by Alan Spencer
She spat out the words from constricted vocal cords. “It’s mostly women in this room. You fucked them, didn’t you? You fucked them!”
“You think I’d become a monk strictly dedicated to saving your asses? Three years is a long time to spend seeking a cure and to be a sexless, neutered creature. The blood is in our veins. How can men like us stay celibate?"
“But why didn’t you ask for help?” Lenora cried, demanding a reasoning she could accept, still wanting Ruden to be the virtuous scientist he made himself out to be. “Why didn’t you call upon me? And I didn’t seek sexual pleasure from anyone. I showed restraint. All of our kind did. You strayed from the people who believed in you. We staked our lives on you. Why did you keep everybody out of your work?”
“And give up having sex with handfuls of girls?” Ruden laughed, his face bending into a deviant's. “It was pleasure, any man’s dream. It's that simple.”
“You sick fuck!”
“Exactly." He whooped with laughter. "Virgins, sluts, housewives, you name it. You’d be surprised once they had enough blood, their wombs became like yours. As long as we were using them as test subjects, why not enjoy them before they died? You can’t blame any man for what we did. The blood creates lust in everyone. It changes our reasoning; we became barbarians. We’d feast upon their blood during orgies, waist-deep in crimson.”
“Your plan was to collect more blood so you could get your rocks off!” Lenora was disgusted. “I hate you, Ruden. At least tell me what your discovery involves. What’s so special about this blood you've created?”
“During the orgies, we’d swim in the blood of hundreds. We drank from it, and it makes you stronger well beyond what we have become. It’s morphed us into deformed creatures that much faster. It takes blood from hundreds and thousands of victims to do what’s been done the past two days. Once you mix it all together, it transforms. The smell alone drives any human into devouring it. The blood of hundreds mixed together, it creates the same effect when we infect a human.
“We discovered that in our throats, there’s a sack where the blood collects, and ultimately, the blood ferments there. Each victim we drink from is added to that compartment, and it turns into something rich and addictive over time. We can mimic that fermentation by mixing blood in these casks,” he pointed the barrels, “and giving little tastes to the humans at a time to entice them—to enslave them! We don’t have to feed them enough to turn them into creatures, we can string them along. Enslaved, they’ll give us their blood, birth children so we can drink their blood, and the smartest of the humans can find a way to genetically create blood—what I failed to do on my own—and our blood problem will become society’s blood problem, and ultimately, everyone’s problem.”
The man on the floor coughed, beckoning Lenora’s attention. “H-he’s lying, that wasn’t his plan—Hector told me everything. The truth!”
Ruden kicked him square in the stomach, and he was sent across the room until he struck the wall.
“What is he saying?” She shifted to her knees. Her innards were clenched, and it was hard to move without triggering the need to retch. “I want the truth, Ruden, and no more bullshit.”
He ruminated on her command, deciding what to enumerate and leave out. “It’s too bad you had to snoop around, my love. I guess you would’ve found out about everything eventually. The truth is, I don't have a blood solution for them.” Ruden's eyes bulged. "It’s a blood solution for me.”
“They will fight for their lives up there. You realize that, don’t you?—you double crossing piece-of-shit!”
“They won’t know there’s a battle to begin with, will they? You fools depended on me—one ME alone, to save you, and I know the thoughts they’ve had about me. How I’m a fool, a failure, an idiot, a pathetic weakling. We'll see about that tonight. Soon, Lenora, soon, they’ll learn who they were dealing with; they’ll learn how smart I really am.”
He kneeled down beside her, combing his fingers through her hair, stroking her. “It’s too bad, Lenora, because I did love you. You were good to me, but I was lying to myself. You wouldn’t understand my motives. The blood is truly everything, beyond what anyone else can offer, so forgive me.”
She didn't take in the words, reaching out and seizing his testicles until the pressure popped one of them. A high-pitched shriek issued from his throat, the level piercing against her ears. Ruden plummeted to his knees and cupped his crotch, his throat issuing high octaves of torment, his tears gleaming like reflective ball bearings. “I’ll kill you!”
She cut through the open door to retrieve the Mexican Machete on the wall adjacent from the bed. Running full-speed and taking aim, she swung, and in one solid hack, she sliced his head clean from the neck. She wasn’t prepared for the torrent that spat forth and deflected from the ceiling with the pressure of a broken fire hydrant. Mist and spray by the gallons erupted from the stump, frothing rich with oxygen and pressure. The torso deflated, sucked of its essence, and losing its form, it struck the floor a desiccated shell.
Lenora couldn’t resist the robust aroma of his blood. She licked and slurped from the floor. She believed the pores of her skin absorbed the red as she painted herself in it. Before she supped for too long, she caught the man in the corner eying her in pure horror.
40
Shannon shivered in the confines of the compactor, crouched in a puddle of rainwater afraid to move. She clutched the Manchurian crossbow, the weapon containing no encouragement to her predicament. Chippie had disappeared, and the way the fiends in the woods celebrated after the big explosion hours ago, she assumed he was another victim. Her family was dead. Caleb was the only person she didn’t know for certain was deceased, but the hope for his survival fizzled out after Chippie’s demise.
