Bloodlust

by Kramer, D. L.

  “This might sound like a strange question,” I began carefully. “But could you possibly arrange for me to see their bodies?” Besides the fact that any coroner would get the surprise of their life doing an autopsy, I had to know if either one was in a feeding cycle. Especially the one who’d bitten Rasmussen.

  “What’s going on?” he asked me. “I know there’s something else here and I know you know what it is.”

  “I suspect they may have been infected with something,” I explained, then paused, grasping onto a tiny speck of hope that occurred to me. “I don’t suppose the one who bit you didn’t manage to break the skin?”

  “I wish,” he answered. “The damned bite bled for an hour after.”

  Do you know that feeling you get on a roller coaster just as you go over the top hill, when your stomach sinks, then jumps straight up into your throat before settling back where it belongs? His words made mine do something like that, but it was lacking the accompanying adrenaline rush.

  “I would very much like to see their bodies,” I stated. “Not out of any sense of morbidity, but I could tell you if what the one had could possibly be the same condition I do.”

  He was quiet a long time, his expression unreadable, though I could feel him thinking about what to do. I had no doubt he was struggling with what he’d seen, or thought he’d seen. I knew his mind was telling him it was impossible while at the same time his training was telling him it had actually happened.

  Some of us survived a very long time in the impossible.

  “There was something else,” he said, his tone quiet. He’d made some kind of internal decision and I suspected I knew what it was. “I’d swear I saw claws on them.”

  There it was. His mind had gone with his training, even when he knew it would sound insane. It told me a lot about him at that moment. He trusted his instincts even if he knew it meant others wouldn’t believe him. He had enough conviction to stand by his own judgment. He trusted himself to not make things up in memory flashes. He was self-aware enough that he kept aware of his surroundings. Not very many men could claim those qualities anymore. I’d give him a gold star if I had one.

  I debated with myself for several seconds. I really hate it when I give myself time to think about things. I hate it even more when I give myself time to argue over it. But in the end I realized if the bite had bled like he said, it was already too late. There would be no good to come from lying to him now. He had every right to know what his future held. Perhaps it would save him some of the anguish I’d gone through.

  Holding up my right hand, I slowly extended my claws.

  He stood up almost immediately, backing away from me. I could tell by the look on his face that he’d just gotten the confirmation he needed that he wasn’t insane. He’d really seen what he thought he had. It was like some horrible, violent realization that the world of your nightmares had somehow found it’s way into reality. He wasn’t that far off.

  “Like this?” I asked him, my voice quiet. I was careful not to sound too threatening. It wasn’t as easy as you’d think.

  His heartbeat sped up when he saw my claws, racing in both fear and adrenaline. I could tell his mind was racing, putting things together, reorganizing them into something that made sense to him. He was relying on his training to help him sort things out, keep details together. Very much like putting together a large puzzle.

  “What are you?” he asked me finally, his tone low. I noticed his hand went instinctively to his side, no doubt where he normally carried his gun. If he’d been a good enough shot to kill two of us in the middle of an attack, he was one of the few I’d honestly have to worry about when he was armed. It took a very good shot to kill us with a gun. It pretty much had to be a clean, straight head shot or heart shot, with a large enough caliber bullet to destroy the heart tissue or enough brain matter to make it impossible for us to heal ourselves. I would guess fewer than one percent of the population had the natural skill to do that while being attacked.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I assured him, retracting my claws again. “We’re not all the wild animals like you encountered. But I would very much like to see their bodies.” I said the last with a slightly heavier than usual exhale, pushing my will onto him. I hadn’t ever tried it on someone who’d been infected before. I had no idea if it would work.

  He seemed to weigh the request for several seconds. “If they haven’t been identified yet, I should be able to get you in to see them.”

  I nodded my head and stood up. Getting my coat from the table and my hat from the rack by the door, I followed him from my studio.

  The coroner’s office was downtown, about a half block from the police station. Rasmussen was silent as we drove there, though I caught him making occasional glances at me. Once there, I waited while he checked with the coroner’s assistant. A few minutes later, he walked back over to where I waited.

  While I’m sure most people would have been uncomfortable here, it was just someplace I didn’t care to be. The smell of chemicals and decay were nearly overwhelming to me and the lights seemed brighter than they needed to be. I’d seen enough death over the years, I didn’t really care to see more. But I needed to know for sure about these two.

  “Down here,” Rasmussen said, nodding towards one of the hallways as the assistant walked down ahead of us. “They’re backed up so they haven’t done the autopsies yet and nobody’s come to identify them.”

  I nodded and fell into step beside him as he led the way down behind the coroner’s assistant. I kept my hat pulled low, avoiding any of the security cameras being able to get a clear shot of me. The assistant led us into one of the rooms with two autopsy tables set up in the center and several small metal doors along the far wall where I knew the bodies were being stored.

