Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor

by HC Hammond

  Then, the meeting broke up. Harold stood to try and make good his escape, but someone grabbed him by the elbow. Rufus, the good dog, held him fast. Harold reluctantly waited while Donald took a few moments to speak with the new zombie woman, probably to impart a few words of wisdom, before she tottered off after her new family.

  “I see you hung around,” Donald said, then chortled to himself. Rufus didn’t let go of Harold’s elbow until Donald got to the both of them. He held out a hand which Harold reluctantly accepted. “Welcome to the group. I’m glad you decided to pop in tonight. We’re always looking for new blood,” he chortled again.

  Harold didn’t laugh. He was hungry and nervous and the sooner he could get out of here and grab a bite to eat the sooner life would be okay again.

  “Well, I just wanted to welcome you personally,” said Donald. He folded his hands in front of himself.

  Harold nodded, looking around for an opening to leave, an excuse to leave, anything he could find to leave and get away from Rufus and his ring master, Donald.

  “I also wanted to remind you about our tenets and the guidelines of group. I assume you received our paperwork?”

  Oh yes, Harold nodded. He’d received a stack of handouts from the courthouse about an inch thick and still sitting unread on his coffee table.

  “Good, good. Well, you’ll need to find yourself a group buddy before the next meeting. You know someone to call on for strength, to talk with for support. Show you around the house.”

  Harold focused back on Donald. “I’m sorry, house?”

  The man frowned, “Yes, the halfway house. I assumed they told you down at court.”

  Harold shook his head as it slowly dawned that he’d be spending a lot more time than he wanted with these characters.

  “You’re in the diversion program. Required to spend your days at the house to qualify for graduation.”

  He needed to get a buddy and he’d be hanging out at one giant, creepy sleepover. Harold didn’t feel so hungry anymore, in fact, he felt a bit sick again. The feds may have mentioned something about a haunted house of horrors, but he’d been in no real mood to listen then.

  “I wasn’t really expecting to stay on in a group home,” Harold began.

  “Tut, tut, halfway house.”

  “Err, yeah.”

  Harold’s mouth twitched as Donald patted him on the shoulder, “Don’t worry we’ve got a lovely bed made up for you.”

  Maria was not going to be happy about this part of the program. She already thought they weren’t spending enough time together.

  “Now about your group buddy?” Donald asked.

  Harold nodded. He had to pick someone out of this group of Donald devotees to share his most intimate, scaredy vamp fears with, someone who would probably be eager to spy on him for the ringmaster here.

  “In fact, if you don’t know anyone in the group yet, I’m certain Rufus would be glad to take you on as a buddy.” At Donald’s words, Rufus grinned. A little slobber dribbled out of the side of his mouth and his tail wagged extra hard.

  Harold took an involuntary step away from Rufus. Well, he’d rather be staked, drawn and quartered than share his thoughts with Rufus. “I have already asked someone about being my buddy.”

  His feet found something slippery and Harold hit the floor in a hurry. Rufus barked his laughter. Damn it. A trail of wet slime meandered away from underneath his ass and around the corner of a forklift. “I already asked someone about it,” he repeated, staring off into the distance.

  “Are you alright?”

  Harold eased back to a standing position. “I’m okay.” Harold wiped the gooey mucous from his hands onto his trench coat, already slick with slime on the back. “I’ve got to go wipe this stuff off,” he muttered and tried to make a getaway.

  “Wait. Who is your group buddy?”

  “Huh.”

  “Your buddy? I just need to make sure you are set up for next week. It’s going to be exciting.”

  “Uh.” Harold’s eyes were drawn back to the slimy trail he’d fallen in. The trail of a disgusting creature that gained pleasure from not only annoying Donald, but the others in the group. One that also had the distinction of being the asswipe who outed Harold earlier to the group.

  “The slug.”

  “The slug?”

  “I spoke with the slug about being my buddy. He said yes.”

