by HC Hammond
He sliced the bag and emptied the bloodsicle into a cup, using a spoon out of the drawer to chop the frozen blood into pieces. He savored the flavor of his first bite and the resultant twinge of cold in his fangs.
Maria gave him a peck on the cheek, frowning as she noticed his dinner. “Really Harold?” He didn’t reply, but she pressed on with a different tactic than he expected. “You aren’t just here to eat and run are you?” She slid past him to the refrigerator and opened it.
Harold swallowed another bite and shook his head, eyeing her round rump. “I thought I’d stay up a little longer.”
Maria glanced at him. “Really?” She pulled an orange out of the crisper. “Do you think you might try staying up past sunrise?” Maria jabbed one of her manicured nails into the orange’s skin. She peeled it up one chunk at a time, licking the juices from her fingers as she went.
The sun, a brightly glowing ball of death, a mythical god craving blood in exchange for light. That big ball of gas which competed with all denizens of the dark for the realm and domain of the normal people. Good old Mr. Sunshine.
“Ah, not sure,” Harold said. Wondering what prompted that question. Had Maria been reading up on the program? Was he, God forbid, at some point required to go out during the daytime? A definite deal breaker.
He took the orange from Maria and used a long, sharp thumbnail to expertly peel the rest of the orange for her. He dumped the offensive peels into the garbage and handed her the naked fruit. She took it with a smile, caught his hand and licked it clean, all while looking totally naughty.
“You’re always too good to me,” Maria said, letting go of his hand. Harold felt a certain urgency in his pants. He stepped towards her.
She slipped around him. “No you don’t,” Maria said. She was around the corner and screamed before Harold thought to warn her.
Harold hurried around to stop Maria before she did something disastrous to the squishy creature he’d left by the front door.
“Get it. Get it. Get it.” She squeaked at Harold from where she stood on the worn out sofa. Zork, annoyance that it was, glared down at Harold from the ceiling.
“You said not to touch the carpet,” the slug stated, then dodged a shoe thrown by Maria.
“Wait.” Harold moved between the two with hands raised. “It’s not going to hurt you.” He turned to talk to the slug. “Are you?”
Both the slug’s eyestalks had disappeared down into its head. “Not me, nope.”
“What is it?” Maria had her other tennis shoe ready to fly, but looked to Harold for answers. He didn’t really know what to say. He couldn’t exactly reveal government secrets to Maria.
Zork emitted an oddly haunting multi-toned whistle, then slid down the wall closer to her. “That’s what we call ourselves,” it said, one eyestalk out and eyeing the threatening shoe.
“It sounds rather…pretty.”
“We like to think so.”
It occurred to Harold as he watched the two getting acquainted that Zork must have these sorts of encounters on a regular basis. He felt glad for at least being able to pass and guilty for it too. The thought of having to win people over every time he encountered someone new seemed daunting. It didn’t seem right for the little guy to keep running into these problems. Fortunately, Maria also seemed to be taking to it, if the way she touched its eyestalk meant anything.
“You’re slimy,” Maria said with a grimace.
“It’s protective. To me, humans are awfully salty.”
“Um, sorry about the shoe.”
“It’s happened before. I’m used to it.”
That got Maria upset. “How unfair. You can’t help being who you are, I’m really, really sorry about this.”
Zork whistled again, “Thank you. Besides, you’re the nicest human to throw something at me yet.”
Maria cooed at the slug. If Harold didn’t know any better he’d think she were flirting with it. The slug held her hand with an eyestalk and for one tense moment brought it to its mouth in a lipless kiss. Harold sighed, not ten minutes with his girlfriend and already Zork was trying to steal her. At least things were going well.
“Nice to meet you,” Maria said.
“Enchanted.”
Harold picked up Maria’s lost shoe and handed it to her, effectively regaining her attention. “Harold,” She laughed, “I almost forgot about you.” She slipped her shoes back on and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. He made a grab for her but she slipped out of reach.
“You’re such a cocktease,” Harold said after her.
