Donor

by Elena Hearty

  “Fucking hurry up!” Richard prompted. “Christ. Just grab the damn thing.”

  Lenore began unhinging the clasp from the wriggling arm beneath her. God, this was horrible business. But what choice did she have? “I'm sorry,” she whispered as the watch came free. “Oh God. I'm so sorry.”

  Richard repositioned his grasp on the woman, saying, “Don't tell that bitch you're sorry. She was suing us! She brought this on herself. Besides, you did her a favor just now.” He smiled wickedly. “She should thank you. Would you like me to make her thank you? I'll bet we could get her to thank you.”

  Lenore stepped back, ignoring him, clutching the item in her palm. “What do you want me to do with the watch, Rich? Paul said you don't like your donors to keep silver around.”

  "I could give a shit. What are you going to do to me with it? Tell me the time? I'll cut your arm off too if I have to." Richard grasped Mrs. Grayson tightly and began walking her forward. "Keep it for all I care but get out of my way." He shuffled past her saying, "Say 'no' to me again and I'll strap you to a folding chair with the rest of the h'orderves."

  Lenore walked back to her bedroom with the watch in hand. She placed it on the dresser, sliding some nail files out of the way to make room. Sitting on her bed, she stared at it the way that a mathematician might ponder a complex equation on a chalkboard. How might she use the metal to her advantage?

  An old conversation sprung into her mind. Silver's about as dangerous to us as poison ivy.

  Lenore knew of only one way to die from poison ivy: smoke from the burning plant could trigger a deadly allergic reaction in the lungs. Other than that, it was a nuisance, but harmless. There was certainly no way to get Richard to inhale a wristwatch.

  Muffled screaming in the hallway interrupted her train of thought.

  “HEY, ROOMIE. PAUL'S BACK WITH THE FINAL VICTIM. WE'RE ABOUT TO BEGIN.”

  ✽✽✽

  Monday, 7:30 am

  Lenore entered the parlor holding a crossword anthology, two packets of Toaster Pastries, and her 18 remaining pills (down from the 22 Richard had left her). Although still relatively immobile, Charles appeared to have recovered substantially over the past twenty-four hours and looked up at Lenore as she entered the room. Saying nothing, she passed him on her way to the wet bar, where Paul stood behind the counter.

  He wrinkled his forehead as she dropped her belongings onto the granite surface. “Hey, Rich. Why does she have to hang out for this? Don't you think she'd be more comfortable staying in her room?”

  Richard, hovering by the pool table as usual, grabbed a cue from the rack took a shot at the eight-ball. “She’s hanging out because if you two retards want to turn Charles then you’re going to watch him the whole time and not make a mess. Lenore’s going to guard my furniture like her life depends on it because—at the risk of stating the obvious—it does. She can sleep on the floor.”

  Paul made a face. “I don't want to hurt her if I get hungry, though. I'm not sure this is such a hot idea.” He grabbed a glass from behind the bar and set it on the counter. Lenore wondered if he was going to make her a drink.

  Eight-ball, corner pocket. “You worry too much.”

  “I worry too much?” Paul gestured to the meticulously placed tarp on the floor.

  “What's the worst thing that could happen?” Richard asked, brandishing the pool cue like a weapon. “You kill her and find me someone new? Big fucking deal. Now get on with this stupid fiasco before I come to my senses.”

  “Well, where's the knife?” Paul asked, searching around the bar helplessly. “Where are those bags I brought in from the hardware store?”

  “I've told you three times now I put them in the laundry room with all of the other supplies.” He placed the cue back on the rack. “Hang on for a second. I'll grab the knife.”

  With Richard out of the room, Paul leaned forward, saying. “Thanks for helping out, kiddo. Sorry you got dragged into this. Check out what I got for you.” Paul reached under the bar and produced a plastic bag filled with club soda, sour mix, maraschino cherries, and several different types of liquors. “When Rich told me he was making you stick around, I figured the least I could do was make you drinks the whole time. I practically bought out the entire store.”

  Lenore nodded, barely hearing Paul's words, still processing his earlier concern about what might happen when he grew hungry. How much danger had Richard knowingly signed her on for? Best not to think about it. Best to concentrate on other things.

