Fang

by H. T. Night

  “True,” I conceded. “Something tells me you’ve had the occasion to bargain with Don once or twice before.”

  “Maybe,” Bruce replied with a smile, putting another spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth. “Around here, you learn quick. If you don’t, Don and his friends will make you wish you had. My advice to you is to cool it down a notch, listen and observe... and learn.”

  “That’s not me, though, Bruce,” I said. “If I’m going to make it out of this place whole, I have to stay true to myself.”

  “No, you don’t,” he snapped back. “That’s the quickest way to making sure you never get out of here. A smart person would give them what they want so they’ll give you what you need.”

  With that, the crooked-fingered man stood up, picked up his tray, and walked away from me and the table. I was left alone to think about Bruce’s words. I hated myself for it, but I could see the logic in what he’d said.

  Chapter Seven

  It wasn’t until I stood in the middle of the fenced-in half-acre the hospital designated as an exercise yard that I understood Bruce’s advice.

  I felt like someone had just put me in front of a huge blood bag buffet as I soaked in the bright sunshine. It warmed my pale skin and the blood beneath it, making me feel tingly and happy. I was sitting with Bruce in a corner of the yard, watching him sketch out the beginnings of Don’s tattoo when the guards pushed a guy through the gate, locked it and turned away. He seemed harmless enough, hugging himself in the straitjacket they’d left on him. Quietly, he moved over to a bench and sat.

  “That’s Kevin,” Bruce said, looking up briefly from the sketch pad. “He’s harmless enough, but if they don’t get the meds in him on time, he turns into a real firecracker.”

  “Hmmm,” I replied. “Firecracker, huh?”

  “Yup, and trust me, it isn’t pretty.”

  I felt relaxed, recharged and completely calm by the time Don and Terry escorted me back to my cell. It didn’t seem to matter to Don that my canines were long gone; all he had in his mind was the picture of what Dr. Carter’s neck had looked like after I’d taken a bite out of it. I guessed that was where the not-so-clever nickname ‘Bitey’ had come from; as far as Don was concerned, I’d always be ‘Bitey,’ teeth or no teeth.

  As they led me down the corridor back to my cell, I noticed the Clorox smell had been somehow diluted with the scent of pine disinfectant; not much of an improvement by my standards. While I stood outside the door waiting for Terry to open it, I glanced across the corridor into the room where Corn Dog Guy had suffered his self-induced coma; the floors were spotless. There was a new guy in the cell, and he paced just as much, like a caged wolf.

  Lunch came shortly after, and as I ate, the quiet of the ward added to my pleasant demeanor, but the calm didn’t last long. About fifteen minutes after the orderly had collected the lunch trays, ‘werewolf guy’ started his antics. I rushed to the door, not wanting Don to come down there to hush him up. I’d seen what a one-on-one with that bad man earned an inmate.

  “Keep it down, dude,” I hissed, hoping he heard me. “You don’t want Don beating the silence into you. Believe me.”

  He must have heard the urgency in my voice because he sobbed himself quiet after a few moments. I slid down the wall beside the door and kept talking to him. I’d never admit it to anyone, but after the time I’d spent outside in the yard, I realized I’d missed having people to talk to other than attorneys, orderlies and doctors.

  “Hey, buddy, do you wanna talk about it?”

  There was only silence from the cell next door punctuated by his soft huffs. After about five minutes, I gave up and stood to go lie down on my bench. I was pleasantly surprised to see a bare mattress on it; of course, there were no sheets. I lay down with my head to the door and after a little while longer, I heard a voice.

  “You still there? My name is Richard. What’s yours?”

  “Aaron,” I said, trying to feel him out. Some of these guys tried to manipulate you for contraband right out of the gate. As it turned out, Richard just wanted to talk and talk he did, all through the night.

  I stayed awake, alert and listened. In this place, it was as good as a Saturday night at the movies.

