Bloodbank (Monterey Shorts)

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Bloodbank (Monterey Shorts) Page 3

by Angel, Mark C. ; Kemp, Chris; Schmidt, Shaheen


  “This is none of your business!” he yelled at her.

  “Anyone who feeds in our territory happens to be my business, thank you.” Her grip on his arms intensified, as did the pressure on his chest, yet she looked to make little effort doing so. Indeed, she looked to be studying him, and after a few moments she stated in a clear voice, “You don’t have to kill to feed.”

  He felt like gasping, but managed to eke out a chortle. “I certainly didn’t expect this kind of greeting.”

  “Was it as good for you as it was for me?” she asked from atop him, looking at first playful, but then her smile changed into a scowl and her eyes began to burn. “I don’t expect you to admit you have a problem, but if you remain in the area, don’t hunt again. We keep a low profile here. I won’t be as nice next time.”

  She stuck a card in his jacket pocket. “If you want to discuss abstinence further, call me.” Her last words faded out as she disappeared.

  ***

  About a week later, Kamil pulled the card out of his breast pocket and examined it for the hundredth time. It looked the same as ever: blood-red cross embossed in linen paper and the name and number of “Jeannie Vanhoft” printed in black.

  In a marked contrast to the first 99 times he’d contemplated it, he flipped out his cell phone and dialed the number on the card. He did it with the slightest hesitation, as one might when calling an old girlfriend after years of separation.

  ***

  Later that evening, Kamil arrived at the Carmel Chapter House. He looked sharp in his reptilian jacket, mohair trousers and patent leather shoes. His silver belt-buckle, which sported two fang-shaped prongs, lent an intimidating, but elegant accent to his persona.

  At the door of the Chapter House he was met by one of Jeannie’s high school youth volunteers. “I’m here to see Li—er, Jeannie,” he told her, bowing as he entered, taking the young girl’s hand gently and kissing it softly. Her skin was warm and soft. He inhaled her succulent fragrances, only slightly contaminated by Victoria’s Secret body wash.

  The girl backed away slowly, her eyes moving from his face to his belt buckle, lingering on the snakeskin jacket in between. She seemed torn by something.

  “Oh, the Blood Queen, she’s just through there,” the girl said, gesturing indecisively through the doors behind her. Jeannie picked that exact moment to enter the room, and Kamil froze when her eyes met his. Her face imparted an unmistakable message: stay away from the volunteer or suffer the most devastating consequences.

  He imagined she wouldn’t hesitate to tear him limb from limb and stake his parts on a variety of local mountain tops so he could turn to dust in the sun’s burning light. He released the girl’s hand and nodded politely before entering the manager’s office.

  “You may go home now, Samantha,” Jeannie told the girl right before she closed the office door behind her and shut the blinds.

  She turned to Kamil with a gaze of great interest, but with much less intensity than before. Kamil did his best to avert it. He focused on an outdated blood drive campaign poster on the wall, with the depiction of a decrepit old lady soliciting donors. He might have been able to identify her—something about it made him think that he could—if not for the unsettling presence of Jeannie. She had just slid fluidly behind the desk and exerted an executive air.

  “I take it you’re interested in Blood Services?”

  “I meant no disrespect out there,” he nodded toward the reception desk. He placed his palms on his chest and slightly bowed his head. “Not now nor the other night.”

  “What will you sound like when you need to feed next?” she asked.

  “I’d just like to explore alternatives,” he said, fast, as if he had to get the message out before it evaporated. “Ones that require less killing. Much less.”

  A calm rushed over him. His instincts told him it was manipulation, but he didn’t care.

  Jeannie’s look sharpened and she crossed her hands on her lap. “How much do you enjoy the kill?” It was a challenge, but one with an undercurrent of understanding.

  “Not as much as I used to. I seem to have remembered the sanctity of life. That miscreant under the bridge, I could not kill him unnecessarily. Maybe it was the jacket . . .”

  “The jacket’s a crutch, but if that’s what you need to give up the kill, then use it.”

