Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor

by HC Hammond

  Orlen waved his half-assed explanations away. “No need to explain, I am catching you on short notice.”

  Harold rubbed his palms on the back of his pants, hoping they were at least clean enough not to draw attention. “Why did you drop in, Ms. Orlen?”

  “Pease call me Katherine,” She giggled, “Mind if I sit?” She asked taking a seat at his kitchen table.

  “Err, no.” Harold followed her. They stared at each other for a moment, before his manners kicked in and he asked miss can’t-decide-what-she-wants-to-be-called, if she’d like something to drink, coffee, tea, blood, he thought darkly. He stalked into the narrow apartment kitchen he and Maria shared. Orlen decided tea would be fine and Harold spent several clumsy moments looking through the cupboards for a box of herbal tea Maria always kept handy. Very aware of Orlen’s eyes on him.

  “It’s herbal,” He called when he finally found it and then realized quite stupidly he needed to heat up the tea water first. God, how long had it been since he needed to make tea? Decades. Harold didn't even cook for Maria, so much did he dislike the smell and general presence of food.

  Harold successfully pulled a Christmas themed mug from the cupboards and heated some water in the microwave. He hissed, spilling the tea on himself when Orlen’s voice sounded directly behind him. “You know it’s awfully dark in here. Perhaps I should open the blinds?” She said.

  Before Harold could so much as say no, Orlen reached up and pulled the cord on the blinds. Prison bars of light shot across halfway through the kitchen trapping Harold in the scant darkness between microwave and oven. He pressed himself back against the wall, remembering his last painful experience with the sun. Orlen, petite and prim, stood on the other side of the window, light shafting the floor between them. She placed her hands on her hips and gave him a tight smile. “Are you all right Harold?”

  He took a deep breath, willed the quivering mass of his flesh to stand tall and relaxed against the wall. All for naught though, since his body jumped fearfully when Orlen stepped closer, walking into the light. He half expected her to, to, he wasn’t sure what, melt probably. She didn’t though, she just stood there hands on her hips, prim smile and owlish knowing eyes.

  “Something bothering you, Mr. Blank?” Orlen asked and right then Harold realized it, saw it in her eyes. She knew. He didn’t know how, maybe something on some camera he didn’t know about in the hospital, maybe she’d been asking around about his past history and came across something questionable, hell, maybe she'd even found out about the arrest a couple months ago, but Orlen knew alright and she was playing with him. Harold had been stupid enough to get trapped by her too. Damn it, he really was a stupid fuck.

  He glared at her from his place against the wall. “No problems,” Harold said. Orlen’s prim smile widened slightly revealing a Machiavellian streak, and Harold wondered exactly what she had in mind for him.

  “Excellent, my tea?” She asked. Harold looked down, surprised to see he still held a mostly filled cup of hot water. He nodded in the affirmative.

  “Good,” she said, holding out her hands just far enough to be within reaching distance of Harold, but still well within the sun’s dying light streaming in from the window. If Harold were to hand the mug to Orlen he’d end up getting himself a nasty sunburn. He turned the mug so the handle faced outwards, gripping the cup edge with the tips of his fingers and held it up to the edge of the light. Handle side inside the first bar of sunlight and mug side lingering in the darkness.

  Orlen’s hands fluttered in the light for a moment, pale butterfly’s wings dancing across the space between them. She took the cup from Harold and turned away, a bold move turning one’s back on a vamp. Not that he could do very much to her, trapped as he was on his side of the window. Orlen left the light, standing on the other side of it facing him again. “Shall we sit?” She asked

  “I’m fine with standing,” Harold replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  “Really,” Orlen said, “well fine.” She sipped her tea, murmuring it was good, quite tangy and refreshing in fact. “It’s not at all metallic like some drinks can taste. Have you ever noticed Mr. Blank? Certain liquids, with a metallic flavor, almost like copper?” Orlen asked.

  “Yes,” Harold muttered, “but then tea isn’t exactly my favorite drink.”