  “It may be for the better they haven’t had a chance to do the autopsies yet,” I said to Rasmussen, as we waited by the door. The coroner’s assistant walked to two of the doors, opening each one and pulling the bodies part of the way out. Far enough for us to pull back the sheets covering them, but not so far that they’d be fully exposed. He stepped back and went to wait by the door as Rasmussen nodded to him and led me over to the first one. He pulled back the sheet, revealing the one he said he’d shot in the heart. A neat circle of bullet holes were centered right over the heart. I was impressed. Most people couldn’t manage that in a firing range under ideal conditions.

  This one hadn’t been that old, perhaps just out of his teens. I could smell at least two drugs and a fair amount of cheap alcohol on him. He obviously hadn’t been infected that long ago, if he still hadn’t learned that those things would have no effect on him anymore. Our bodies simply flushed it out of our systems too quickly to even feel anything from it. I checked inside his lips quickly, not surprised to see he wasn’t in a feeding cycle.

  I turned my body slightly so the assistant couldn’t see what I was doing. Reaching down, I found the man’s hand and put slight pressure on the first finger joint. I felt the slight flexing inside there. Claws.

  I felt along the finger, trying to gauge how long they were. It didn’t feel like they were fully grown in yet, probably not more than an inch or so long. I couldn’t be sure, however, without pushing on his fingers to fully extend them from their sheaths. Though that might explain why Rasmussen’s partner only had his neck gashed and not severed completely. It would still be more than enough to sever the arteries and cause him to bleed out within moments.

  This one had probably been infected within the last few months, if that.

  I nodded to Rasmussen and we moved to the second body.

  The second one was a little older, he’d been in maybe his early twenties. We still aged some after we’d been infected, but a lot more slowly than normal. I looked like I might be in my late thirties, while Marcella looked like she might perhaps be in her late sixties or very early seventies. It was hard to tell how old someone was when they’d been infected. You had to base more on wha
t their maturity level seemed to be. Though you could usually get a rough idea from their appearance if they hadn’t been infected that long ago since they’d still have many of the same characteristics in their features.

  This one had obviously been infected some time ago. His skin was completely sallow, perhaps a shade or two darker than mine and he was nearly completely bald. The hair loss didn’t seem to have any effect on time since we’d been infected. Some of us only lost a little hair, while others went completely bald. The only part that we all had in common was that there was going to be some hair loss. I briefly found myself wondering how it would affect Rasmussen, since he didn’t have much left to begin with. I suppose that part of the transition would be easier for him to deal with. I’d have more hair than I did if it weren’t for my burn scars.

  I checked inside his mouth, not surprised to see the black flecks prominent everywhere. They clung to his teeth and were nearly solid along his gumline. The inside of his lips were also covered in them. I knew for sure then that there was no hope Rasmussen had been spared.

  Even though I knew I didn’t need to, I reached down and felt for his claws. I could tell they were fully developed in their sheaths almost immediately and probably a couple of inches long. My stomach tightened as I realized he’d been infected at least a couple of years before.

  If Aleksander had started this grand scheme of his that long ago, this was not going to look good for taking it apart. Things suddenly got a whole lot more complicated in my head.

  I silently yelled a few curses at him. Then a few more.

  “Well?” Rasmussen asked me. I could hear a bit of hope in his voice, but also a note of dread. I suspected he already knew the answer; he already knew he had seen what he thought.

  It’s a terrible thing to destroy someone’s entire future with a single sentence.

  “They’ve been infected,” I told him, my tone quiet. “And so have you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Consequences

  I first learned the beginnings of applying discipline to my painting about three months after meeting Marcella. There was an old man named Ermanno there in the village near Marcella’s home. He used to set up an easel down by the water and paint from earliest dawn until dark. Water, seabirds, boats, fishermen--whatever he happened to focus on that day. His English was as broken as my Italian, but we slowly came to understand each other. A number of times we communicated more through images than with actual words.

  I had spent most of my time up until then sketching and drawing. I was using that as a way to focus on something other than what was happening to me with only minor success, but it was better than nothing. Ermanno had noticed a couple of my drawings of one of the boats sitting at the docks and through hand motions, very rapidly spoken Italian and a fair amount of arm and paintbrush waving, managed to convey to me that he wanted to use one of my drawings for a painting.

  I remember the idea had seemed absurd to me at the time. I didn’t understand how a charcoal and pencil sketch could become a painting. They seemed like entirely different worlds and I suppose in a way they still do. There’s enough difference in the two mediums that they are entirely different art forms to me.

  I gave Ermanno the sketch, then watched with growing fascination as he redrew it onto a new canvas, his paint-stained fingers recreating every line in almost exact detail. Over the course of the next two weeks, what had been what I considered a simple sketch in my hands grew into a beautiful, full color oil painting with depth, grace and emotion.

  The moment he put the final brush stroke on the canvas, I knew this was where my heart was and it was something I had to learn.

  I had found what would keep me sane.

  Ermanno taught me the basics, how to mix colors, the difference in brushes, different techniques for brushing or dabbing on the paint. My first few paintings were sloppy in my opinion, lacking any refinement or skill, but Ermanno encouraged me to continue and seemed more excited with each one I completed. He taught me how to layer colors and use the oil paints to create texture and depth. He showed me how to prepare a canvas, blend textures with the paint, bring out fine details and how to create a feeling of space.

