by Jason Fuquea
It’s her warmth that I was smelling, but not her body heat. The smell is rich, and warm, smelling like Jane’s hug feels on my body without the mundane aroma of hair care products, lotions, or spices. It is divine and reached around me pulling me into her. It had no beginning or end and was more of a feeling than a smell. Not a normal feeling at all, more of a calling.
Snapping back from my thoughts I now realize where my mouth is, it’s pointing down toward Jane’s neck. She’s still holding me in this forever moment. My cheek now resting on her shoulder, my mouth facing her neck only centimeters from her skin. It is no normal smell at all. The warmth of her blood is calling me, and I want to taste it! I need to taste it now!
With all my will and focus, I pulled myself out of her embrace. I darted to the door. I needed to get away from her, right now, before it’s too late. I don’t know what I would do if I lost control completely. I don’t know why my body wants her blood, why it’s longing for her heat to be inside of me. I know if I bite her, she will pull out her Colt 45 and kill me. I’m not ready to die today, and I don’t want to do whatever my body wants to do to my friend. I must go, now!
I said, “Jane, you’re the best friend I have, thank you for everything, but I’m losing it. This is all overwhelming me, and I need to think.” I hurried out the door, not looking at Jane, closing it as softly as I could, behind me.
I pressed my back to the door, gasped, and breathed out hard. I can feel my lusting for her embrace, the lingering effects of her heat, or blood, or whatever it is, and that scares the hell out of me. “OMG, what is happening to me.”
Something bad is wrong inside me. Dying from cancer is a normal thing. Females getting the vamp virus and dying is also normal, but the vamp virus made them sick almost immediately. The longest surviving female with the vamp virus is only a few weeks, most die within the first two days but I’m not dead. What I’m going through isn’t matching anything my doctor told me.
The doctor from the clinic told me all the known virus symptoms so I would know what was going on when I started having them. I was told to expect bouts of sudden fever, followed by chills, nausea, vomiting, and severe headaches.
I am also to expect severe fatigue during the first immune response cycle. Next, as the disease progresses, I could expect to see dark spots with blurred vision, have slower mental processing, and a lack of coordination as the virus infiltrated my central nervous system.
In the final days, total organ failure, prolonged unconsciousness, and uncontrolled bleeding are common. Ultimately, the Vampire virus causes most females to die from excessive blood loss.
Just like with everything else in my life, things going the planned way were not how it’s going to be with Alice. Adrenalin, now spiking in my blood for probably the first time in years, has my head spinning. The adrenalin spike makes me realize I have none of the symptoms described by the doctor. I also have none of the symptoms my cancer is supposed to be exhibiting.
In fact, thinking hard, my symptoms are insomnia, rash-like patches on my skin, lack of appetite, and now the lusting desire for my friend’s blood. “What the hell is going on?” I said under my breath now starting to shake.
I need to get outside; I’ve got to get away from all of this. I need some fresh air and time to think. Jane should halt Allen from evicting me and give me some time to work this crap out.
The second floor of the DBBA is the middle level. The 2nd and 3rd floors are apartments, with the lower level an honest to God blood bank. I made my way down the shaky stairs that screwed down into a half spiral, ending at a landing facing a pristinely clean white tile floor.
The Decatur Blood Bank is spotless, cleaned and sanitized daily. It has ventilation and air filtration equipment going around the clock. Looking from the landing at the foot of the stairs forward I can see the backs of those waiting to give blood, and the receptionist desk, with flowers in a glass vase and a large sign reading, “Out to Lunch.”
To the left of the receptionist area is a door marked “Patient Entrance” with a neon green emergency style sign above it. On the right side is a door marked “Exit Only,” with a matching neon red sign. The blood bank staff members are always friendly and engaging for the most part. I guess they have the belief every donation makes a difference. I just think it’s a great way to keep the rent paid.
The entrance doors from the street were double glass on one-way hinges that now must be pulled open because so many pedestrians were hit by irate renters storming out after their blood was rejected. I wasn’t evicted because of unlawful substances, my plasma is no good due to my killing combo, so I didn’t get thrown out, but had to pay to stay.
I exited the building walking out the double glass doors to Decatur Street. I need to clear my head so I made a left and started walking the eight blocks to Jackson Square.
About five minutes into my walk, I spot Sir Chester Adams. Chester was a professionally trained violinist at one point, but due to his fondness of alcohol, he often finds it hard to concentrate and play a melody without shaking.
If I had to guess, he’s about sixty. His weakness to drinking didn’t work well in the professional setting, so Chester gave up the concert halls and theaters, to come down to Decatur Street where he now plays for spare change.
Life is about choices, I guess. He is the most pleasant drunk I have ever seen, never with a harsh word, and asks me for my request every time I walk past him. He has ethics and would never drink during a set or have his drink out where others can see. If he does take a drink, it’s from a small flask, hidden in an inside coat pocket.
Chester has a very heterogeneous sense of fashion and thinning slicked-back hair parted directly in the middle. He sports a used dark blue coat with a tail. The coat has white ruffles at the wrists and a larger than normal inside pocket for his liquid addiction. Generally, he exhibits dark-colored pants held up with suspenders and pointed leather boots containing narrow shiny metal tips.