  Orlen’s eyes gleamed at Harold and again he was struck with the impression she might be something other than she appeared, something different from a neat, respectable lady. “No, I suppose not. Then again, I find certain drinks too strong for my taste too, things you might find better suited to your tastes.”

  “I suppose so.” Harold didn’t elaborate. What’s the point when she so obviously knew already. Orlen probably thought she’d stumbled onto Harold’s dirty little secret and it might be worth something to him in blackmail. Ah, that’s why she dropped in and not a cadre of SWAT team members armed to the nines with sharp pointy objects and full spectrum lamps, which really did sting like hell, by the way.

  “Yes,” Orlen said. Harold was beginning to hate the way she said that word. He could have ripped her head off in a moment if not for the stupid light coming in from the window. But soon, he thought, noticing how softly golden the rays have gotten in just a few minutes, soon they’d be pink and turn mute in pale pinks, purples and then, blackness.

  “I’ll be leaving long before the sun goes down, Mr. Blank,” she said, seeing Harold looking at the window or perhaps reading his mind, something not entirely outside the realm of possibility in this world.

  “Then you should be leaving. It’s dangerous around here after dark,” he said. Orlen’s little smile returned.

  “Not so dangerous for me as you might think,” she replied. Orlen took a long sip from her tea and licked her red lips. “This needs something sweet. Have you got any honey?”

  “Afraid not,” Harold muttered. He looked up at the ceiling with a groan. “There’s sugar in the cupboard to your right.”

  She thanked him and opened the cupboard, pushing aside some oddly named spices Maria brought home and pulling out a box of sugar. She poured a lot into the mug, so much Harold was almost tempted to joke, asking her if she’d like some tea with her sugar, but that would put them on easier terms with each other.

  Lacking a spoon, Orlen stuck a finger in the hot water and swirled it around to mix up the sugar in the drink. The heat didn’t bother her at all. Harold looked away when Orlen sucked the wetness from her finger and only looked back when she lifted the mug to her lips. She drank it down in one long swallow. He could only imagine how well she used to do at college kegger parties. Orlen set the mug back on the counter with a satisfied “ahhh,” making Harold think of the old Coca Cola ads he used to see as a kid.

  “It's interesting, a man such as yourself would have so much food in the house,” Orlen said, looking into the refrigerator. “You don’t appear to be living the bachelor life here, well, at least in the kitchen. The rest of your apartment... ” Orlen trailed off with some mild disgust at his lack of furniture. That stung. Maria had done what she could, but Harold staunchly refused to change his outlook on possessions. In fact, she only really got to decorate the kitchen and the dining room because they were areas he rarely used.

  “Living with someone are you, Mr. Blank?” She asked popping out of the fridge with one of Maria’s oranges in hand. She threw the orange into the air. Harold followed the high arc of the orange as it wavered perilously close to the light and fell back into Orlen’s waiting hand.

  “A girlfriend perhaps?” She asked softly. Harold’s eyes snapped to Orlen’s pale green ones, cool green, actually, damn frosty, in fact and startling on someone of her Asiatic ancestry. She threw the orange into another high arc.

  “Yeah,” Harold said. His eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the orange as it fell in its arc back to the safety of Orlen’s palm. She tossed it up again, up, up into a high arc almost hovering in space before her icy stare.

  “That’s
interesting Harold,” Orlen’s voice came softly. Harold nodded, eyes still locked on the orange as it began its descent from the high arc into the vertical drop.

  “Harold,” Orlen said in her soft even voice, “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to be living with a human.” Slowly, almost painfully slow it fell, down, down into Orlen’s palm and came to rest. Not for long though.

  “Why not?” Harold asked, feeling surprisingly languid for the first time since Orlen showed up on his doorstep. This wasn’t so bad, talking with her, as long as the orange kept moving.

  Orlen’s hand rose up, pushing the orange back into flight where its high arc yet again brought it to eye level where it seemed to hang frozen between their locked stares.

  “Why,” Orlen whispered, “because you’re not quite human are you, Harold?”

