Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor

by HC Hammond

  “Okay,” David screamed, “When Orlen showed up I… panicked. I told her you were the one responsible for keeping track of the blood units. That you had final control over the organization and management of the blood samples.”

  David’s response confused Harold, so much so his grip on David’s scrubs slackened and the man slipped out of his reach. He was expecting David to confess how he’d figured out Harold was stealing blood pints from the hospital. Instead it seemed like he was confessing himself.

  “Mephisto’s,” Harold muttered.

  David grimaced, “I didn’t think you’d heard all of that.” He took a breath, the air whistling through his nostrils and deep into his lungs before being forced out through his mouth.

  “Look, I just needed to get the heat off myself,” David said nervously. He didn’t look like he planned on bolting from the office for greener pastures anymore, but the guy remained edgy. Harold leaned against the counter beside him and kept up the mean monster attitude to get the rest of the story out of David.

  “What are you saying?” Harold asked.

  “What you mean you didn’t know?

  A look of comprehension dawned on David’s face.

  “What? What was all the shit,” David gestured angrily towards the desk, “just now about if you didn’t know I was taking blood units?”

  Harold sighed, no way was he going to explain how he himself had been taking blood units from the hospital too.

  How ironic.

  The hospital might never have noticed his occasional snacks on the go, but with two people stealing units from the blood bank they must have noticed a strange increase in the average volume usage of blood units by the hospital’s doctors. No wonder they sent someone to look into their lab.

  “I’m fucking mad because you basically accused me of stealing blood from the hospital and it looks like you are in cahoots with that Orlen.” Harold pushed away from the counter and paced in the small office. “What do you even need blood for? Are you selling it?” Harold grabbed at his hair, casting a quick glance at David. He certainly wasn’t a vampire, but maybe something else? It didn’t make much sense.

  “You’re not… ” Harold hesitated on how to broach the subject without revealing too much, “One of them?”

  David blanked out for a second, then glanced down, “Oh no, no.”

  Okay, so not infected.

  “Do you know how hard I’ve worked to get here?” Harold asked. If he pressed hard enough on David’s guilt he might get him to confess and clear up this matter before Orlen did anymore investigating and realized two people were taking blood units.

  “I’m sorry man, but it’s only for a little while.”

  “A little while? No way, whatever you’ve got planned I’m not participating,” Harold said wheeling on his co-worker.

  David cowered. It had Harold checking his teeth to make sure his fangs weren’t sticking out or something. No, no fangs.

  “You don’t need to do anything,” David said. “I just meant, you’re squeaky clean. They’ll look into you. Check the tallies for times you were working alone and move on.”

  That was exactly what Harold didn’t want them to do because he had taken blood from storage. He’d been taking blood home since a few weeks after he’d started working here, starting a couple of years ago. Not a lot of time to a vampire, but surely enough time for him to have slipped up somewhere along the lines and left evidence, in the records, on a camera, something somewhere pointed to Harold as stealing blood from the hospital.

  “No way,” Harold said, “You’re just going to have to confess and get your ass fired.” Harold knew David would only get fired if he were lucky, most likely the authorities would have to charge him with something like tampering with the blood supply. They’d even suspect him of being infected and test him. He’d certainly never be able to work in a medical capacity again, and he’d probably spend time in jail.

  “I can’t,” David stepped towards him, his urgency strong enough to override the fear of Harold‘s ire, as David grabbed Harold’s shoulder. “I can’t, man, I’m in deep shit. I got to keep delivering the blood units to this guy or he’s going to, to take it out of me Harold.”

  Now would have been a good time for Harold to walk out of the office, find the Orlen woman and tell her David just confessed to stealing blood from the hospital. In David’s distraught state, he’d probably confess to her under pressure anyway. It would save Harold a lot of trouble, a lot of trouble, hell, he already had the feds after him to spy on that group therapy program.

  Another death, though, in a long line of them.