  “Is that for me, then?” she asked, motioning to the glass on the counter.

  Paul chuckled. “Nope. For once, someone's going to be pouring blood into a glass around here and it isn't going to be you.”

  Richard returned with a stainless steel pocket knife and handed it to Paul. “Alright let's get going here,” he said, standing in front of the bar with his arms crossed.

  Paul nodded and turned the knife over in his hands a few times before slitting the back of his wrist. Keeping the knife lodged inside the wound, he began siphoning blood into the glass. “This is absolutely the worst part,” he said, twisting the blade. “You have to keep cut open. If you don't—Jesus Christ, this hurts—if you don't, then the blood starts clotting and it heals too quickly. Jesus. I fucking hate this.”

  Lenore watched the container fill, thinking that Paul's blood didn't look any different from her own. And why would it? Every drop was stolen from an ordinary human being, just like her.

  “I think that's enough to start,” Richard declared when blood pooled about two inches from the rim. “Give that to him and if he keeps it down you can give him more in a few hours.”

  Pulling the knife from his arm, Paul concurred. "Yeah, this is plenty to start. I'll have him sip it." He cocked his head toward Lenore, bringing her into their conversation. "This is how you turn someone, kiddo. First, we're going to give this to Charles to drink." He gestured toward the cup. "He has to drink it slowly or he'll throw it back up. If that doesn't happen—like Rich just said—I'll give him another glass in a few hours. We'll do this all day. Once he gets my blood into his system, he's going to get really sick, and he'll be thirsty. After that, we'll give him half my blood, half someone else's, and we'll do that for about a day or two. We gradually start tapering off my blood and use the victim's blood more and more. When Charles isn't thirsty anymore, he's been fully turned. Make sense?"

  Lenore knit her brow. “When does he get teeth?” she asked.

  Richard snorted. “Those don't come in for a few weeks. This isn't a fucking movie. Real life works slow. His cells are mutating and shit.”

  Paul snickered, lifting the glass from the counter. “Yeah, Lenore. What a stupid question. Don't you know anything about science? Charles's cells will be 'mutating and shit'. Rich, I think you should have that published in a medical journal.” He walked over to Charles, who had been silent the entire time, and knelt beside the sofa. “Drink up, buddy,” Paul said, bringing the container to Charles's lips.

  Charles lifted his head and took a few sips before placing it back down again. The process continued until the vessel was empty.

  ✽✽✽

  Monday 12:00 pm

  Paul garnished his latest creation with a cherry. “This,” he said, “is a Sloe Gin Fizz. Let me know what you think.”

  Lenore took a sip and nodded her head in approval. “I like it. But what's sloe gin? It tastes fruity.”

  “There's actually something called a sloe berry. I've never seen one, but I know that's what they use to make it.”

  “Did they have sloe gin back in the twenties?”

  He grinned, resting his elbows on the counter. “Oh yeah, sloe gin's been around forever. I didn't just bartend in the twenties, though. I've done it on and off ever since. Helps me keep in touch. I like to stay current.”

  “I guess it's a good night job.”

  "Oh, it's ideal. And—I'm telling you—hotel bars are perfect because you get people who are alone and in from ou
t of town -"

  A low moaning came from the sofa. Charles had become a lot more vocal ever since Richard had gone to bed nearly an hour ago. “Shit, man. I feel like I'm burning up.”

  Paul looked at his watch. “Well, you kept down the first drink. I'm going to give you some more. Do you feel okay? Do you feel like you can handle it? You have to be honest with me if you think you're getting nauseous.”

  “Nah, I can handle it. I'm good.”

  Paul lifted the knife and brought it to his wrist.

  ✽✽✽

  Monday 5:45 pm

  “Paul? Hey, Paul? I need some water. Paul?”

  Lenore looked up from her margarita to see Paul crossing the room to check on his friend. Charles had finished his third ration of blood nearly an hour ago, and his health appeared to be in rapid decline.

  Paul placed his hand on Charles's forehead and called out to Lenore. “Hey, can you do me a favor and bring him a glass of water? Get him a little something to eat too, please.”