  Over the course of the next year, I spent nearly every day absorbing everything he could teach me. My Italian grew better as well and his English even lost a few of it’s rougher edges. The only time I didn’t see him was during a feeding cycle. Marcella’s grandson would go and tell him I’d taken ill and would be down in bed for a few days, but would return. Each time I came back, he was there, painting at his easel, with my own set up next to his, waiting for me.

  By the time nearly a year had passed, I noticed he’d slowed considerably and had a shake to his hands. Coughing fits soon followed, which became progressively more violent until it reached the point he was coughing up blood. Within another month, he was rarely making it out to our meeting spot. I made it a point of visiting him in his house, which was a tiny farmhouse left on what was once his family’s land, but now only the house and a tiny overgrown garden out back remained. The rest had been sold to neighbors over the years.

  I remember his house was cluttered, with sketches of a woman and two children, a boy and a girl, who looked in their early teen years. There were no pictures of them older than that and very few of them younger. All three seemed frozen in time at that same age in each drawing. Stacks and stacks of finished paintings were everywhere, from the tables to the chairs to leaning against the walls, mostly landscapes but a few were there of the woman and children. The painting he’d done of my sketch, however, I saw hanging just a bit crookedly next to the small window in the kitchen area.

  I finally got the courage one day to ask him about the sketches and it was then I learned his wife and children had died in a boat accident a number of years before. He’d lost himself first in his grief and then his painting, spending every day he could at the water, where he’d lost his family, then come to feel closest to them.

  He told me his daughter had shown some skill and he’d been teaching her how to paint since she was a child. When she died and after he’d had time to grieve, he’d been sorry he had no one left to teach all of the tricks and little bits of knowledge you can only gain from experience to. In his words, l’arte morirebbe—the art would die.

  I had been his salvation, just as his gift of painting was mine.

  Ermanno died in his sleep about two weeks after that. He had scribbled out a short letter, leaving all of his painting supplies to me.

  Marcella had been less than happy about that, even though he really didn’t have that much. I suppose it was because it meant more things for her to try to keep tidy. Not that I was a messy houseguest anyway, but she’s got her quirks.

  I stayed with Marcella and her grandson for a few more months, but by then she’d taught me what she could about what my life would entail now. And to be honest, after Ermanno’s death, some of the magic had left for living there. It’s one thing to learn a skill you’re interested in, but it makes it quite exceptional to learn it from someone who’s talented and just as excited to be teaching you as you are to learn.

  So I packed my few things, making sure I had Ermanno’s gifts to me securely packed as well and bid Marcella and her grandson farewell. I didn’t know if I’d see them again. Little did I realize Marcella wasn’t about to let me go on with my life alone and I’d cross paths with her many, many times over the years. Eventually she even followed me across the ocean.

  Over time, the paints got used up and the brushes wore out until they were unusable. The easel needed repairs more than once, but with care, it was still holding up well. The box he’d stored his paints in was still in good condition and something I used to store my own paints in now.

  Having those items to use in my own painting now kept my connection to those days fresh in my thoughts. Sea breezes, crying gulls, splashing waves. And the greatest gift I’ve ever been given. Besides my sanity.

  The rose I was tou
ching up now wouldn’t be nearly as perfect as it was without that short, subtle upstroke.

  “So you just paint everyday?” Rasmussen asked from behind me. He’d stayed the night in my studio at my insistence. I could tell he wasn’t in a frame of mind to be alone. We had talked for some time as I explained to him about the world he’d been so suddenly yanked into. I found out he was married, though the divorce was pending as she got tired of the long hours alone and the stress of his job. His children were grown, one married and living out west and the other two in college. His job was all he had left, really. That was a shame.

  At one point I could tell he was exhausted, but knew his mind was not going to let him sleep. My mother used to make this tea when I was a child, with catnip as the main ingredient, to help me sleep. I was pleased to find out it worked on Rasmussen as well as it worked on me.

  After I’d gotten my few hours of sleep, I’d put in a call to Rosie, then started working on my painting. I’d heard Rasmussen wake up, but hadn’t stopped what I was working on.

  “Most days,” I answered him. “I do have to support myself somehow.”

  I heard him run his fingers over his head, like he was trying to straighten his hair if he had any.

  “I don’t suppose you can tell me yesterday was a dream?”

  I paused, setting my brush down for a moment to hold up my hand and extend my claws before turning to look at him with my clear eye.

  “No.”

  Retracting my claws again, I picked up my brush and went back to work on the rose.

  No sense trying to be subtle at this point.

  I heard his sigh behind me and wasn’t sure if it could have sounded anymore frightened and stressed than it did.

  “I didn’t think so, but I could hope.”

  “I’m curious where you learned to shoot like that,” I said. “Not very many people can shoot with that sort of precision, especially in that kind of situation.”