The Phlebotomist

by Chris Panatier

  Later, Willa and Lock flew Kathy back to the Bahamas. Lindon had the children in order, but no one had seen Everard. On the return to Bad Blood, Willa found herself entirely occupied by Kathy. “Lock?”

  Lock watched out the side window while gently guiding Llydia through the night sky. “Yeah?”

  “Kathy told me how she got away.”

  “Yeah? Killed a few of them, looks like.”

  “She was trained to kill people.”

  “Hmmph,” Lock snorted. “One of those vrae probably.”

  “You know about them? How?”

  “It’s all in their little book.”

  “What book?”

  She pointed to the seat. “In the bench, there. Remember? From the Oldens’?”

  Willa unhooked her belt and opened the hatch on top. Inside was the red-covered book that had been on the mantel at the home. “When did you take this?”

  “Jesper said we were welcome to read it. After he was dead, I figured he wouldn’t mind if I did.”

  “You didn’t tell me?”

  “I wasn’t hiding it from you, Willa. We’ve been busy. I only scanned it anyway. Some strange shit in there. Interesting folks, those Ichorwulves.”

  Willa sat with the book on her lap. Arise. She opened the cover and paged through it. It was modeled more like a novel than a history book. There were chapters and characters, apparently, references to adventures and mystical creatures. “This just seems like a story.”

  “Dang Willa, you’re like the worst counterintelligence agent I’ve ever known. Of course it’s told as a story. Then it’s fiction, right? What’d you think they’d do, just spell out who they are and what they’re all about? Attention, here’s our vampire manual for being vampires cause we’re vampires. Read only if you’re a vampire. Geezwilla.”

  Surprisingly, Lock’s response cut. Willa knew that the woman was right, yet it stung to be confronted with yet another instance of her naivete. That made it all the more frustrating. She’d gone through life accepting it at face value. Oblivious. She closed the book and looked down at her shoes. How could she have been so wrong about so much?

  When Willa hadn’t said anything for a span, Lock turned to her. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go off there, lady,” she said. “Guess I’m just programmed for dishonesty, so I see through the bullshit a little quicker. Look, pretty sure that thing helped me figure out how we’re going to get into Patrioteer.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  VASODILATION

  The widening of blood vessels due to the relaxation of the vessel walls, resulting in increased blood flow.

  It was like going to heaven. When the door opened all the way and the light of God came through it to bath his chilled skin, to purify him, to take him home. Or probably, it was none of that. Life always came back. Was he still alive?

  He waited there, a prisoner, curled on the ground, stomach grinding like a mouthful of gravel, thinking that God sure must like to make an entrance. Finally, a shadow filled the door, the silhouette of a man, or at least the deity in human form.

  The man who had once been the criminal called Everard pondered how it must look, him there, too weak even to sit, surrounded by the killed but uneaten carcasses of lesser animals. Lesser animals. That’s a good one, he thought, considering his own state.

  The new man said something to the guards. There were two of them who tended to his cell. The tall one who liked to kick him, who he called Ratshit, and the short, fat one who sounded like his voice had been pumped through a pig’s snout. Pissbaby. His own broken face cracked a crooked smile thinking on the propriety of the given monikers.

  The guards rolled off and the new man pulled the door to. He sniffed at the air like a dog does when it catches prey on the wind, then stepped in and knelt by his side. “My men tell me we have you to thank for the hack of our broadcast.”

  “It me,” answered the prisoner.

  “They say you profess to have been a lone wolf, so to speak. Acted on your own with no help whatsoever.”

  He grunted affirmatively.

  “Well,” he went on, “That’s very gracious of you to confess. And I commend you on your abilities. That was a lot for one man to do. Steal a drone, plant a device that commandeered and redirected our transmission, shoot down our blood transports at almost the exact same time, hire all of those actors for your little film, and then broadcast it all out from a single home in AB Plus. Amazing! But you say that you acted alone. And you know what?” He patted the man’s shoulder. “I believe you.”

  “Hungry.”

