Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor

by HC Hammond

  “I understand,” Harold murmured, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Donald looked up at Harold with that odd little smile of his. “Of course it won’t,” he said, “However, I think it’s best if you apologized to Vlad and took his chores for the rest of the week. Acceptable Vlad?”

  The other vampire stopped pacing. “I thought you were going to kick the bastard out?” He looked worried.

  “Now, now, we all make mistakes on the path to redemption,” Donald said. “I’m sure you understand.” Donald turned his smile on Vlad this time. He looked even more worried and backed up a few paces.

  “Sure, no problem. Apology accepted.”

  Donald’s clapping hands caused both Harold and Vlad to jump, but only because it caught them off guard. Donald didn’t give Harold the heeby jeebies or anything, but he was not, absolutely positively was not one iota scared of Donald Duck.

  “Excellent,” Donald said soothingly, “I expect the both of you in group, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. We’re working on journals tonight.” Harold coughed into his hand as Donald got up. He smiled at Harold, then bade them goodbye.

  Vlad didn’t wait around either. He snarled at Harold, opened the kitchen window and with a twist, vanished into a black cloud on the night air. Once again leaving Harold wishing he knew how to do that trick. He’d tried different things over the years associated with vampires, flying, shape-shifting, sleeping in a coffin, but usually ended up falling off of tall buildings. He came to the conclusion, he just happened to be one of those vamps who got around in sweet vintage rides.

  Harold had better things to do at the moment, like gambling. He got his coat from the hall as he left. Just because he didn’t fly, didn’t mean he couldn’t look the part.

  Chapter Twelve

  At first Harold was afraid he wouldn’t be able to find the casino again. Zork and the zombie led him through an agonizingly, long series of twisting alleys and backstreets and it really all looked the same to him as he drove around town. Finally, he settled for heading back to where he’d started yesterday, playing poker in the backroom of some dingy bar.

  The door was still off its hinge, though it continued to lean wearily against the doorjamb where Harold left it. The room was in better shape, someone went through with a broom and swept up most of the werewolf hair. According to his nose though, Rufus’ scent, along with his own and the others still lingered. His nose told him that the cleaning person who came in, probably sometime during the day and cleaned up the room, was a human, female, with A+ blood and middle-aged, but her smell was hours old.

  He meandered back to the alley and turned right, following his memory. The first few turns were easy to remember, but as he got deeper into the maze of the city’s backstreets he began to flounder. Was it a left or a right? Did he need to backtrack? Harold stood still for a few moments, trying to remember, until it occurred to him to follow his nose.

  He closed his eyes and let the scents of the night create a picture in his mind. Mingled in among the flavors of still water, electricity, rats, metals, people, cats in heat and literally millions of used food cartons was the distinct odor of one angry slug. Harold, unfortunately, would never forget Zork’s scent for as long as he lived.

  Yes, it was just about a day old and it was the slime trail he’d been looking for. The series of twisting alleys turned into another well-traveled path for Harold as he followed the faithful slime trail. As if on cue, the scent was joined by of other fellow travelers of the night. Hundreds of trails, ranging from just minutes to weeks old, all going in the same direction, joined the slug’s from alleys and sidewalks. One scent’s owner even seemed to run straight down the side of a third story building.

  Soon he joined up with other people, though none he recognized from the night before or FEBs.

  Harold pulled the gambling chip he’d found on his nightstand out of his pocket. Somehow Orlen, through skill or trick, managed to get this chip into his room earlier in the day. She had no problem walking around in broad daylight. Orlen could simply walk into his room while he was sleeping and put him into another one of those trance states, although a supremely bizarre one.

  He hated the feeling of powerlessness she caused in him. His own inability to resist her hypnotic glare and those damn eyes. Just one more thing taken from him. No way was he going to let her get the best of him dammit. He was a vampire and he could turn people into mindless peons with the best of them. He would too. If it came to it, he’d find a way to break her influence over his mind. Then, he’d break her.

  But first, he had to find her, meaning he had to give into the slight urging command she’d planted in his mind. The soft, insistent need to find the guy in charge, whoever the hell he was, probably another self-serving normie, like Donald, who made a living off the undead. If the supposed guy in charge tried anything, Harold would break him too.

  When Harold reached the casino, he was concerned the bouncer would remember him from the other night, so Harold skirted around to the front, legal entrance. Here the normies gambled in ignorant bliss and lost more than money to the casino.

  It was bright. More than bright. It was a supernova of blinking, bouncing lights in oranges, reds, purples and blues. The casino’s name blinked in a million red lights on the marquee. The living wandered in and out of wide double doors and the crowd more than represented the range of fortunes fate had in store for humanity. A rich man, a poor man, a beggared man and a beleaguered man and more from great literature crossed the threshold, many going in and fewer leaving. No discrimination here. Everyone played equally with chance, though it was obvious quite a few didn’t know when to quit the game.

  Harold crossed into the front of the casino with no problem at all. Though a bit pale, he didn’t draw any attention, except from those very paranoid few guarding their night’s winnings.

  It was also noisy. Almost too noisy for his ears. He hunched into his shoulders and looked to the ground in an almost comical attempt to block out the noise level. How could people stand it? They seemed to relish in making as much noise as possible.

  Harold headed straight for the back wall, the most likely place for a private, employees only space between the two opposing casinos. It didn’t take long to get across the main gambling floor. Game tables were crowded with people, but the floor remained open except for those taking a break from the games and ogres patrolling the floor, no zombies though. This side of the casino didn’t seem to offer the same level of entertainment. In fact, some of the people here looked almost bored, or maybe entranced. Were the slot player’s eyes glazed over a bit too much?