  Richard’s story had been a fantastic one by any standards, but for me, it held a glimmer of validation. I’d sat with my back to the wall by the door of my cell for hours, listening to him. From what he’d described, he had been camping on a mountain trail near an old ranch when he’d witnessed what could only be described as an old-school rumble.

  Richard said, “At first, about twelve vehicles had driven past the ranch about a mile up the trail and parked. Then several people, about thirty to forty individuals, had walked down to the grassy field at the north end of the ranch. They waited there until around 1:00 a.m. when another dude showed up. He didn’t look anything like the others in the group and it was soon clear that he’d gone there to confront them. I swore I was about to witness a murder, so I decided not to move or make a sound. I wasn’t going to get myself killed for watching the whole thing go down. When the guy stepped onto the field, they all seemed amused, as if he had just walked into his own execution. In the middle of the mob stood a seven-foot-plus beast of a man. ‘You alone?’ I heard him ask the new arrival. They called him a Mani, but I’m not sure that was who he was, or more like what he was.

  “‘Yes,’ the Mani man said. He was staring directly at the big guy who seemed to be growing increasingly anxious.

  “‘You have serious balls to come out here all by yourself,’ the big one laughed. The rest of the group laughed like a grisly choir of deadheads.

  “‘You dogs all deserve to die after what you have done,’ the Mani said plainly, walking a little closer to him. About sixty to seventy feet separated them.

  “‘I can’t keep track of what I’ve done. Please refresh my memory.’ The big one turned to the others and laughed.

  “At that, the Mani took off his shirt and threw it to the ground. The big one snorted.

  “‘What?’ he said. ‘I should be impressed by your pale body.’

  “From where I was hiding, I stared at the grisly mob. The pale Mani dude was seriously outnumbered. I couldn’t help it. I was itching to fight and was out of my hiding spot.”

  “You were itching to fight?” I asked, taking Richard out of his story. He was 125 pounds dripping wet. This guy could be my body double. ‘Itching to fight’ wasn’t in my physical makeup. Some guys had it, no matter what their size. Apparently, Richard was one of these scrappy, skinny guys.

  “Fighting has never been a big deal to me.” Richard returned to his story.

  “I jumped out of my hiding spot and joined the pale Mani man.

  Goliath nearly buckled over laughing when he saw me. ‘Is this what Mani vampires are recruiting these days? I could sneeze and knock this kid over.’”

  “Mani vampire?” I asked, once again cutting into Richard’s story. “This pale man was a vampire?”

  “These guys at the ranch sure as hell thought so.” Richard took a deep breath and continued, “‘Try it you big dope,’ I said to the behemoth of a man.

  “Goliath said, ‘It’s showtime, you meddling piece of shit.’ Goliath charged at me like a bull.

  “So, I figured a little force would knock him down. As he came up on me, I bent down and swept my left leg, and tripped him. I hit his leg with an extreme amount of force. He did a face-plant into the grassy dirt field.

  “Goliath pushed himself out of the mud and climbed to his knees. He hollered out, ‘You Mani little shit.’ I wasn’t a Mani. Up until this night, I’d never heard of Manis or vampires.

  “The Mani man touched my shoulder. ‘Move aside,’ he said.

  “I ducked out of his way. Then he proceeded to beat the crap out of Goliath. Goliath was so big, he wouldn’t go down. So, the vampire turned and attacked the mob. Within minutes, the mob had left in a wave of cars. Goliath was one of them. There were three men left behin
d, however. They weren’t quick enough to get to the trucks.

  “I thought my new vampire friend would just beat the living tar out of these guys and leave them for dead, but, he didn’t.

  “‘You can handle these werewolves,’ the Mani vampire said to me and changed his body into a black bird and flew off. He left me there alone to deal with the three men who were apparently werewolves. They circled me and I fought them off as well as I could. These crazy motherfuckers bit me. All three of them did. I fought them off until I completely blacked out.”

  “You blacked out?” I asked. “They didn’t kill you?”