  “No, really, there is something about this jack—”

  “My crutch is charity work. It wasn’t the killing that bothered me, it was the Flash—it grew so taxing . . .”

  Kamil couldn’t stop thinking about the jacket. “I sensed its life force,” he muttered, while running its lapel through his thumb and forefinger. “It tempered certain . . . inclinations.”

  “I can offer you additional, long-term assistance,” Jeannie continued, “but only if you remain steadfast in your conviction to abstain.”

  He freed his mind from the jacket long enough to consider Jeannie’s proposition. She picked up a pencil with a Red Cross insignia on it and began to twirl it slowly between her fingers. “We have a good thing going here, not just for our kind, but for potential victims. Help is only a phone call away. When the urge comes upon you, we can share our testimonials, the life stories from countless mortals without the kill, like a methadone fix for a heroin addict, if you will. Just take the first step and admit you want to change.”

  A long, but comfortable silence passed. “I’m interested,” Kamil finally said, and he meant it.

  “Then see you here Saturday at midnight—and we serve refreshments!”

  ***

  Saturday at midnight, Kamil arrived at the Chapter House. He entered the front door and passed the kitchen, where an elderly-looking, androgynous vampire with gray hair heated what appeared to be plastic bags in a pot of steaming water. In the meeting room, a dozen chairs were placed in a circle. Only the ambient light from outside lit the room, plenty enough for the group that had gathered.

  A tall blond man took Kamil by his elbow. “Welcome, brother. I’m Jay.” The traditional greeting then followed, as Jay squeezed Kamil’s arms to estimate his density and bone structure. Kamil did likewise, estimating his cheerful new acquaintance to be at least twice his own age and strength.

  “I’m Kamil.”

  “Make yourself comfortable, we start in a few minutes.”

  Kamil nodded as he watched the seats fill around him. He took his own. In no time, Jeannie had taken a place next to him. She leaned into him. “Good to see you, brother.”

  “Sister,” he nodded politely.

  Eventually, Jeannie called the meeting to order, and offered a short invocation. “We ask the gods to forgive us as we pursue alternatives to the natural course prescribed.”

  The others uttered the riposte, “May the gods forgive us.”

  “I’m Jeannie and I am addicted to the Flash. Now I work in the blood center and the Red Cross as a distraction.”

  The elderly vampire tossed her a warm bag of blood from the large pot Kamil had seen earlier. “B Positive, dearie. Your favorite.”

  “My name’s Jay and I’m addicted to the Flash. I am a phlebotomist for distraction.”

  Another bag entered the circle. “’O’ for you, Brother Jay, flavored tonight with a little aspirin from the donor’s own medicine chest, no doubt.”

  Finally it was Kamil’s turn to speak.

  “My name is Kamil and I seem to have regained an aversion to killing.”

  Silence fell. Dismay flowered all around him, further compelling his honesty. “It’s the jacket . . .”

  The others nodded their heads, perhaps skeptically.

  “Here you go, sonny. A special bag of AB Negative just for you, rare you know. Drinker’s blood; smells like a Tequila Sunrise.”

  ***

  For a distraction, Kamil began to take regular shifts at the CHOMP bloodbank, a white concrete building with walls covered by a relentless 3D square-in-square design, inside and out. Scheduled to cover the blood donation recep
tion room for the evening, he settled into the front desk.

  It was a relatively slow night, but a few hours into his shift, a young woman wearing a smart business suit came in to register. Kamil lifted his head and smiled warmly.

  “Are you here for a deposit or a withdrawal?”

  The End

  About the Author

  After nearly twenty years as an emergency services professional, MARK C. ANGEL has worked in ambulance services, firefighting, ocean rescue, disaster response and community emergency preparedness. A volunteer with the American Red Cross since high school, he has assisted with disaster relief efforts on several national disasters including Hurricane Katrina and 9/11 in New York City. In his spare time, he practices Tai Chi and volunteers as a scientific diver with the Monterey Bay Aquarium. He has a bachelor's degree in psychobiology and music from the University of California at Santa Cruz, and has traveled and dived extensively on four continents.

 

 

 


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