by Mac Flynn
Chapter 3
I clutched my chest and slumped down in my seat. The driver, a man of about forty with clear eyes and thinning hair, glanced between the road and his rear view mirror. His angry expression changed to worry. "What the hell happened to you?" he asked me.
"Bad date," I replied.
He nodded at my wound. "You need me to call the cops? Looks like your date tried to take a bite out of you," he commented.
I shook my head and straightened. "No, I just want you to get me home. I don't have much money, but it should get me there," I told him.
"I'll be glad to drive you to the hospital if you want. No charge," he offered. A free ride from a cabbie was like receiving free tuition from a university. Money was at stake, and they didn't usually part with it unless they were feeling generous.
"No, I'll be fine. It's only a flesh wound," I assured him. At least, I hoped it was a flesh wound. The damn thing ached and burned, but when I moved I didn't feel any deep lacerations.
"All right," he reluctantly agreed.
I'm sure you're wondering why I didn't have him take me to the hospital. My fuzzy mind hadn't forgotten all those rich faces, and I suspected that if I went to any of the hospitals announcing my wound they'd be sure to find me. Right now they only had my name that I gave to Stanley. No address, no phone number, no place of work. I'd have to provide that at a hospital. Then it'd all be over for me. They'd use their rich connections to get a hold of me and it wouldn't matter how fine a job the hospital did on my shoulder. I'd be too dead to appreciate it.
The cabbie drove me to my apartment, but put the car into park and shut off the engine. "You need me to help you up?" he offered.
"No, I only live on the second floor," I replied. I stumbled from the car and over to the railing that led up the stoop to the door. My head ached, my shoulder ached, and I was feeling just plain shitty.
I heard the cabbie step out of the vehicle and hurry over to me. His strong, kind hands wrapped around my shoulders. "Come on, miss, let's get you upstairs," he insisted.
I was no longer in the mood to argue, so I had him help me to my apartment. Fortunately in the excitement I hadn't lost my key or any of my belongings in my pockets. He helped me inside and over to my couch where I gladly plopped myself down with a sigh.
"Thanks," I murmured to him.
"I'd rather you be thanking me at the hospital," he replied.
I smiled. "Maybe next time." I pulled out a wad of cash for the trip, but he shook his head.
"This one's on me." He pulled out a card and handed it to me. It had his name, his cab number, and a phone number. Roger Donavon was the name. "And if you need that ride to the hospital call me. I'll come get you."
"Thanks. Really," I told him.
He smiled, bowed his head, and left. I sat on the couch for a few minutes until the uncomfortable feel of cold, dried blood in my clothes and on my skin forced me to the bathroom. I flicked on the light and cringed when I saw how ghastly was the damage. My shirt was torn and blood was splattered from my neck to my lower arm. Two sharp teeth marks showed where the monster had bitten me, and for a moment I wondered if I had allowed myself to be led into a den of vampires.
No, vampires didn't look like wolves. At least, not always. Those people, those things, were completely wolfy, no showing off large fangs and blood-red eyes. I hated to admit it to myself, but if I was a believer in the supernatural I'd say those things had been werewolves. Werewolves who had a wonderful sense of fashion.
Yeah, um, no. There was no such thing as a werewolf. What I saw was a figment of my imagination brought on by the strain of seeing people tear each other apart. Maybe those murderers donned masks and clawed gloves when I wasn't looking. Maybe they were some sort of a cult who worshiped the wolf and go mad every two years, binging on the blood of strangers.
Or maybe I was in complete denial because no human I knew could make that deep of teeth marks without leaving more than two imprints. I clutched my head in one hand and groaned. This was a hell of a Wednesday night, and I still had two more days of work to get through. Right then I felt shitty enough to excuse myself from the living, but I promised myself that if there wasn't any improvement I'd call in sick.
I cleaned up the blood, patched the wounds as best I could with a box of assortment band-aids, and tossed my clothes into the trash. All of them. I didn't want to remember this night for as long as I lived, if I lived that long. I dragged my aching, exhausted body into my bed and before I knew what happened I was asleep.