  Donald’s eyes narrowed and his cheeks lost some of their natural puffiness. “Yes, that would be convenient. Zork’s buddy just graduated from group.” Donald pressed his palms together so they made little human heart pumping sounds with the air, pushing it in and out from between his palms. Swoosh, swoosh, noises like the blood in Donald’s real heart which started pumping blood a little bit more rapidly all of a sudden. “Still, Zork is not the easiest person with which you’ll get along. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have Rufus as a buddy? He’s a good listener.” Rufus looked as if he’d just gotten a treat.

  “I’m okay,” Harold said. He turned and slipped into the alleyways of pallets to find Zork.

  Beyond the forklifts the sounds and whispers of other group members grew steadily quieter as everyone left to go their own ways home. He could imagine Rufus the lapdog curled up peacefully on the floor in front of Donald’s fireplace. Without all the creepy crawlies, the warehouse seemed a lot less spooky. Really, it was just a big building filled with a lot of food.

  Harold considered the task ahead of him. He’d already told Donald that Zork agreed. He basically had to get the slug’s okay, no ifs, ands or buts. Getting Zork was the best move Harold could make. Zork didn’t seem the bonding type and wasn’t likely to hit Harold up for support over a pint of blood. He disliked Donald or at least wasn’t into FEBS the way some of the other members were, so he wouldn’t have to worry about problems of loyalty.

  The trail disappeared at the corner. Harold glanced around, walking forward several feet to see if he could pick up the trail again, peering beyond nearby corners. Nothing there except concrete.

  Was it possible the slug could fly?

  Harold stalked back to where the trail stopped. The slug could have backtracked. Did it realize it was being tracked? Harold followed the trail back several feet and looked for off branches. He didn’t think a slug capable of jumping very far, but then again, Harold had never seen anything quite like it before. He’d never heard myths about slug creatures. Unless this was the creature from the myth of the Chupacabra? He couldn’t really remember the myth involving slug trails. Harold was checking the sides of pallets for mucous trails, just in case Zork could slime its way up walls when a wild scream broke the silence.

  It landed solidly on Harold’s back, collapsing him to the floor, screaming still as its teeth shredded his ear. Harold grabbed at slippery, wet flesh and squeezed. A low gurgling cry escaped from his attacker. It slide away and smacked onto the floor. Harold got up in a hurry and set his foot above the creature writhing around on the concrete.

  “Uncle, uncle!”

  Harold paused and set his foot down on the floor. The slug kept crying and flopping around. Jesus, he thought, it’s dying. Harold toed the squirming creature. Faster than he could see, the slug straightened and leapt at Harold’s chest. Together, they crashed back into a tower of pallets. Harold’s arms instinctively covered his face from the oncoming attack. Between parted fingers he got his first good look at Zork.

  Two curving eyestalks peered down into Harold’s face. No eyelids, just two beady black eyes on the ends of the eyestalks. They ended at the top of the slug’s head or what Harold could assume was a head. He really couldn’t tell. What should have been a face was smooth and featureless, except for two smaller fleshy horns, wet with mucous. Down the slope of this empty face, the flesh bowed into a mouth, open wide to reveal a rim of sharp backwards-pointing, needle-like teeth. At the base of the creature’s head sat a thick collar with blinking red light, some sort of tracking device. Harold screamed as the slug strugg
led and wriggled to get closer to his face, presumably to plant those very sharp teeth deep into his flesh.

  It was twice in the same night now, someone wanted to turn him into vampire tartar. Weren’t they all supposed to be on the same side here?

  To save his own skin, he pressed his hands into the Jello of the slug’s neck and squeezed. Mucous covered flesh and pitch black blood oozed out between his fingers. Zork squealed and slipped from his grasp onto the floor where it did a repeat of the earlier foil.

  He wouldn’t fall for it again. Instead, Harold jumped onto the writhing creature and pulled it into a headlock or tried too. It emitted more squeals and squirmed around in his grip, but Harold managed to grab the two eyestalks in one hand. He’d pop the eyeballs out of this sucker before letting it get at his face again.

  “Arrggh! Uncle, fucking Uncle!”