  “What, you’re going to be killed?” Harold asked tiredly.

  The barest glimmer of hope shown in David’s eyes and Harold already regretted not walking out of the office. David straightened, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he tended to spit when he got upset, and scratched his head. Harold knew exactly what he was doing, David was trying to figure out just how much he could afford to tell about why he’d been taking blood from the blood bank.

  “You aren’t good at this manipulative stuff David, so you’d better just tell me the whole deal,” Harold snapped and David came to attention.

  “Right,” David grimaced and evaded Harold’s eye, “you know how I like cards?”

  Harold groaned, turning away from the sack of human stupidity. He was going to leave, no point in trying to save a dip wad who’d gambled his life away. Even Harold hadn’t been so stupid when he got turned into a vamp.

  “Wait, wait, it was a one-time deal, don’t leave me in this man,” David spread himself in front of the doorway. “You can’t, you’ll be killing me if you turn me in.”

  “I could kill you for trying to get me in trouble,” Harold said. David had no idea how close he’d come to being so much slush for the Petri dish a few minutes ago.

  “Harold, I got a debt with a real bad guy,” David hurried, “He’s a really psycho. I swear I didn’t know how fucked up he was. It’s the casino downtown, Mephisto’s. They gave me a line of credit. Harold, they just kept extending it.” David was hanging onto Harold’s scrubs now in a desperate imitation of Harold’s earlier attack. “Before I knew it, I was in so deep… I couldn’t pay it back. They’ve got my savings, my car. Harold, he was going to make an example of me,” David spit the words into Harold’s face. “Do you know what that means?”

  Harold pried David’s hands from his shirt and led him to the desk, where he forced David to sit down before he wet himself and got it all over Harold.

  “Why are you taking blood?” Harold asked, glancing around the room for the paper towels.

  David looked up at Harold with a stark blank face. “He wants it.”

  Spying the paper towels, Harold wrapped his hand with several layers of them before pulling them off of the roll. Harold wiped the spittle from his face. “What? You get him blood units and in exchange he erases your gambling debt?”

  “He credits me the black market price for every unit I get him,” David said.

  Harold spied spit on his scrubs and grabbed more towels to wipe it up. “So, he’s got customers buying underground or something?”

  David pressed his hands together in a prayer-like fashion, sliding them between his knees. He hunched over as he continued to stare at Harold. “I think he drinks it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Harold slipped into the halfway house after a long drive home from work. More frustrated than ever, Harold still had to go to group before this fucking forever night would end. A quick trip to the shared bathroom to wash and brush his teeth and Harold was back on his way out the door to group. The warehouse smelled absolutely foul when Harold got there, worse than the usual dog food and normie goods. He panted through his mouth, hoping the smell didn’t have to do with whatever Donald had planned for this evening. Unfortunately, it did. Besides the usual semi-circle of folding chairs and nearly abandoned refreshment table, another table sat in the center of the ro
om. On it were several pints of clear fluid and a thermos filled with some of the same stuff, steaming and foul. The sight of several Styrofoam cups on the table made him groan.

  Donald briskly entered group, calling for everyone to settle down. There were creaking groans and chairs shifting and Harold took his seat next to Zork who greeted him with one bobbing eyestalk. The slug seemed quite happy, in direct contrast to its mood earlier and very full and round. Stuffed to the gills, in fact.

  Donald poured some of the steaming concoction into a Styrofoam cup. He held it high in the air and paraded it around for everyone to see. “Thanks to the folks at PhenoChem I have a wonderful new tool to help curb those nasty cravings everyone,” he said.

  A pharmaceutical company well-known in the search for a cure for the virus, PhenoChem was a sponsor for FEBs. Harold didn’t know much about the company, except that they had cornered the market in treating Abeos and were responsible for a number of programs to aid low-income and poverty-stricken infecteds in dealing with their conditions. They also made numerous health and beauty related products such as, Flesh Butter for the zombs and Blood-Be-Gone tooth polish for the vamps. Harold had a tube of it at home. Good stuff. From time to time, Donald brought in product samples for the group members to try out.