  “I’m not sure where those assholes went. The next thing I knew, I was strapped to a gurney in the back of an ambulance. At the hearing, they told me I broke one officer’s nose, grabbed another’s gun and was threatening to shoot them if they didn’t listen to me. I was apparently babbling about werewolves and vampires at the time… but couldn’t recall any of it.

  “I told the judge what I saw at the ranch, and he ordered me to receive a mental evaluation. The quack doctors doped me up before they interviewed me, and the result of all this is twelve months at minimum psychiatric observation and rehabilitation in this place.”

  All I could say in response to Richard’s amazing story was, “Do you think that dude was a vampire?”

  “He was something different. I saw him change into a bird and fly off. I’m not crazy, man. I know what I saw.”

  I looked over at my new neighbor and said, “I believe you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Richard wasn’t able to leave his cell yet since he was just processed inside twenty-four hours ago. They brought him the same disgusting slop bedside. I imagined he just slept and didn’t even try to eat.

  At breakfast, it was me chatting up Bruce for a change.

  “As it turns out, Richard doesn’t actually think he’s a werewolf. He’s just sure as hell that he’s seen them. And a vampire that turns into a black bird.”

  “A bat?” Bruce asked.

  “No, he was very specific about it being a black bird. Like a raven, I guess. Are ravens black?”

  “Yeah, I’d say I believe him, if it wouldn’t earn me a few more years in this joint,” Bruce said with a smile.

  “He told me he saw a pack of them in their human forms fighting what he believes to be a vampire up in Anaheim Hills one night. That’s what landed him in here. No one would believe him; they thought he was crazy. Being a homeless drifter, they medicated him and locked him up with the rest of us loons.”

  “Well, then, no wonder he’s so pissed off.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, spooning a mouthful of bland food into my mouth. “I didn’t know they could do that.”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure they can… at least, not legally.”

  We were eating scrambled eggs and tomatoes for breakfast. Although I would have preferred a red, liquid meal, I ate my powdered eggs and overripe tomatoes without a fuss. Bruce seemed proud of me.

  “You should have heard his story, man. It was insane. Werewolves and vampires. But from what he described, that would have to be the weirdest vampire ever.”

  “Quiet, Aaron,” Bruce hushed me. “Save your story for later. You might not want any ears hearing you use that particular word around here.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “I’ll tell you more when we are out in the yard.”

  We finished breakfast and because I was a good boy and ate my food, I was rewarded time out in the yard again.

  Bruce and I decided to take a walk around the perimeter of the yard. This way I could tell Richard’s story without interruption or prying ears.

  I told Bruce the exact story that Richard had told me. Verbatim. I just had to tell the story a lot quicker, as we were only in the yard for thirty minutes and Richard had had all night to tell me.

  Bruce took in and seemed to believe every word of the story. He told me to not share the story with anybody else in the prison.

  We walked back to our cells and for the first time, I was a tad excited in this damned place. I was anxious to see if Bruce had any more stories.

  Chapter Nine

  I must have had too much sun the following day. I walked across the yard to talk to the guy Bruce called ‘Firecracker.’ As it turned out, Kevin Ramirez was just an eighteen-year-old kid with anger management problems... or so I’d thought, at first. They’d let him out of the straitjacket, but that made me think that he was probably too doped up to do much more than sit on the bench in the corner of the yard and stare out the chain link fence over the open field. I was pleasantly surprised.

  “It’s Kevin, right?” I started as I sat down on one edge of the bench.

  He nodded slightly, not taking his eyes off the field.

  “Cool. My name’s Aaron.”

  “Yeah, I know. The tough guys call you, ‘Bitey.’” Then he turned to me and asked, “Are you really a vampire?”

  I laughed and ran my tongue over the gaps in my gums. “To be honest, Kevin, I’m not quite sure of anything anymore.”

  “Well, that’s a disappointment,” he replied, turning back to look at the field.

  He was inquisitive I gave him that… but ‘Firecracker’? I wasn’t convinced he was a problem child.

  “They say you have quite a temper. What’s that about?”

  He turned to me again. It was obvious he wanted to talk as much as I did.