  “I thought you were going to start feeding him blood,” she said, stumbling out of her stool. How many drinks had she had at this point? She looked at the myriad of empty glasses atop the counter and thought that even if they weren't spinning around, she couldn't possibly count that high.

  Paul shook his head. “It's too soon for that. Maybe tomorrow. I don't want to push this too quickly; he's running a temperature.”

  Lenore smiled inwardly. Good. Perhaps nature would take its course. Perhaps she and Richard wouldn't have to kill Charles after all; it seemed like a waste of perfectly good Xanax.

  She clumsily filled a cup in the sink and fished a package of Toaster Pastries from underneath the counter. Fighting to maintain balance, she ambled toward where Paul stood by the sofa. “Here,” she said, nearly tripping as she placed the items in his arms.

  Paul held the water to his friend’s mouth. Charles took several sips, but had trouble swallowing; large drips spilled from his chin and onto the tarp below.

  Lenore watched from behind the coffee table, thinking that Charles looked dreadful, even considering the poor condition he was in before they started; dark bags had formed beneath his eyes, and his cheeks were flushed with fever.

  His eyes met hers as he writhed uncomfortably on the sofa. “This is bullshit,” he said. “You don't belong here. I'm gonna eat you.” He closed his eyes and murmured something under his breath. “Gonna eat you. Gonna eat you first.”

  Paul shook his head and put the water on the floor beside him. “He's delirious, Lenore. Don't pay him any attention. He doesn't know what he's saying.”

  Charles jolted his head upwards like a rattlesnake. “Don't be tellin' her that. I know what I'm saying. She don't belong here. I'm gonna replace her with Deirdre.”

  Paul smiled, humoring him. “Sounds good, Charlie. We'll replace her with Deirdre first thing.” He looked over at Lenore. “See? He's completely out of it.”

  “Gonna eat her. Gonna gobble her up like a snapping turtle.”

  “Yep, that sounds great, Charlie,” Paul said, pulling a Toaster Pastry from its package. “Here, try to eat this.”

  Charles started sobbing for no apparent reason and pushed the food away. “DON'T MAKE ME PUT THE EYEBALL IN MY MOUTH.”

  Richard walked into the room, chuckling. “Now, where have I heard Charles say that before? Oh, yeah. Back in the laundry room. Those were good times we had the other night, weren't they? Who knew we had the same taste in women?” He pointed to Paul and Lenore with a bemused expression on his face. “Did either of you guys catch that? I said taste in women?”

  Paul rolled his eyes. “Very punny, Rich.”

  “Thanks. You should hear my material when I'm wide awake.” He glanced at Charles appraisingly. “Isn't there some way to shut him up? I can hear him yapping all the way in my bedroom.”

  “What do you want me to do, Rich? Put a muzzle on him? He's got a fever. He's hallucinating. He doesn't even know where he is right now.”

  “Now that you mention it, it wouldn't break my heart if you shoved something in his mouth for a few hours while I went back to bed.” Richard started looking around the room, presumably for items that might suit that purpose.

  Paul shook his head. “I'm not going to do that. He might choke. Besides, he needs to eat something. Lenore and I need to keep his energy up tonight.”

  Lenore, who had reached the limits of drunken stoicism, did not care to hear Charles rant about eating her for the remainder of the evening. “Isn't there something we could give him for the fever, then?” she asked. “Can't we give him some Aspirin or something? Won’t that shut him up for a while?”

  Paul and Richard exchanged a knowing eyeful.

  “That won't work,” Paul said. “The fever's part of it. Or at least I think the fever's part of it. The last time we tried to give someone something for the fever, they died a couple hours later. I don't want to try it again.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “How many times have you done this?”

  "Eleven, I think? Eleven times?" Paul said, looking at Richard for confirmation.

  “No, twelve. Remember the experiment?”

  "Oh yeah. Yeah, you're right. Twelve."

  “Has it ever worked?” she asked.

  “Once,” Paul replied. “Our third try worked. We didn't give her anything for the fever, and we kept her fed the whole time. I'm sure we can get it to work again.”