  Oh no, Harold thought suddenly, really, really oh no. He was going to have to drink that stuff. Harold saw from the faces of several others in group they knew it too. Donald just might have an uprising on his hands.

  “Many of you have confided in me, outside the group,” Donald said, “Telling me, it’s really hard to fight those cravings for the taste and fulfillment of blood or flesh.” He wandered closer to the chairs where the zombies tended to sit in a group. They cowered as one from the liquid filled cup. It truly did smell foul. “While our ultimate goal here is to return to normal, fulfilling lives, it is important to wean ourselves from these substances as quickly as possible.” Donald swayed his index finger at the zombies, tutted, tutting them.

  “We need to stop taking in the poison if we are to change and be free,” Donald said loudly. A little half-hearted clapping erupted from the other side of the group, from a couple of very pale and weak looking creatures, advanced members of the group.

  “Thanks. I know it’s tough for those of you trying earnestly to make the transition. Normal food can be distasteful on first try. It can even make some of you ill. Making it all the more difficult to get back to normality.” Donald wandered back to the table. Harold was pretty sure this stuff would make him sick too.

  "To aid us in our transition to happier, freer lives I’m going to offer you this unique, experimental blood substitute courtesy of Phenochem International, who have also kindly sponsored our halfway house program.”

  Zork snorted loudly enough through its air holes to draw everyone’s attention. Harold shifted in his chair, feeling uncomfortable under their combined gazes.

  “Sorry, had to blow one,” Zork muttered.

  Donald twitched, but Harold gave him credit for it being almost unnoticeable. He turned from Zork. “I want everyone to begin taking this artificial blood today. Zombies, I haven’t forgotten about you,” Donald turned to them, “There is a soy-based flesh substitute in the works with the company for flesh eaters.”

  Zork and several others around the circle groaned at once, which left Donald unfazed. “Add this to your regular menus folks. It’s going to be your lifeline from here on out.”

  Donald and another group member wheeled the cart around the room passing out cups of the clear stuff. The werewolf seemed to be missing from group tonight.

  When Donald got to them, Zork spoke up. “I don’t really need to use this stuff chappy.” Zork muttered, “I can eat other normal food fine.” Donald held up the cup with a raised eye.

  “I’m perfectly aware of your dietary habits Zork. Speaking of, we missed you for dinner last evening.”

  Zork shrugged non-existent shoulder. Yet, Donald held up the cup of steaming, clear gel until Zork took it with an eyestalk. Harold’s cup held nothing different. The whiff of it repulsed him. He doubted he could stomach this stuff, but Donald would make them try anyway. Other members in the group, those lucky enough to have picked up a cup of coffee before group started, stealthily emptied their goop into the coffee cups and set them aside. One or two even went so far as to spill their fake blood on the concrete floor behind themselves. Donald turned to him with a gleeful smile before he could do the same.

  “Okay everyone!” He clapped his hands together. “Let’s be brave. Let’s do this all together.” Funny, Harold didn’t see him picking up a cup for himself.

  Nobody moved.

  “Now, now, the first sip is the hardest.” Donald looked around. Still nobody moved. He turned his gaze back on Harold. “Harold, why don’t you set an example for everyone. Show them how tasty it is.”

  Harold shook his head and tried to push the cup off on one of the creatures sitting beside him, either Zork or the skeleton. It didn’t matter. But neither of them would have it.

  They each already had their own.

  “Come on Harold now,” Donald cajoled. “Drink it up and show us how much progress you’re making.”

  Harold wasn’t getting out of this. All eyes were on him and he had to do it. If only to make it look like he was playing the game, participating with the program and being a good little boy. He pictured the two feds and the threat of a very short life in prison… More than enough inspiration to make him gulp down the liquid.