  Harold smashed the creature’s empty face into the concrete floor where the cries became muffled and pulled on the ends of its eyestalks. Zork turned into lightening under Harold’s other hand, twisting round to bite it. Harold shrieked, but he didn’t let go of the slug’s eyestalks. For a few seconds it became a battle of which could withstand the most pain. Harold tugging on the eyestalks or the slug biting further and deeper into his hand with its needle teeth. Harold and Zork both screamed in higher and higher octaves. Finally, Harold couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Stop it, stop it!” He yelled at the slug, trying to rip his hand from its mouth.

  “Leggommyeyslls,” it muttered around Harold’s hand. Harold let go of the now well stretched eyestalks and got his hand back from the creature’s bloody maw.

  His hand was a bloody mess oozing with a mix of saliva and black goop Harold could only assume came from inside Zork. It seemed to be the slug’s blood, but he couldn’t tell for certain. It didn’t smell right, didn’t smell like blood to him. Whatever, it was probably bad for his hand and ripe with whatever bacteria the slug carried. Harold tenderly wiped his hand on the bottom edge of his black trench coat. By tomorrow evening it would be completely healed, but for now it hurt to hell.

  Next to him, the slug groaned, rubbing its eyestalks against each other. Large patches of the slug’s skin now oozed the same black goop. He could also see it coming out of the slug’s mouth. Definitely blood or something akin to blood. Lucky for the slug, he hadn’t managed to pop off those eyes. Tough little thing, he thought.

  “Why did you jump me?”

  The slug looked at Harold with one eyestalk. The other, it jammed into its mouth and sucked on. If it could have glared at Harold, he was pretty sure the slug would have. Its other eyestalk came out its mouth and looked at Harold too.

  “Why were you following me?”

  They eyed each other for a few moments as two cowboys in a classic western showdown might before the final showdown. Perhaps he should give the slug a few swift kicks and run for it.

  Harold coughed, “I was going to ask if you wanted to partner with me. You know the buddy thing Donald’s pushing.”

  The slug’s eyestalks swiveled around each other right up to their round, black eyes.

  “Why?”

  “Well,” Harold glanced around the dark warehouse. Except for the scuttling of rats and their enemies the cats, the place had emptied out. His right ear also told him it hurt. Harold reached up and gingerly touched the earlobe. A large part of it was ripped clean.

  “You ripped off my ear!”

  The eyestalks swished back away from Harold.

  “It’ll grow back.” The slug muttered. He considered trying to rip off one of the slug’s eyes again. An eye for an ear, since he couldn’t really see the slug’s ears.

  It stuck its eyestalk back in its mouth as if knowing what Harold was thinking.

  “Yeah, but if I weren’t a vampire, it wouldn’t.”

  The slug’s skin rippled in a shrugging motion. It pulled the eyestalk out of its mouth long enough to agree to be Harold’s group buddy.

  “Let’s get the fuck outta’ here,” said the slug, “I’ll show you the house.”

  The slug directed Harold out of the warehouse into the dark night. He could see a few others from the group, retreating zombies mostly, tottering down the street ahead of them. They all seemed to be heading in the same direction, himself and Zork included. While the zombies moved unhurriedly, Harold was concerned the slug might move even more slowly. He almost suggested taking the car before the slug zoomed out ahead of him and down the street on ruffling flanges. Harold jogged to keep up. They moved a short distance and turned the corner into a residential area filled with the houses of factory workers and forklift drivers.

  The homes were large and striking, but not quite the beautiful painted ladies Harold knew from his youth. Instead of gingerbread and wedding cake trim, they featured missing siding and particle board windows. Yet these were family homes still filled with children and the kind of warmth he hadn’t felt in decades. Signs of wear and tear on the modest homes from yesteryear reminded him how much time passed since his last visit. Harold tended to avoid it because of the memories, but necessity overruled nostalgia. Soon his slimy escort came to a stop in front of a house, the only house on the street with the lights still on. The small wooden sign in front proclaimed this the “FEBS House.” Despite the dark, Harold could still tell the house was well maintained with freshly painted siding and new windows through which the light shone onto a grassy lawn. They went inside.

