I’m not even sure how I got here. All I know is that I am in trouble.

The flight attendant shoved me out of the tiny plane, rudely calling me a drunk as I stumbled towards the terminal. I don’t drink. Not alcohol anyways. Never found it appealing.

Through unfocused eyes, I made out the airport terminal name. Barrow Airport. Barrow, Alaska. The last thing I remember was a party at home, in Quincy, California. The nice wet national forest where it is constantly shrouded in darkness. Where all my friends are, my family is all there too. They always have been.

I plopped onto a bench inside the airport. It was like looking at a flannel and plaid parade of lumberjacks. They were everywhere. Where was the culture? Where was the style? How could these people live like this?

Trying to focus and gather my bearings, the terminal announcer gave me the worst news of the day.

“Remember, we are about to enter into the Sun Season here in Barrow. Get ready for 80 straight days of sun!”

Oh gods. 80. Days. Sun.

How am I going to do? How am I to live? Vampires can’t live in sunlight!


One thought on “80 Days Of Death

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