  Like an audience of a reality game show, the group uttered a collective groan. Harold agreed with the thought. He choked on the stuff, the consistency of liquid latex and not at all similar to the thin, watery nature of fresh blood. Harold almost wished the gel had no flavor, rather than the poor attempt it made at replicating the taste of blood. Something metallic imbued the substance, as if a lot of iron had been pumped into the fluid, but underneath the artificial blood held a flavor of dried and reconstructed protein, maybe chicken meat.

  Harold choked again, but decided to go for it and chug the rest of the gel. Get it over with as quickly as possible. He dropped the cup and clamped a hand over his mouth to fight the rising tide of his stomach in revolt. It did not agree with his decision.

  Donald, yelling congratulations, slapped Harold on the shoulder. He quickly turned from Harold to address the group, drawing their attention back to him as Harold waged a battle with his stomach. Zork stared up at him with bulging eyes.

  “How was it?”

  Harold only shook his head, swallowing a couple of times to see if his stomach would give up the fight. It settled, but only barely. One by one, the remaining group members each drank or pretended to drink their fake blood. Nausea plagued him for the remainder of the group, but he felt luckier than some of the unfortunates who made a dash for the surrounding darkness after drinking Phenochem's latest concoction.

  Zork didn’t have much of a problem drinking the stuff after all. After some hesitation the slug drank it down and remitted a large belch. It said Phenochem could work on improving the taste, then turned to Harold and called him a whiny ass. The zombies all looked greatly relieved at not having to sample the product, for tonight at least.

  The rest of group passed by in a blur filled with the miming gestures and groans of repentant zombies. A task Donald was more than willing to stand watch over. Finally, the moon rose high overhead, its pale glow shining through the warehouse skylights. Group ended, but not before Donald made everyone promise to drink Phenochem’s fake blood for each meal. A prospect that had group members groaning while Donald remained cheerful as ever.

  Still queasy Harold hurried out, but did see Donald pull the skeleton aside for a more private conversation. He’d have stayed behind to listen, but there were things going on in his stomach no vamp should ever have to experience.

  Zork rode with him on the drive back to the halfway house. Harold rolled down the window so the wind might refresh him a little. He reall
y didn’t think he could survive on a regular diet of the stuff. So much worse than real food.

  “Didn’t see Rufus in group,” Harold said while the slug was fiddling with the radio, sliming it all up.

  “Haven’t seen him in a few days,” Zork muttered, “He’s off with the wolves. Full moon an all that. I bet he’ll get kicked out of his precious group.”

  Zork managed to get the radio turned on to an eighties pop music station. Harold frowned at Zork’s musical tastes.

  “Maybe.”

  “Why care? I thought you were just getting through the program,” Zork muttered, “Donald must be nuts to think everyone is going to switch over to that artificial crap.”

  The slug propped itself up on the passenger side door and rolled down his window. It got it down about halfway before giving up and plastering part of its face against the glass. The radio collar clanked on the window and Zork’s eyes poked up out into the open air like a couple of car antennas.

  “You were the only one who managed to drink that crap without problems.”

  “Doesn’t mean I enjoyed it. Tastes like copper.”

  “Aw, poor baby,” Harold chimed and Zork promptly told him where he could stuff his sympathy. Despite himself, Harold smiled into the cold, dark night.

  When they got back the lights in the halfway house still burned. Only a few members managed to avoid the agony of drinking Phenochem’s fake blood, so many of them came right back here to express their displeasure in the bathroom. Harold decided to vomit in the bushes before going inside. Zork went straight in with nothing more than a don’t puke on yourself. A few moments later, Harold felt decidedly better for expelling the contents of his stomach.

  The halfway house did not smell pleasant. There were ungodly noises coming from the upstairs bathroom and a line up the stairs, so Harold opted to cool it in the rec room for a while.

  He walked in on the skeleton being congratulated by a group of zombies, other things and Zork. The slug slapped the bony creature on his shins with an eye.