  The orange continued to hang impossibly. Rotating in the space before Orlen’s eyes. Harold wanted it to fall and continue its natural course, but it wouldn’t. It stayed frustratingly still, locked between their stares. Harold had an inkling the orange wouldn’t move unless he responded to Orlen’s question. He had a trouble remembering what it was though. Something about people, ah damn orange. Why didn’t she just let it fall? It just frustratingly, stayed. “Harold,” Orlen’s soft voice eased the tension of the frozen moment. Harold leaned forward, into the calm of it. “What are you, Harold? Tell me what you are.”

  Oh, she wants to know, he thought, easy to answer. He leaned into the soothing voice opening his mouth to answer her and release the orange from its orbit. The words crawled up his throat, clung to his tongue, prepared to leap out into the air to answer Orlen’s very important question. A flash of light and a sharp burning on his face caused a retreat and his not so secret flew.

  Harold jumped back, slapping a hand to his nose. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Fuckity, fuck! His hissed, kicked the oven, slammed into the microwave and punched the walls a few times just for good measure. Harold cradled his face as he sank to the floor.

  Orlen hadn’t moved during the course of Harold’s brief violence. She held the orange with her left hand at eye level. Fuck, then, at least the damn fruit hadn’t been defying gravity.

  She lowered the orange with a grin and bent over Harold, still safely in the realm of the dying sunlight. “Uh oh, better put some ointment on your burn,” she cooed.

  “Fucking bitch, you fucking tried to hypnotize me, fucking bitch,” Harold muttered, swallowing his hard consonants. The end of his nose swelled rapidly shut, muffling Harold’s attempts at rage. Warm liquid flowed generously from his nostrils. He didn’t need to lick his lips to know it was blood, but he did anyway.

  “I did hypnotize you Harold,” She smiled into the sentence, then stood straight and began dissecting the orange with bony, conic fingers. “Really Harold, you should be able to resist such a simple ploy.”

  Peeling the orange with surprising speed and dexterity, Orlen popped a segment into her mouth.

  “Didn’t fucking work.”

  Orlen swallowed. “You were on the verge of answering me when you had your oopsie.” She popped a few more orange segments into her mouth, squishing them enthusiastically. “You aren’t the smartest bloodsucker are you?” Orlen asked around a mouthful of orange. “Besides, I got the answer I needed anyway. You’ll be hearing from us, Mr. Blank.”

  Orlen set the uneaten orange on the counter next to the little pile of orange peels she’d made. She pivoted on a heel and walked out of the kitchen. Her footsteps echoed through the apartment, the front door opened and closed and she was gone.

  Harold spent another 15 minutes cowered in the corner of the kitchen until the sun was sufficiently down enough for him to crawl along the floor, past the open window and into the rest of the blessedly darkened apartment.

  He went to check himself in the bathroom. The end of his nose had blackened and cracked open like a roasted red pepper. Little congealed blood trails ran down the sides of his nostrils and onto his lips. Harold tenderly probed his swollen proboscis, whimpering in pain when he barely skimmed the tip. He was alone and would damn well whimper when he wanted too. Heck, his eyes might even cry too.

  Harold pulled some toilet paper off the roll and wet it, wiping away the worst of the blood from around his nose, mouth and the rest of his face. He tossed it in the toilet and pulled out the Q-tips and Aloe Vera Gel. He was seriously considering the purchase of a large gallon jug of the stuff.

  Whetting the ends of the Q-tips helped him carefully daub the excess blood from his blackened nose. Harold squirted a large amount of aloe gel into his palm and smoothed it over his skin, leaving it thoroughly coated and glistening with the cooling ointment. His nose felt much better.

  After cleaning up in the bathroom, Harold walked into the bedroom and considered going back to sleep, but it wouldn’t help. He was very much awake now and any snatches of sleep wouldn’t be the deep restorative kind he needed to heal. Better to go out, keep himself busy through the night and get a real rest in the morning. Harold didn’t work tonight so at least he wouldn’t have to explain the burn to David. Or have to deal with Orlen dropping by for a visit. Harold swore, the next time he saw her. Crunch. She’d know what it meant to mess with a vamp.