  “Me too, you have no idea,” he said. “Your little prank killed our blood supply. So, congratulations, I suppose, if that was the goal of your stunt. Alliance really bent me all the way over in order to get some of their surplus trucked in.” He paused as if waiting for a response.

  “Anyhow, good news: the lines broke yesterday, so I expect all will be back to normal in a matter of days,” he continued, standing and wiping off his hands. “And yet, it’s all so… I don’t know… depressing.”

  The prisoner rolled over and made eye contact with the God-man.

  “There you are,” he said, smiling widely, teeth shining bright as a camera flash. “It’s just that humans are so, ugh, reliable. Insipid. Boring. No stomach for the fight. We leave the troughs out and they come stomping back to them after less than a week? Don’t get me wrong, this whole prank of yours was a royal pain, as I’ve detailed, but at least it was a change of pace. Invigorating. A problem we had to solve. And then your people go and cut it short by quitting on themselves. Which brings me to why I am here, really. I’m curious to understand why you fight so hard to remain one of them. Who would want that? We’ve offered you the opportunity to eat, to be strong.”

  The man mumbled something.

  “What’s that, Mr Alison?”

  “I said,” he croaked, “I’ll be one goddamned thing…”

  “Go on, I’m all ears.”

  “… you can’t… control.”

  “How noble of you. Truly.” The God-man thought silently for a moment, then paced about some, shoving aside murdered rats here and there with his shining shoes. “I’m called Dagen. And as you’ll soon find out, I control everything that can be controlled. Do you know why?” He hesitated only a moment, now accustomed to the non-responsiveness of his prone cellmate. “If we control what can be controlled, we won’t create that which we cannot. Does any of that compute in your half-eaten mind?”

  He sneered up at this new man Dagen. Spat.

  Dagen flew over and took hold of the prisoner by the filthy scruff on the sides of his head. Pulling the man’s face close to his own, he growled, “You jeopardized everything and you don’t even know it. You have no clue what would have happened to you out there on your own, but I do. I’m grateful, though, I am. I am grateful for your stupid, pathetic desire to remain one of them, and not give in to the animal that grows in your primitive brain, to barter for blood rather than to simply take it from the vein. That allowed us to find you. You almost ruined it all, you disgusting excuse for an Apex.” He was speaking now within an inch of the prisoner’s face, spittle flying, his hot, humid breath thickening the air in the prisoner’s nostrils.

  Dagen pressed his forehead hard against his. Anger wafted from his skin in hot waves and the prisoner could feel the man desired to harm him, to kill him. He straddled his chest and widened his mouth awkwardly, allowing the bottom jaw to extend long past where it would normally go. His curled tongue hung long, past a pair of silver-rooted gold fangs that peeked from behind the pearly whites. The prisoner got in his mind the image of a possum yawning, its gaping vermin mouth a festering bed of razor teeth hot with disease, and he knew right then he wanted to kill it.

  He bucked violently, arching his back and rolling to all fours. Dagen toppled to one side, laughing. The prisoner pounced on top of him, reversing their positions, and he felt his own jaw loosening, and small slits in the roof of his mouth openi
ng to allow the points to protrude.

  “There you go,” Dagen said, encouraging. “Do you feel that? That glorious current running through every fiber telling you to feed?”

  Drool pooled and dripped from the prisoner’s mouth as hunger pushed him to delirium.

  “Go ahead,” said Dagen, running a finger up the side of his neck. “My carotid awaits.”

  Whatever it was that pushed from within was firing full blast now, a boiler stuffed with coal and oxygen, roaring up from his stomach. Beholden to the new instincts that drove him, he let go and dove for the thumping artery.

  Then everything was black. He heard himself choking. Registered the sudden constriction of his throat.

  “There, see?” said Dagen, loosening his grip a measure. “I can control you.”

  The prisoner, starved, exhausted, flopped to the floor where he began to sob.

  Dagen stood and straightened his jacket. “A bit of advice: you should take of the food we bring you, so you can be strong when it all ends. I would do the merciful thing now, but I need to make an example of you.” He walked through the open door and dissolved into the light.