  “I wouldn’t call my ‘problem’ a temper, per se.”

  “What would you call it then?”

  “I’d say I’m easily enraged by bullshit.”

  “All righty, then.” Perhaps I should tread lightly with this line of questioning as I have been known to spout bullshit from time to time, I thought. But, I was intrigued and wanted to know more about this kid. I had been formulating a plan, and something told me that he could play an integral part. “Tell me, Kevin,” I continued, “what kinds of things enrage you?”

  “Anything, really. If it triggers an emotion, I get enraged,” he said, watching birds fly over our heads into the field.

  “That is either very general or very specific,” I replied.

  “It has a lot to do with who is spouting the bullshit.”

  I nodded, because I understood exactly what he was saying. I eventually stood up and made my way over to Bruce.

  Bruce looked up at me as I sat beside him. “What was that about?” he asked.

  “Just being friendly,” I said.

  A few days later, Bruce, Richard, and I were unlucky enough to see just how enraged Kevin could become. Then it happened with increasing frequency. All it would take was for someone to do or say something slightly off-key and he’d fly off the handle. He would throw things, attack people, and throw some of the heaviest punches I’d ever seen thrown by a scrawny eighteen-year-old... Every time he did, it would land him in the ‘hole.’

  At breakfast one morning, Bruce and I were chatting over our imitation bacon and toast when suddenly, a tray flew up in the air from along the cafeteria buffet line. A hot cup of coffee was emptied in a male steward’s face, sending him screaming toward the kitchens. Then, the hard plastic cup was being used as a hammer on the face of another inmate. Kevin, once again.

  Bruce and I stood so we could have a better look, but just like all the other inmates seated in the cafeteria, we knew better than to make a move toward the fracas. We could barely make out the bloodied cup as it went up and came down over and over on the other man’s nose and lips.

  Don and Terry came running in and grabbed hold of Kevin, prying him off the other man with one heave and slamming him face down on the ground. Terry pulled Kevin’s arms behind his back and, with one knee in the small of Kevin’s back, Terry cuffed his hands. He fussed and fought the whole time, even after Don delivered a boot kick to Kevin’s face.

  Two doctors rushed in after that. While one took Kevin’s pulse and other vitals, the other filled a syringe with clear medicine and injected it into Kevin’s
arm. Before he was fully down for the count, one of the doctors asked him, “Why did you do that to Peter, Kevin?”

  Kevin smiled. Blood was smeared all over his teeth from Don’s kick. “He was trying to cut in front of me in the line.”

  When they lifted Peter up onto the stretcher to take him to the infirmary, the whole room caught a look at his face. I still shudder when I think of it. I’d never before seen such damage done to a man with a cup and sheer brute force. It looked like he’d kissed a truck that was going fifty-five miles an hour down the freeway.

  Of course, Kevin made another trip to solitary confinement and that time, he was gone for two weeks. I thought my six-by-eight was depressing until Bruce gave me a full description of the solitary confinement holding cells. They were basically closets about half the size of a regular cell with a bench the length of it, a toilet in a corner, and a small door to one side. Beyond cramped, there were no windows, no bars to look through, and just a slot in the metal sliding door for the orderlies to push food trays into the cell. No matter how aggravated you felt upon entering this hell hole, Bruce said, you came out as calm as a breeze. A depressing and humiliating place to spend a week, Bruce’s exact words were, “The place gives you a fresh perspective on how you’ll want to live out your time at Fulton.”

  “Kevin, you gotta learn how to keep yourself from reacting to these things,” I said to him after he emerged from solitary. They’d finally allowed him to eat in the cafeteria again.

  “I used to be able to stay calm,” Kevin responded. “but I can’t anymore. I feel like I’m always ready to explode and beating the shit out of someone makes me feel so much better.”

  “There’s a difference between action and reaction, Kevin,” Bruce advised. “That’s what you have to learn... how to tell the difference between the two.” He stood up and went to dump his tray. He was done talking to the impetuous teenager. But I was just getting started.