  A bright eyed and bushy tailed Rufus greeted them at the door with soft growls. Apparently, the wereman still held a grudge. Harold stopped just inside the house, heart pounding in his chest and all of his senses coming to life. Rufus moved in closer and Harold was almost attacked for the third time that night, but Zork slapped the werewolf on the shin with one of its eyestalks, snapping him out of the state of mind.

  “Cut out the growling,” said Zork, “just cause you’re having that time of the month doesn’t mean you can eat the fresh meat.”

  The werewolf’s confidence wavered, glancing back and forth between Harold and the slug and with a whine, disappeared back into the bowels of the house.

  “Don’t mind him,” Zork said, “he’s going through some changes right now.” Harold grunted, remembering Rufus’ first greeting for him earlier.

  The slug led him through the house in a cursory manner. To the left a rec room, to the right the kitchen with an empty fridge or so Harold thought until he into looked inside and saw gallons of what Zork referred to as Donald’s protein shake along with various animal organs and packages of tofu. A bulletin board in the kitchen displayed room assignments. Harold got a room upstairs with a roommate named Vlad, whom according to the slug happened to be a real douche. The board also displayed Donald’s rules for the house. They were exactly what you would expect from the halfway house, no fights, no illegal substances, no blood, no human flesh and certainly no live unwilling guests. On the other hand, occupants could come and go as they pleased as long as they weren’t under house arrest or restricted to a certain schedule and provided they attended regular meetings.

  The house featured five bedrooms, each with two or more occupants. Harold was lucky to have just one roommate. Zork had a plague of zombies in its room. “They just won’t be separated from each other. Like living in a cult, if you can call it living,” joked the slug.

  Eventually, they wandered up to Harold’s room where he got to meet his roommate. Vlad the vampire had some sort of molting skin condition that crept even Harold out. Other than a cursory glance on entry, stick figure Vlad ignored him and the slug while Zork talked at length about the man.

  Their bedroom could have been in a monastery for all the decor it featured. Two twin beds covered with the same heavy green blankets, a single lamp between them and two dressers on the opposing wall. Harold doubted he’d spend much time here. Although his own apartment didn’t feature much better quality furniture, his other roommate was certainly more friendly.

  Zork left him to get
settled in, something about a hot poker game in the rec room, but Harold couldn’t relax enough to sit or lie down on the bed. Vlad glared from behind a copy of Blue Blood magazine, adding to Harold’s discomfort. He didn’t want to play games or attempt to sample the “food” Donald so kindly provided. After a few moments of inspecting their shared bathroom and the rickety old water heater against the wall, he decided to head back to his apartment under the guise of picking up some of his things for the room and gladly vaulted downstairs and out of the house.

  Chapter Three

  As soon as Harold walked in the door he knew something was wrong. It may have been the strange noises greeting him or the bizarre smells wafting out to the living room from the kitchen. It may have been the way things were rearranged in the apartment or the way the dishes were laid out on the dining room table. Mostly though, it was the way Maria kissed him.

  She smiled a greeting and sauntered slowly towards him. Pressed her body against his mucous and blood covered coat and pulled him to her mouth. Her lips did things to his that should be illegal. Perhaps they were. He hadn’t really been paying attention to the law changes lately. When Maria finally slipped out of his arms Harold felt wobbly.

  “I made dinner, baby,” Maria smiled at him and Harold’s spidey-sense kicked in. Maria only acted this nice when she had something up her sleeve.

  Harold’s sharp hearing picked up the smooth rhythms of some R&B. The strange smells, those of food in the kitchen. She’d even cleaned the apartment, they only had a little to clean up, but he liked his stuff scattered about the way he was used to it being scattered.

  Harold’s stomach bulged from an impromptu meal snatched on the way home. A drunk in an alley with 110 proof running in his veins. Still alive, but perhaps less prone to drinking in the future. Harold even felt little tipsy.