“I didn’t go anywhere near your Rooster sweetie,” Maria said, “Um, you two stay out of trouble. I’m heading down to the gym.” She picked up her purse and slipped out into the grey dawn.
“Lovely, just lovely,” Zork said, staring at the door.
“Yes,” Harold replied, “That turned out surprisingly well.”
The slug cleared its air holes loudly. “I’m glad she has bad aim is all.”
Harold sighed and went to the window. He had a good view of the approaching sunrise. Experience had taught him that stories about vampires burning to a crisp and crumbling into a little pile of ashes to be swept out with the trash were very, very true. A lot about vampirism had been exaggerated, but not that, no, not that. This had been one of the first lessons he learned about being a vampire when he’d ventured out into the daytime after the change. Still living with his family, he just wanted to take out the garbage and hadn’t fully realized yet what this meant to his way of life.
He didn’t even think. Saw the collection truck coming up the street, grabbed the garbage out of the garage and ran for the curb. Harold got about ten feet from the open garage door before he collapsed. He burned, not just on his skin, but deep inside. His muscles spasmed electrified, tightened and hardened like bone. Once before he’d broken an arm and felt the pain of broken bones, but this was unbelievable. Harold, unable to move his baking arms and legs other than to flop around on concrete, managed to roll himself, flip, flop, flip, into the garage’s liquid dark.
Once there he continued to bake in the heat of his own flesh. Harold would always remember the smell, the smell of “Oh god, I’ve really screwed myself now,” running through his mind and his infected vampire heart beating a million miles a minute. The sound of his mother’s voice calling to him from the house, calling him to the breakfast which he mostly picked at and pushed around on his plate in an effort to make it look as if he was still eating since having gone vamp and rather preferred the coppery tang of his own blood. The sound of his father’s thumping feet walking towards the garage to him. The halting moments when he reached the door to the garage. The sound of his father’s own heartbeat increasing wildly as he must have smelled the sweet BBQ singe of Harold’s flesh. Harold remembered the intense dread of discovery as that door creaked open slowly, oh so slowly. His father afraid to open it, afraid to see what he must have guessed in horror was on the other side. His parents must have already pieced it together, but hadn’t let the truth float to the surface of their conscious minds.
With a shake of his head, Harold banished the memory. He pressed a finger to one of his canines, out in full force and cold from frozen blood. Feeling shaky, Harold hoped he hadn’t just ingested diabetic blood in his slushy. Diabetics left him feeling crappy for hours.
“It’s getting to be daylight. I’m not going to be able to drive you back to the halfway house,” he said to Zork, whom had slimed its way into the kitchen to inspect the cupboards.
“My government pals should be round to pick me up soon anyway.” Zork’s voice echoed from inside the dish cupboard, “They always tail me.”
Feds in his house, great. Harold went to turn up the heat in the apartment and pulled one of the two lone armchairs from the living room over in front of the sliding glass door. He grabbed the cord for the curtains and sat down in the chair with it in his hand. Harold tested the cord to make sure he’d be able to close the curtains quickly and le
aned back in the chair to wait for the sunrise. The slug closed the door on itself, making noises and shuffling dishes around inside the cupboard.
In the moments since Maria slipped out, the grey morning lightened to an imperceptible blue. Harold’s eyes absorbed this color as much as they could. Soon he’d get to the breaking point where the sun would start burning, but at this point it remained tolerable. He missed the sunrise, the slow awakening shifts of vibrant color on the horizon until a fully new day stretched before him.
At last the sun’s light peeked over the edge of the horizon in swatches of pink-orange. Maria would call it salmon. Harold thought it blinding as he hissed and shut his eyes against the glare. Already he could feel the prickling heat on his cold skin. Around now he usually flicked the blinds closed against the remaining sunrise and continued to sit for an hour or so imagining its progression in his mind’s eye.