  The prisoner rubbed his throat, in awe of the power the man called Dagen had shown in his grip, and the absolute dominion he’d held over him. Maybe he was God after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  HEMOLYSIS

  The rupturing of red blood cells and the release of their contents into surrounding fluid.

  Willa weaved Llydia through the ancient trees surrounding the Heart. They flew into a clearing just downhill from the building, to where a broad stretch of tarmac came into view. Willa lowered the drone amongst the many others parked there, doing her best to conceal her from wider scrutiny.

  Garbed in gowns somehow obtained by Jethrum, they stepped onto the tarmac. Llydia, in her final coat of red and gold, had made the trip with only a few minutes’ worth of battery remaining. She looked almost triumphant, sitting there, still miraculously intact after everything she’d been through. Willa said a quiet goodbye, giving her a pat as her door closed. The late afternoon sun peeked through a gap in the gray clouds to paint the Central City landscape in beautiful colors it didn’t deserve.

  They began up the hill. Willa wore a black dress with curling purple filigree, and Lock a deep turquoise gown trimmed in gold with black lace sandwiched between its many layers. The path was gray cobblestone, groomed on both sides with newly planted calendulas, primrose, pansies and violas. Willa couldn’t help but feel like she was clicking down the spine of the Yellow Brick Road’s evil twin.

  The massive parallelepiped emerged fully over the horizon. Red streamers flecked in gold stretched from the roof toward the ground, while large PATRIOTEER 2067 banners flapped in the breeze above each of the two entrances.

  Lock halted at the cap of the hill. “So look. I got some bad news.”

  “What?”

  She pointed to the far left of the building. “Those.”

  Three refrigeration trucks, just like the one they’d hijacked, sat in a line.

  “Oh, crap,” said Willa, her stomach twisting.

  “We knew this was likely, Willa. At some point our bags will be in circulation, but at the moment,” she gulped, “it looks like they’ve got enough to eat.”

  Panic was rising up. Isaiah was inside, they were sure of that, but only until the end of the conference. Then he and all of the other kidnapped children would be gone forever, taken away to some city across the country. “There’s no way for us to get those kids out with the Ichorwulves alive,” Willa said. “There’s no way.” Her knees felt weak and she began to slump. “There’s no way.”

  “Straighten up!” said Lock brusquely. “Right now.” She took Willa’s elbow and lifted her. “You got no choice. You give up now, and you never see that boy again.”

  “But what are we supposed to do?”

  “We go forward,” said Lock, sounding more like the soldier she had been. “It’s all we have. Forward.”

  Willa tried to gather herself, breathed deeply, and stared Lock in the face, looking for some hint of confidence.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to find in there,” Lock said, her eyes taking hold of Willa’s. “But this is where the path leads. Maybe,” she added with a sad grin, “maybe, they’ll just let us adopt them.”

  Willa allowed a weak smile in return, nodded, and did her best to focus on the task ahead.

  The monolith sat before them, glowing warmly in the setting sun.

  As they neared the southern entrance, Willa stiffened. Lock gave her a squeeze of the arm and she loosened a measure. The doors were tall, angled glass creations, pointed at the top like oversized cathedral windows and faceted all over.

  They sat wide open.

  Patriot officials and guests clustered about, both inside and out, shaking hands and embracing in happy reunion. None seemed to be guarding the entrance or paying it any mind. This was all consistent with what Lock had predicted based on what she’d gleaned from Olden’s book. It wasn’t that anyone could simply wander in; in fact, quite the opposite was true. But there would be no touchstone tap, password, or secret handshake. Patriot had a single security measure in place that was impossible to hack. It took the form of a translucent ruby strip that ran in a channel around the threshold, a gatekeeping sensor that would verify if those seeking admission were welcome or not. And Lock was confident that they were already in possession of the keys. Willa wasn’t so sure. There was no way it could be this simple, but only one way to find out.