His weapon of choice is “Christina.” Christina is a European-made maple flamed violin, with large black accents on the chin rest, neck and fingerboards. Christina has various black and silver artistic touches and is a true work of art. Her scroll is a silver cross that melts into the violin neck.
Chester knows I have no money, ever, but he likes me just the same, I think, and is never unkind. I normally spend a few hours a week sitting next to him listening. He enjoys my company, and his music relaxes and centers me.
Today he’s standing over a small red handkerchief on the sidewalk that captures the change passersby toss at his feet. Sitting down next to him I put my back against the brick wall behind us. I’m still not myself from the “heat lust” or whatever I had at Jane’s but really need to get my mind thinking about something else.
“My dear Alice, what a breathtaking surprise,” Chester said in his native British accent. “Here I am caught up in my thoughts, thinking in the most positive way about this fine day and how this outstanding day could not possibly ascend to any higher reverie. Now, altered by your attendance, I feel foolish, seeing the errors in my thinking. Can you ever forgive me, my dear? I shall never let this fault happen again.” He finished with an extravagant bow, violin extending in his left arm. Chester is always one for theatrics, and his words are expected.
“Sir Chester, thank you for your kind and sincere words, I am so pleased that I could enlighten you with my presence and correct your very lacking perceptions,” I responded. Chester took my hand in his gloved one and gave it a gentle kiss.
We both laughed at the conclusion of our demonstration. Our few observers are now moving along with smiles on their faces. “Chester, your music is wonderful, just what I need. I felt it a block away,” I said honestly.
“Alice, no one could ever mistake your striking beauty, and thank you for the kind words. Music not too fast-paced, is it?” He asked.
“Your music is
perfect Chester, keep it going.”
“I do hope the day remains so fortunate, with so many here for Mardi Gras. I don’t want to offend.” Chester stopped talking and picked up Christina tenderly and started to play a soulful tune that could stop a rampaging wolf pack dead in their tracks.
After about thirty minutes listening to the most beautiful violin music imaginable, it was time to go. Getting to my feet and stepping thoughtfully toward Chester I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and continued down Decatur Street toward Jackson Square. I need to figure out what is going on with me.
Friday at Jackson Square is normally busy but this close to Mardi Gras the square is insane. Everyone from street performers to artists and vendors are out today. Most patrons are busy looking in windows or engaging with performers so to my surprise a few benches with red tarps stretched across the top are available. Most of the buildings here are historic and give an authentic old-world feel.
Old Churches that have seen more than I can image and cathedrals that carry the torch of traditions forward line the square. Newer restaurants and old bistros are sprinkled about, giving a warm feel. Here I can meld into the background and just think, and thinking is what I need to do.
I’m not sure what’s happening to me, but I’m changing. “Could I be actively dying?” I thought. Maybe my symptoms are just different because I have three competing bodies inside of me. I have the killing vamp virus that’s running rampant destroying everything it can, like a three-year-old with a hammer. The unknown wild card cancer cells growing and combining, not utilizing genetic material correctly, and my natural immunity trying to keep me alive. If that wasn’t enough, I have the chemicals in pill form my doctor gave me thrown in for good measure.
“I must have one hell of a battle raging inside of me.” With a sigh I realize one thing about my life is not changing, however, like normal, I’m just a spectator waiting to die.
Other than me craving blood or whatever that was at Jane’s, I feel fine, great even. I haven’t eaten in two days and I’m not the slightest bit hungry. “I really do need to get Buddy some food,” I thought. Lack of appetite is probably a symptom of both the vamp virus and cancer.
So, let’s reevaluate my symptoms. “I have these rot sores only Vampires get developing on my side, no idea what they mean or how to fix them. I freaked out when my friend gave me a hug, the wonderful heat and blood compelled me to bite her and/or drink her blood. I also haven’t eaten or sipped anything in over two days or slept. Now, I’m not showing any signs of cancer or vamp virus and am sitting here in the sun with silver around my neck feeling pretty good.”
“Could it be some kind of remission from both the vamp virus and cancer?” I questioned.
Females can’t turn into Vampires, but if I were going to turn, wouldn’t the silver and sun hurt me? If my cancer is progressing, why am I not weak or showing any other symptoms? I paused for a second, then reached under my shirt to feel the area where my rot spot is and gasped. The numb spot is at least the size of both hands now. “Shit.”
Chapter 4
Broken Heart
I wasn’t sleepy but must have dozed off sitting on the canopy-covered wrought iron bench. The last thing I remember was feeling the size of my rot spot. “Maybe I passed out from shock, but who really knows anything at this point,” I thought.
Clouds are now cascading sluggishly through the sky with jet trails overlapping them. The sunset is close now, casting a brilliant orange color from the horizon edges. I doubt there is more than half an hour of sunlight left.
Couples are making their way around Jackson Square holding hands and heading into restaurants, hotels, and bars. Transformed by the departing sun, faintly burning lights are now dancing inside the historic lanterns, brushing shadows onto the alleys and shop fronts.