Today he didn’t. Perhaps it was the lingering nostalgia tonight’s meeting brought up, but Harold wanted to leave the blinds open longer. It was important to test one’s own limitations now and then. Maybe he could gradually get himself used to being up during the day, if not able to stand outside in the middle of the bright sunlight. Harold started yawning around six in the morning and would be stone cold passed out by eight o’clock. Maybe… At least he could try to stay awake, watching more and more of the sunrise.
Like water slowly heating in the shower, the sun’s rays pressed against his skin. First it prickled, then it stung like millions of tiny needles all across his face and arms. His clothing protected most of his skin, but the exposed flesh already started developing a sunburn and the sun wasn’t even mouthing the horizon yet. Harold grunted, squinting through his eyes, determined to wait until the very last moment this time. More colors, yellow-orange, egg yolk, and pale sunflower flowed up over the distant buildings and trees. It spread across his lobster red arms and legs, creating a sunburn the likes of which he hadn’t felt in decades. Finally, it got to be too much and Harold reached for the cord, knowing the sun would come in moments. A sharp glint of light across the kitchen floor distracted him as the sun’s first rays jumped the horizon. Hot flaming pain seared his face and forearm. He shielded his eyes. Screaming, he pulled the cord, shocked it hadn’t burnt under the sun’s heat and flopped down on the linoleum floor, convinced he’d caught fire.
“What, what’s going on?” Zork burst from the cupboard at Harold’s pathetic cries, tea cups over each round globe of an eye. He’d laugh, if it weren’t so fucking painful. After a few moments of rolling around Harold managed to convince himself that he was not on fire, but that didn’t dissipate the lingering pain coursing over his skin.
“Stupid vampire, why’d you do it?” The slug called from his perch.
Harold decided to ignore Zork. Hissing and groaning, he stumbled upstairs to the bathroom, fumbled the shower on and stepped fully clothed into the relief of cold water spray. Peeling off his clothes was like peeling away layers of skin, but fortunately, he only suffered some burns on his upper body. The human equivalent of a sunburn from hell. He let the water pummel his face and shoulders where the sun hit the worst. Under the spray, the pain died down to tiny cold prickles. When Harold turned to let water cascade across his back, the pain returned to its full throbbing force on his damaged skin. Harold quick turned back to face the shower.
It hurt to even think about getting out of the shower and Harold was already starting to fall asleep on his feet. What the hell, what the hell, what the hell!? Harold turned off the shower and stumbled out. Each movement of his upper body set off a fresh hell of pain. Harold perused himself in the mirror, slow turning his head to peer at the red, peeling flesh on his shoulders.
Not having a reflection was another misnomer about vampires; he could see himself in the mirror. Whatever sort of mythological power was supposed to have made him transparent to mirrors, Harold must have missed the memo. Good thing too, or he’d end up wandering around with missed spots of blood on his face.
He brushed his fingers over the tender angles of his face and thought he could feel a couple of large blisters rising across his forehead. Great, he looked like a pizza. At least he could get into bed and heal before Maria saw and freaked. In the meantime, something to take care of the pain. He rifled through the medicine cabinet until he found half a bottle of Aloe Vera gel and squirted the cool lotion onto his hands, spreading a thick layer of it across his chest, shoulders, neck and face. It felt surprisingly good. He’d get gunk all over the bed sheets, but the gel eased his burning pain. He also popped a handful of aspirin into his mouth and chewed them. He could absorb chemicals from medicines and some liquids, though that much aspirin might kill his stomach. For him, it wouldn’t matter by this time tomorrow.
Before Harold could even get out of the bathroom, someone was knocking on his front door. Probably the feds here to get Zork. Harold sleepily opted to ignore it as he did with Zork and continued slathering Aloe Vera on the exposed parts of his body. It didn't go away, the knocking turned into a pounding and developed a distinct rhythm, Bang-bang, slap, Bang-bang, slap.
Harold eased into his pants and went downstairs sans shirt.