  Harold groaned. There is a group meeting tonight. He pressed his forehead against the mirror and exhaled, sending two lines of fog around his swollen nose and up towards his eyes. Well, screw it, no way was he dealing with Donald’s crazy talk today. He’d skip and go find some lunch fill up on. Maybe get himself an after dinner snack while at it too.

  Harold pushed from the mirror and looked out of the bathroom at the alarm on his bedside table, which in reality was a couple of milk crates with several layers of heavy cardboard spread across it. Maria would be getting off work soon. Better to leave before she got back and asked questions.

  It didn’t take long to bound down the stairs and out the door. He did glance around briefly just outside the apartment. To his right, the neighbor’s open window curtains revealed the couple having a vigorous fight. They fought a lot and always, always had the living room curtain pulled open wide, day or night. Harold couldn’t decide if they were exhibitionists or just didn’t think anyone could see inside. The rest apartment complex lay ensconced in darkness, no outside lights, one of the great perks of living in a crappy apartment. There were lampposts, of course, but they all burned out long before he moved in and management hadn’t bothered to replace them. He doubted they ever would. Harold didn’t see a lot of maintenance going on around the place. The next major rehabbing this complex saw would likely involve a wrecking ball.

  Harold squealed out of the parking lot in his Phantom. Most of his extra cash went into keeping up and maintaining the vehicle he’d had since it was brand new in 1965. If Harold bragged on that part to anyone he might as well be signing his own death sentence. Harold wondered how Zork was doing. He hadn’t seen him since the diner and getting a glimpse of the treatment he received at the hands of Bergstrom and Potts left Harold chilled.

  The G-men enjoyed hurting Zork. It was part of their job, another duty in their line of work, but fuck if he thought they should enjoy the process. Harold didn’t enjoy killing. It was part of his life. The hunt was another aspect of living for him and it was difficult to do the first few years. It still bothered him. Was it really possible to stop? He’d never tried. The hunger pains always left him with dangerous needs. The need to eat anyone, rather than having the peace of mind that came with making his own choices. The ability to pick someone he felt deserved being a meal rather than going nuts and grabbing the nearest person, a guy on his way to work, a woman with her shopping or worse, the kid walking home from a friend’s house.

  It’s what kept him sane.

  Working at the hospital, he’d mostly came to rely on donated blood. It was just so damned hard to get though and so much better warm. Blood tended to congeal as soon as it hit the air. He’d learned that hard way early on in his life as a vampire when he used
to store blood in large pitchers. He gave up the practice after choking to death on a fist-sized blood clot. It was a really disgusting way to die and, well, come back again.

  Harold didn’t have to drive very far to reach the seedier side of town and his most recent hunting place. Already its denizens were lurking less outside and more inside the buildings to avoid the same unlucky fates their compatriots enjoyed. He’d heard the news reports warning people to stay indoors at night on this side of town, hinting at a possible vampire on the rampage.

  It didn’t take long before word of unusual and violent attacks filtered through a neighborhood and meals grew harder to find. So, Harold staked out his own little piece of territory. He developed a system, ironically inspired by crop rotation. He simply hunted quadrants of the city and the surrounding suburbs in sections, staying in one neighborhood a few years before the sudden rise in crime rates caused the blood supply to dry up. He never took the same order in his crop rotation either, it was always different, always random, so no one would be able to plan ahead and increase patrols in the area. Police patrols equaled toasted vamp.

  Harold parked along one of the slightly busier streets of the town’s very own little red light district. He eased the seat back and started people watching. Things were just picking up, prime time for the those working the streets. Harold enjoyed a few glimpses of butt cheeks, cleavage and midriff as they wandered by in various costumes, the uniform. He wasn’t after them tonight. He felt more inclined towards snatching up one of their clients or maybe even scoring a pimp for dinner. The dirtier, nastier, the better.