  Lock pulled beside Willa, whispered, “We are fine. Don’t hesitate. It’s suspicious. Confidence.” Then she went ahead, lightly taking Willa’s hand. “Come dear!” she called in an entirely new-and-cosmopolitan accent.

  Willa followed Lock’s lead and tried to act naturally. They entered the threshold, the ruby inlay pulsed twice as it scanned them, and they passed without anyone so much as glancing their way. Willa let her shoulders down and adjusted the big bun on top of her head. They were through.

  Inside was a great hall that ran from one side of the building to the other, bisected in the middle by another corridor. A massive X. A lush crimson rug covered the gleaming floor and chased up staircases enameled in candy apple. Polished mahogany paneling shone like mirrors down the length of the corridor, reflecting the light of giant golden chandeliers hanging at intervals from above. Domed at the top like jellyfish, their long tentacles glinted with pin-lights at each tip.

  An usher swept over from a shining elevator bank on the right, his smile permanent and white. “Ladies, greetings. Welcome to Patrioteer. Will you be observing or selecting?”

  Willa went tongue-tied.

  “We go back and forth, to be honest,” said Lock. “Cold feet and all.”

  “Oh, I hear you,” said the man. “So much to consider. The decision to become a parent!” He pressed his hands to his chest, mimicking serious contemplation. “Not to be taken lightly. Well. Have a program and peruse.”

  Willa accepted the program, which was heavy with thick pages.

  “Confidence,” Lock hissed.

  The man popped his arm from his sleeve exposing a gold bezeled watch implant. “Just over fifty minutes until the pageant. Selection is tomorrow. Now, down the way, we have a tasting bar and media chamber. If you care to find a seat in the lyceum ahead of the crowds–” he placed the back of his hand to the side of his mouth in a playful conspiratorial whisper, “which would be my advice – then please feel free. Just up the steps to level five, or one of our lifts can take you.”

  “Thank you,” said Lock.

  “You ladies have an excellent conference.”

  “We will.”

  “Oh,” he said, turning back to them, “where are you in from?”

  “Riversfork,” said Willa.

  “Ah, Riversfork,” he said with manufactured wistfulness, “lovely.” Then he spun and disappeared.

  Willa looked down at the program and opened
it. Children. Page after page of children; their ages, full blood workup, origin, special talents or skills, as well as “concerns,” behavioral, developmental, etcetera. Lock commandeered the book and hustled Willa up the steps. “Come on. We can look at it up there.”

  “Isaiah’s going to be in there.”

  “So will Sasha, Wren, Ryan, Hali, Lynn, and Jack,” added Lock. “Remember?”

  They came to a landing three floors above the main foyer, where they were alone. Far below, a crowd gathered at a bar serving tasting flights in tiny chalices. Lock glanced over the rail and cursed, “They’ve got plenty of blood, goddamit.”

  Willa took the program and flipped to “W” for Isaiah Wallace, and then to “I” but he wasn’t listed. “They’ve already sold him off, Lock, he’s not here.” She felt the panic rising in her voice.

  “Hush now. The names, remember? Kathy was Ellen, right? They probably change them so they’re harder to locate if someone comes looking.”

  Willa dropped to a step and began at the beginning, turning one page at a time.

  “I’ll be lookout. Tell me if you see any of my guys.”

  “I will.”

  She went through deliberately, spotting a few of Lock’s kids and dog-earing the pages. Hali was now Jean, Ryan was Bobby, Sasha was Kristeen. Not halfway through, she saw Isaiah and the tears came, unstoppable. Thomas. He was Thomas now. They knew everything. His medical history. Parents. Where he was born. The name of the doctor that delivered him. Where he’d lived. That he was AB Positive. But on the blood, they went beyond just ABO blood type. There was an entire typing profile for every surface protein and carbohydrate his red blood cells carried. Every antigen. Willa knew a lot, but this information hadn’t been part of her training, nor was it written in her workbooks. This was hematology, genetics. The only other notation she recognized was an entry showing Isaiah carried the MNS47 antigen, known as the SARA antigen. And then only because she remembered it as an example they’d given in school about particularly rare phenotypes.