s your secret, Honey?“ Her accent was a melody to the ears. He smiled and looked her in the eyes, his teeth impossibly white and perfect.

“When I was twenty-two years old, having just graduated from Oxford after a year spent studying abroad, I was visiting my grandmother’s home in Coventry with my family for the Christmas holiday - grandfather was killed during the Seven Years' War before I was born - and one night when I was walking home from the pub I was bitten by a vampire. Haven’t aged a day since.“

She paused for a moment, taking that in and processing it.

“Oh, you’re funny,“ she said, smiling at him, placing the drink down on a coaster.

He smiled in return with a glimmer in his eye, tilting his head again in that same charming fashion while raising one hand.

“Yes, guilty as charged. All of my ex-lovers have said that of me at one time or another, God bless all their precious little souls.“ He raised his glass to her and then took a slow sip and she looked at him curiously, chuckled and walked off. There were other customers waiting and this flirtation could only go so far.

The man seated next to him at the bar overheard this snippet of their conversation.

“So what’s it like to be a vampire? Does that life suit you?“ He smiled and laughed slightly, in a friendly and convivial way. He was from somewhere in the Midwest based on his accent. Milwaukee maybe.

The dark-haired kid exhaled and replied quietly without looking up from his cocktail. “Oh, I wouldn’t really call it a life, and it’s most certainly not all that they make it out to be in the films and novels and what have you. But I get by. I do manage to get by.“ He did not smile and did not say anything more and then just looked down at his phone, so the other man went back to minding his own business, staring up at the TV over the bar. Some people were just odd. The Knicks game was almost over.

Suddenly, with less than fifteen seconds left on the game clock and only a two point differential, the broadcast on the TV cut away from the basketball game and there was a brief image of a large mushroom cloud expanding over a city in flames, waves of dark black smoke rippling outwards. Then it cut to a well-known national news anchor in a light and toney pantsuit seated at a desk with a dark look on her face.

“We apologize for interrupting your regularly scheduled programming but we are just receiving reports out of Washington D.C. that there has been-“

This signal quickly cut out too and now there was nothing on the TV screen at all.

The people seated around the bar all went silent at the same time. Then someone muttered, “What the hell was that?“ in a quavering tone. Everyone was staring at their phones immediately, even the bartender.

Someone said, “I’m not seeing anything on CNN.“

Someone else responded, “I’m not seeing anything anywhere. A few confused posts on Twitter but nothing from any real media outlets.“

The sudden spell of silence around the bar broke like a wave hitting the rocks and a number of hushed conversations began at once. Everyone was working their phones for more info.

Just then a man with short blonde hair wearing a dark blue and black checkered sports coat walked up to the bar holding a manilla envelope in his hand. When the brunette saw him she immediately stood up, took her suitcase and walked away without saying a word.

The redhead watched her walk off and looked deeply confused, her eyelashes flickering, as the man in the sports coat handed her the envelope. “You’ve been served, Cora. Those are our divorce papers. By the way,“ he paused and pointed down the terminal at the quickly departing brunette who had just been seated there, “her name is not Chelsea, and when you run off to the nearest divorce attorney just know that I have graphic video footage of you two in the hotel room over the last few nights. Here in New York, infidelity is grounds for a fault-based divorce. I’m sure your lawyer will explain this all to you.“ With that he turned and left. Her mouth hung open slightly, her face looking like it had just been slapped.

The rest of the patrons at the bar were still speaking in hushed tones and searching the internet for news. The TV screen remained blank. Two men in dark jackets and dark pants with bronze badges clipped to their waistbelts - one was checking his phone - walked up to the bar where the man in the Brooks Brothers suit was seated. His fellow Knicks fan seated next to him stood up.

“Jordan Sinclair, these men are U.S. Federal Marshalls and I am with the NYPD Financial Fraud Division. You are under arrest for a very long list of SEC violations and other charges, which we will discuss in more detail when we get down to the precinct.“

He displayed his badge and proceeded to read the man his Miranda warning as one of the Marshalls clicked on the cuffs and they grabbed his roller bag and walked him away, his head hung low. This was normally the sort of thing that would draw considerable attention but almost no one was looking.

The flight to Heathrow was scheduled to take-off in an hour, but after a while the departure screens around the terminal all read the same thing from top to bottom. “Flight Delayed“. There were no exceptions. This quickly brought about a fresh round of hushed conversations and concerns by those seated around the bar. People quickly started to pay their bills and leave. The bartender from Saint Thomas looked very disturbed. She was checking her phone too with a scrunched brow. She started to tear up a little and quickly walked through the door behind the bar that led into the kitchen area, which was empty now.

A few moments later the handsome dark-haired young man followed her in.

“Sir, you are not allowed to be in this area. You need to leave right now,“ she said with a manufactured air of authoritative confidence.

He lightly kicked the door shut behind him without looking at it.

“Yes. I understand, completely,“ he said, staring deep into her eyes. He took a step closer and held her gaze, then smiled. Her body suddenly went slack, a bit of drool running from her lip after a moment. Her nose started to bleed a little.

“You see, I simply cannot board any flight that is scheduled to arrive after sunrise. That just won't do.“

She just stared back at him lifelessly and that’s when the whites of his eyes turned a faded crimson and the wolf-like incisors sprung out (they were actually there the whole time but now he dropped the glamour and allowed them to be seen) and a moment later those white icicles were buried in her jugular. He sucked thirstily and her body quivered, once, twice, and then he dropped her to the floor. He grabbed a towel off the counter to wipe the blood off his face – suddenly his skin was not quite so pale now - and then he took a deep breath, departed the kitchen area and then the terminal altogether, walking out through the exit just outside of the baggage claim area. He hailed a cab and headed back to his basement apartment down on the Lower East Side.

A short time later the TV over the bar flickered back to life, though no one remained there to see it. Washington DC had been hit with a nuclear strike, and it was a not a small one. The death toll and the damage were nowhere near estimation at this point, but it was safe to say that no flights would be departing from JFK International anytime soon.

THE END