“I know you’re tall enough to get the door,” Harold called out to Zork, whom was inconveniently out of sight. To his not so surprise he beheld the two men in black who met him in jail and again at the diner where he also learned they monitored a certain slug. Harold’s sensitive nose didn’t pick up the scent of sluggy unsalted mucous in the room or outside. Harold could discern however, that Agent Potts had a marijuana habit and he’d taken great pains to wash and dry clean his clothes to hide the smell, but it was now a part of him, filtering its sickly sweet way through his lungs, blood, tissues and bones.
Along with that herbal odor another familiar, but dangerous scent clung to Agent Bergstrom, sharp and coppery. Harold shuddered, remembering the pitch black eyes behind the sunglasses. If he weren’t careful he might end up scenting more about this creature than was good for him.
The two men invited themselves into the apartment with swift glances around the gloom. Agent Bergstrom pulled off his sunglasses and sent potshot looks around the living room. The agent stared through his glasses at Harold.
“Nasty looking burns,” he said and on cue the subdued pain flared up, stinging its way along his chest and face. Harold grunted, not commenting on his vulnerable state in front of these two men. It was not good way to be.
“Zork,” Harold yelled, “Get your butt out here.”
Silence. The two watched Harold expectantly.
“Well, Zork’s your pet project.”
“We could go looking for Zork ourselves, but we’re afraid it would leave your apartment,” Agent Bergstrom drawled the word, “in an even worse state of affairs.”
In other words, they were going to rip the place up getting to Zork. Harold sighed, “I’ll get him.” Harold strode into the kitchen, face and shoulders burning, to where he’d last seen the slug.
Following his swollen nose, Harold started at the cupboard where Zork got into Maria’s teacups. Not there. He followed the slime trail along the cupboard above the oven. It was obviously used, but empty. No other mucous trails graced the walls, except, Harold looked down at the oven. He knocked on it with a fist and in return could pick up a barely discernible grumble.
Harold opened the oven door to find Zork curled up in the back corner.
“Zork, if you’re trying to give them the slip you’ll have to do better than this.”
“Go away.”
Harold almost, almost pinched the bridge of his nose but stopped himself in time to avoid a fresh wave of pain.
“Get out of my oven.”
“Make me.”
“Zork, I will turn it on.”
The slug emitted a high pitched squeak then unfurled himself and slipped out of the oven onto the floor where it silently glided over to Agent Bergstrom.
“These delay tactics only serve to make things worse
for yourself Zork,” Agent Bergstrom said, “You’re lucky Mr. Blank came and got you instead of us.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Agent Bergstrom had Zork follow his partner outside, the light from the open door shooting daggers across Harold’s living room. Blinking his eyes to free them of the afterimage Harold stepped from his darkened kitchen. Agent Bergstrom remained in his dining area.
“What do you want?” Harold asked.
“Can we talk, Mr. Blank?” The agent said.
“Not a good time.”
“We wanted to catch you alone,” he said with a salacious grin.
“What does that mean?” Harold asked.
“Well, we know you have a roommate of sorts,” Potts said. The second agent came back inside without warning and Harold shied away from the light again. Potts sauntered into the dining room, completely relaxed. They both were and smug too.
“You’ve been watching me,” Harold said. They probably bugged him and his place as soon as they found him and spent all their time listening like greedy pigs to his sex life.
“A matter of national security,” Potts spoke up, “We’re here for two reasons. Checking your progress with group infiltration. And informing you, that as a result of your convenient closeness to Zork you are suddenly involved in our national security.”
They both looked very serious now. Harold’s skin burned from the residual heat of the sun and he just wanted to be alone so he could whimper about his own stupidity in private. Why on Earth had he decided to watch the sun come up anyway? Today of all days. Harold backed up a couple of steps to lean against the kitchen counter, making it appear as if he were only shifting on his feet.
“There is nowhere to run, Mr. Blank. It’s daylight outside and we’re both trained in dealing with infecteds,” Bergstrom said as he patted his jacket pocket. Harold really didn’t want to find out what was in there.
“Where would I run? I’ve only just started group and have no information.”
“Mr. Blank, sit down,” Bergstrom pointed to the kitchen table, “We’ll explain everything,” he said, voice annoyingly reasonable.