  ✽✽✽

  Tuesday 12:00 am

  Lenore awoke to a light tapping on her chest and looked up to see Paul standing over her, poking her with a pool cue. She shut her eyes tightly and rolled over on the floor. “Stop bugging me. Let me sleep. I'm still drunk. I want to sleep it off.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Oh God. Don't you sleep? Aren't you tired? I thought we both agreed to go to get some rest.”

  He poked her again, harder. “Wake up and hang out with me, Miss Toaster Pastry. I can't sleep.”

  Lenore started rising. “Can't you get Rich hang out with you?”

  “I'M WORKING ON PAYROLL. HANG OUT WITH PAUL UNTIL I'M THROUGH. AND KEEP IT DOWN.”

  Paul shot her a smug grin and helped her to her feet. “I'm afraid you have no choice. I made you another drink, though.”

  “The last thing I need is another drink.”

  “This one will wake you up. And it should bring back a few memories; it‘s what I made you on your first night here.”

  Lenore walked over to the bar, where she found an Irish coffee waiting for her on the counter. She downed it quickly, enjoying the warm rush of caffeine and alcohol into her system. How long had Paul let her sleep? Perhaps four hours at most.

  He waited by the pool table, staring at her intently. "Come play a game with me," he said, grabbing another cue from the rack.

  “No thanks. I've never been good at pool and I don't really know how to play. Why don't you help me with a crossword? Or—I have an idea—we should bring my television in here. It's going to be a long week and -”

  “LEAVE THE TELEVISION WHERE IT IS. I'M NOT REARRANGING MY HOUSE FOR THIS SHIT.”

  “I'll teach you how to play,” Paul said, waving her over and handing her the stick. “There's nothing to it.” He reached into the ball-return and pulled the seven. “Let's work on bank shots.”

  Yawning, Lenore drunkenly nodded her head as Paul positioned the balls on the table.

  “Now what you want to do,” he said, “is hit the cue ball and cause the seven to bounce off the wall and into the corner pocket. Do you think you can do that?”

  “I'm probably too drunk to do that, but here goes.” Lenore took an unsuccessful shot, causing the balls to disperse chaotically around the table.

  “Terrible,” Paul chided. “That was horrible.”

  “I told you I'm too drunk for this. You know it's bad when you wake up drunk. I shouldn‘t have let you talk me into that Long Island.”

  “Nonsense. I think you're funny when you’ve had a few. And I
don't think that's your problem at all. I think your problem is that you aren't properly motivated. Let's make this interesting. Let's raise the stakes.”

  “Great,” she giggled. “I'll bet you a million dollars that I can land the seven in this pocket over here.” She ran her fingers over one of the openings on the side of the table.

  “No good. You don't have a million dollars.”

  “You'll have to take it in installments,” she smiled. “You're going to live forever, right? I figure I'll give you five dollars a week and we'll eventually get there.”

  Paul chuckled, shaking his head. “That‘s some very creative bookkeeping, but I think I'll pass. I don't want a million dollars. How ‘bout we do this instead? How 'bout I kill you if you don't make that shot?”

  They stared at each other for a moment and both burst out laughing.

  “Deal,” she said, taking aim. The ball fell into the hole. “Holy shit! Did you see that? Did you see it? I'm fucking awesome.”

  Paul gave her a high five. “See? You just never had a reason to be good at pool before.”

  “Imagine the time I've wasted.”

  He reached underneath the table and placed another ball on the surface. “I think you're getting the hang of it. Let's try one more time, double or nothing.”

  Lenore nodded and once again took aim. The ball landed to the side of the pocket. “Oh that sucks,” she said, watching it roll to a stop. “I think I know the problem, though. This is the five ball. Where's the seven? I was a lot better at the seven.”

  “Who said you got another shot at this?” Paul asked, snickering, moving toward her.

  Lenore retreated playfully, feeling the Irish coffee coursing through her veins. “That doesn’t count. I’m citing faulty equipment. The entire wager‘s been compromised.”

  “A bet's a bet, Lenore. And you lost. It's time to pay up.” Paul grew fangs.