She couldn’t stay in the compacter forever, she thought, considering how the darkness would turn to morning, and how the sunlight would give her away. They would grow in numbers too, killing everybody town-to-town, city-by-city. Despite the facts, she was unable to draw up a strong enough reasoning to leave the compactor.
She'd held her bladder for an hour, and now, her body made the decision for her. She smelled the tang of urine, too scared to be repulsed, and she kept peeing. She battled to fight through the humiliating moment by thinking once again of survival. The hardest voice in her mind to ignore was the one that kept telling her there was a chance that help was on its way. Give it another hour, she believed, and sirens and the Calvary would snuff the inhuman creatures from the face of the earth.
The cheers cut the night air again, the whooping and hollering of ridiculous ear-piercing yawps.
The crossbow slipped from her grip, useless. “Why am I the only who survived...?"
She listened harder to the raucous noise. They weren’t in the woods or the road scouting for her. Shannon’s eyes veered to the edge of the compacter. She shifted between the fence wire and the barbs and climbed to the top. Peering out, nobody lurked in the immediate proximity. She retrieved the crossbow and jumped from the edge, staying on her haunches and waiting for a reaction.
After minutes of silence, she was comfortable in the belief she was alone. Chippie’s house was smoldering in a rubble pile. The outline of a kitchen and the foundation were discernable, the rest fire-eaten vestiges. The man's truck was a promising sight, but the engine was removed and taken apart.
“God damn-it!”
She kicked the hood.
Still, nobody thrashed through the woods to catch her.
She noted a pair of binoculars in the passenger seat. She swiped them clean of rainwater and was surprised that they were night vision.
Finally, something goes in my favor.
She searched for the cider mill, where she believed the noises were coming from, and she was right, spying the crowds of people lined up at the back entrance. Each of them had their heads turned at an angle studying the same object. The crowd would go through cycles of nodding their heads in approval, raising their
fists up, or exchanging hugs and embracing each other.
Stock tanks and a pit of blood were each brimming full and gleaming of dark cherry. What used to be an innocent cider mill was a tool for mass slaughter. The conveyor impressed her when Dale Birchum gave her family a tour of the facility when she was five. The blades dicing up the apples and the steel presses squeezing the juices from the fruit was an entertaining sight, but now, it was a gore soaked accomplice to murder.
She studied the perimeter of the cider mill. Nobody was outside. She could leave town without intervention, she believed.
The thought of traveling on foot for help remained troublesome. She reconsidered hiding in the compacter again until help arrived. Somebody would stroll through town, be it a grocery store supplier or random tourist. But would they be killed too upon arrival? Did she survive only to have to fight for her life even longer and under worse circumstances?
She returned to watching the cider mill, unable to make sense of the dilemma. The movement from the nursery path caught her interest, the living horror that was supposed to be a body. Muscles rippled and throbbed on every inch of her, even her eyelids. Her eyes were the color of magenta, alarming in the night. Who she pushed ahead of her made her cheer, “Caleb, you’re alive!”
The revelation encouraged a worse idea. She couldn’t abandon him. Help wasn’t available for miles, and by then, Caleb would be dead. The crossbow wouldn’t be enough to fend them off; she wasn’t prepared or schooled for combat like Chippie, and even he had died.
I can’t leave him.
Shannon rested her head against the hood of the truck and covered her head in frustration. The problems in her life previously didn’t add up to the current situation. Unemployed with a family who demeaned her and mooched every dime she earned didn’t amount to certain death. She imagined her arms and legs diced up in the spinning blades. The hungry mouths of those who stood vigil a mile from her standing point would feast on her blood. Running wasn’t an option. The creatures would follow her out of town. The risk was everywhere.
Battling the twisted emotions, she realized she was standing in Chippie’s yard again. There had to be something on the premises left undamaged to add to her arsenal. Hurrying to scout the premises, she stopped at his truck, and opening the door, she rooted through the glove compartment. Spitting curses, she only located an empty bottle of "Old Hank's Bourbon". She reached under the seats and combed the carpet with her hands. Empty chewing tobacco tins were strewn plentiful.
“No fucking good.”
On top of the back seat was a leather satchel. She rummaged inside of it and gasped at the four hand grenades stored inside.
“Holy shit.”
She slung the satchel strap over her shoulder and raised the Manchurian crossbow.
Maybe I don’t have to run after all.
41
She picked up Ruden’s head and cradled it by the stump. Lenora spat into his face, hoping he could feel her wrath, even in death. “I defended you—and I was wrong!” She gouged out his eyes, sliding her fingers deep into his wet sockets. “Everybody up there depended on you, and this is how you repay them!”
Lenora squeezed his head until it was a waded ball of pulp. It imploded, the skull walls caving in. She dropped the ruined head onto the ground. “Bastard.”
A mirror across the room had been shattered during the fight, and only a triangular portion remained unaffected by the damage. She studied herself in it and what had changed in the last few seconds. Her eyes literally swam in red, oozing crimson. Between her gums, droplets of blood dripped free. Her tongue had extended two inches in length. A thick band of artery shot through her chest and branched out between her breasts down to the navel. Her biceps swelled to a water balloon size, near bursting capacity. The flesh had changed to a bruise hue. Ribs protruded so prominent, they threatened to snap through the skin.