Jackson Square at dusk takes on a much different ambiance than that of the day. The shadows grew and dissipated into nothingness. The masonry stones and wrought iron scattered around became barren and hostile instead of friendly and charming. The moon now becoming visible is helping the wisps of wind dance about playing in the darkness encircling those brave enough to still be out.
The faint call of a common nighthawk sets the tone best. It’s whipping call empowered by the setting sun. With most people now inside and finishing dinner, echoes litter the voided grounds and alleyways. I sit here alone and realize, “I’ve never been caught out on the streets of New Orleans at night.”
Dinner time now creates threads of aromas. Distinct patterns I recognize telling me what the scents are and where from. Scents didn’t compel me to eat but instead gave me information. I have no trouble breaking apart the ingredients used in more complicated scents tonight, oddly. I guess that part of my brain is dying. “Eating is overrated anyway,” I giggled.
I also notice something different with my vision now that night has fallen; my eyes seem to adjust to light differences much more completely. I can see in darkness without strain. I have no trouble seeing deep into alleys or pitch-black shadows.
“I wonder if this is how it starts. Just like a really big drug high, my brain doing its best to survive, before the killer combo takes over.”
Even if I’m not hungry I must find something for Buddy to eat. “Alice is not above dumpster diving,” I groaned, dreading my soon to come activity. With no money, scavenging is my best option. Buddy doesn’t care about where his food comes from and isn’t a picky eater so anything will be fine.
I stood up from my bench, noticing it took little to no effort. I at least expected my butt to hurt from sitting on the bench for so long, but it didn’t. I also expected to be sunburned on some part of my body even with material partially overhead shielding me, but I don’t feel anything.
I made my way to the alley besides Charley’s. Charley’s has two dumpsters in the back, and while I am not destitute, I hope I don’t look like a homeless person looking inside dumpsters. I have eaten at Charles before, and it’s really great Southern comfort food, but that was a few months ago and for some reason, I think my eating days are over.
I lifted the dumpster lid and immediately saw what I was looking for. It looked like someone left their to-go container at the table and the busboy threw it out. Buddy would be insanely happy with this. Thrilled at the find, I pulled the container out and dropped the dumpster lid down.
I am eight blocks from my apartment, the night has completely collapsed around me, but shockingly it might as well be two in the afternoon. “What the hell was going on with my eyes? How can I see literally everything?” I questioned out loud.
The tourists visiting due to Mardi Gras made my journey back to the DBBA a little less solitaire, although the Cuban district is far from Bourbon Street and the main party.
Chester and Christina are not out tonight, at least not on Decatur Street. After about fifteen minutes I stood in front of the side entrance to the DBBA, its a special after-hours door we use when the blood bank is closed.
I walked upstairs to the apartment and found Buddy curled up next to the door just as expected. He meowed and did a cat stretch while I crossed the landing to meet him. I reached down and picked him up while unlocking the door and moving inside. Once inside, I locked the door and placed the dumpster loot on the floor.
“Dinner time Buddy. I promised food, here it is, sorry I’m a little late,” I said in my best Southern voice. I sat Buddy down and immediately he went to work on it. I threw my door key on the kitchen counter and walked toward the bedroom.
Once in my bedroom, I sat on the bed and bent over running my hands through my hair ruffling my fingers around. “What is going on with me, why can I see better now when I’m about to be dead than I ever have?” Stressed, I released a long sigh, closed my eyes and blew out a deep breath. I opened my eyes and pulled my hands away from my head.
“Holy shit,” I shouted. “No, No, No, anything but my hair.” I
walked over to the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom door; my mouth automatically gaped at the sight.
Tears are flooding my face as I held up an almost three-foot length of hair in my hand. Shock ran through my body at the sight. A large double fist-sized rot spot is visible from my head down across my face. The spot is irregular shaped, covering the crown of my head down to where my eyebrows should be. Needless to say, my eyebrows are no longer attached.
At that moment my knees gave way and I collapsed in front of the mirror, crumpling to the floor, everything going black.
A scratching noise coming from the living room broke my unconsciousness. I stood up and walked toward the sound. Buddy has his claws fidgeting under the door attempting to open it. I turned the knob and cracked the door open, Buddy disappeared outside, then I locked it back.
“How long was I blacked out for?” I must have been out for a while, at least ten hours, for Buddy to need to go out so badly. I turned toward my bedroom then stopped and thought, “Should I look? What if I’m even more hideous now?” Panic starting to grip me. “Get ahold of yourself, Alice, you knew this day would come. You knew that the end was going to be soon. This is just part of it. The time for running is over.”
Slightly sobbing I walked toward the mirror passed a pile of my hair on the floor. The rot spots now covered my entire head and face. Like a plague, it is devouring my body. My hair is now completely gone. My skin is covered in numbing rot spots and I can’t feel my fingertips as I move them across my body.
My eyes are now the only signs of life I have, an eerie unnatural amber replacing the once beautiful ice blue ones. I know I’m going to die; finally, the reaper is coming for me.