And that’s from a mere taste of Ruden’s blood.
He’s full of his altered blood.
The cider mill harbored the advanced blood. The blood of hundreds mixed together, the same as what had turned Vlad the Impaler into a war-monger, awaited her. She eyed the man in the corner, watching her with quivering eyes, praying he wouldn’t become her next victim.
She extended her hand out to him. “You need to come with me.”
42
Caleb eyed the woman who reached out to him. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His body knew better than to trust the demonic, blood-drinking female.
The woman spoke again, “What did Ruden do to Hector?—why was he a living torso?”
His mouth was dry, his tongue cemented to the roof of his mouth.
“Answer me; what happened to Hector?”
She swooped in, lifting him up by the neck and thrusting him into the wall. “His dying words were shared with you. What—did—he—say?”
Fearing he’d succumb a death via ripped off head, he managed to speak, though his words were guarded—knowing the absolute truth couldn’t be spoken. “He warned me that Ruden was lying to you. He wanted the blood for himself, and that the others would have to die, but he didn’t say how they’d die.”
“Liar!”
He pleaded on his knees, beseeching her, “I-I’m not lying, that’s all I know. I don’t know who you people are, or what the hell you’re doing. I was hiding from others like you when I found this place, honest—honest!”
She knows you’re lying, tell her everything.
You can’t trick them.
I have to try.
“How did Hector die?”
“R-Ruden. I-I don’t know. Please don’t hurt me. I found the man on the floor, and he kept telling me to kill Ruden. And then you came along, and that's all I know."
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she softened her voice, sitting him back down on the floor, suddenly pleased enough with his answer. “I’m going to save you for later. You’re going to be useful. The bloodthirsty need a solution to their blood problem, and I have it. With or without Ruden, tonight’s a celebration.”
She turned her head up to the ceiling. “They deserved a hero...and what they got was a waste of fucking time.” She clicked her nails together, and enjoying the blood painted on them, she dragged her tongue along them to claim every drop. “It’s about time we stopped working on a cure or a replacement for blood and take what’s ours. We’re stronger than you, we can overtake you—fuck guns, or knives, or numbers, we will reign over everyone!”
Lenora scavenged the room for duct tape and rope. Caleb’s wrists were tied together once her stock was gathered, and she wrapped duct tape around his mouth and cycled it around his head.
She pressed her finger to his lips. “I don’t want you succumbing to the blood thirst. The special blood will be flowing in every direction pretty soon, and if you drink it, I can't use you as a slave."
Before grabbing his arm to push him out of the room, she retrieved Ruden’s crushed head. He was then led back to the rope hanging down into the wishing well. Wondering how he'd get back up, Lenora slung him over her back. Then, she chucked Ruden’s head upwards, the head landing somewhere topside. She ascended the wall, clutching onto the rope. After moments of grunting and utilizing superior strength, they were above ground again. Off her shoulder now, he was guided to the cider mill for the celebration, but not before Lenora reclaimed Ruden’s head from the grass and took it with her.
You can’t pull this off.
She knows.
No, she doesn’t know. Hector’s warnings fell on your ears and only your ears. You can’t battle them hand-to-hand.
All you have to do is watch them die.
That's if they don’t kill you first.
He feared Hector’s calculations could be wrong—or the man without arms or legs was too delirious in his dying state and wasn’t talking sense.
What if they don’t die the way he said they would die?
Forced from his concerns, he was urged through the threshold of the cider mill
, facing the throng of monsters. Lenora tied his arms to a post, leaving him to face the crowd that was eager to hear what she had to say.
43
Lenora absorbed their admiration, the awestruck faces of those who’d waited so long for Ruden’s solution. Upon her entrance, their boisterous conversation and nostalgic rehashing of the past ended. Their eyes begged to be released of the strain they suffered. She couldn’t deliver the gift of bringing back the dead, but there was a different form of liberation on the horizon.
The crowd was over a hundred strong, and they formed a circle around the conveyor belt. Lenora stood on top of strewn heads, extremities, and waded clothes and entrails, speaking, “I address you on behalf of Ruden, because he is dead.”
A hush fell upon the crowd when they observed Ruden’s head in her clutches. She spoke above them, explaining away their questions. “He betrayed us, and I’m so ashamed that he defiled our trust. You look down in that bunker, and it’s a bloodbath. Ruden murdered his fellow researchers, and he planned on murdering everyone in this room. He couldn’t cure our need for blood, so he decided to have you murder an entire town so he could reserve the blood and go into hiding himself like he’s done for the last several years. He used us!
“I observed his machines below, and how he tried to create blood synthetically, and it was poison! My thinking was backwards, I realized.” Lenora piked Ruden’s head onto the conveyor belt. “Our solution isn’t in science, it’s in inspiring fear. Killing randomly. Killing for fun. Killing for blood!”
Questions were asked from many pockets of the room:
“But what about the blood in the pit?”
“What did Ruden create?”
“But what is this blood?”
“It’s not drugged or chemically treated, is it?”