  Before Harold could reach a conclusion an ‘Employees Only’ sign loomed over the crowd. He slithered his way through the crowded floor, noises ringing in his ears, threatening to deafen him when he finally got away from it. This time there were no guards watching the door. It was only locked, not a problem. A firm twist of the doorknob and the lock snapped back, allowing the door to open easily.

  He slipped inside and closed the door behind him before anyone noticed. Harold didn’t exactly look like a casino employee. The typical darkened backroom lay before him. Harold sniffed out hidden dangers and while odors of something more than human lingered here, they weren’t fresh enough to cause alarm.

  One door stood exactly opposite him across the room, but it featured a maintenance sign. A left turn and short hallway led to another door without a sign. To the right, down the long side of the backroom was a longer, wider hallway with a series of doors and at the end a set of double doors. A blind alley in which he’d be seen immediately if anyone came in. It felt like the best way to go.

  Harold steeled himself and started to the right, pausing to look in the open windows of each of the doors he passed. Some obviously detention areas for wayward gamblers who thought they could stack the odds in their favor. Other rooms were less favorable to potential occupants. Harold noted a couple of freezers in one room and he could guess their purpose.
He kept his senses open for sounds, smells, the sight of someone coming into the area. Nothing, no one, and no sounds. He reached the double doors safely, which relieved and worried him. The deeper he got into this place, the less likely he’d be able to get back out without being seen. Of course, he was coming here to see someone anyway.

  Harold peeked as far as he could down the hallway beyond the door’s glass panes. He saw stairs and it seemed right to slide his skinny frame through the doors and dash up them. Harold kept going until instinct told him to stop on the third floor. Beyond the doors on this level were much nicer surroundings.

  A plush carpet muted his footfalls. Wood panels classed up the joint and very old paintings of rich landscapes lined the walls. He felt like he’d been transported a few hundred years back in time. Winged back chairs sat at strategic intervals. He could hear a few electronic devices hidden in the walls, probably cameras trained on this hall. All of it a very nice cover, but Harold didn’t know which way to go through this new area of the casino. Straight ahead or to the left, down another carpeted hall? His question was answered for him when he heard more than one person’s footsteps approaching the double doors behind him.

  Harold dashed to the left out of sight. He forced open the nearest door and slipped into a janitor’s closet. Harold held his breath as the footsteps came click-clacking down the hall towards him.

  The closer the person got, the faster his heartbeat. Not because he was nervous, though his palms were starting to feel sweaty. He recognized the person behind the click-clacky footfalls.

  Orlen.

  Harold barely kept himself from jumping out of the closet to confront her. His fangs itched to sink into her neck. But, Orlen wasn’t alone and Harold wasn’t sure he could hold his own against those walking with her. Or her. He had to be honest with himself. He wasn’t exactly great at fighting. Sneak attacks sure, fighting no.

  Harold waited until they passed before leaving the closet and followed them at a very safe distance down the hall. He could smell them now. A couple of zombies and there was blood too. A feast of blood. Sighing into the O-negative scent, Harold let it lead him towards his nemesis.

  He almost walked into them as he turned a final corner in the old world themed halls, but managed to recover himself and slip back out of sight. They stood at a pair of wooden doors. The zombies pushed a cart, the source of the blood he smelled. One of the zombies was the guy he’d seen Orlen talking with at the casino last night. Orlen smiled sweetly at the zombie before knocking on the door.

  Even at his distance Harold could hear someone calling them to enter, and the muted voice stroked a thread of recognition. Here was the man he’d come to see, the man Orlen’s nightmare urged him so strongly to visit that he felt the need in the pit of his stomach like another hunger he lacked the willpower to fight. Orlen must be good at making people do what she wanted. He could tell and so far he’d only encountered two of her victims, himself and David.

  The trio went into the room, leaving Harold to struggle with his thoughts. What to do next? He slipped down the empty length of hallway, ready to dart back to the safety of the corner at the slightest hint of approaching footsteps. They remained far away on the other side of those double doors.

  It didn’t take long for Harold to get a strong whiff of premium grade O-negative blood and snippets of conversation from the room beyond the doors. Oh, it was lovely stuff and fresh too. Very fresh, warm fresh. Harold groaned audibly, pressing his nose against the door. He really wasn’t getting enough to eat these days. Some poor sap down in the bowels of the Casino probably just endured enough blood letting to leave him promising God in heaven he’d never gamble again. At least not with anything but money ...

  Harold let his nose enjoy the strong scent of fresh blood while he listened to the group eating noisily and it sounded as if they were really enjoying the stuff too. Damn it. Harold should have had more than day old blood this evening. His stomach turned on itself, gnawing and growling and threatening to eat him away.

  He swallowed and tried to focus on Orlen’s words, but it was impossible. Oh, ho now the fragrance of AB-positive mingled with O-negative, not as fresh mind you, but oh, it was delicious. Harold had never much chance to mix and match his blood types. It was too much bother.

  He stood there salivating in anticipation of the real treat on the other side of the door. Whoever was eating that meal continued to do so with great relish, chomping and sucking and snorting.

  Now his stomach raged at him. It was a very empty and hungry stomach. It grew teeth, turning on itself with hunger, gnawing at his willpower. Harold’s fangs slid out of their hidden sockets, glistening and sharp. Had he been thinking clearly, he’d have grabbed a bite to eat before coming to the casino. Harold held his middle, damned himself for not thinking ahead. The sound of ripping plastic and a gory whiff of more AB-negative blood dissolved what little strength Harold had left. He tore the door open one-handed, nearly ripping it off the hinges and ran head long into the room with one thing on his mind, blood.

  The room was quite large, cavernous even and soothingly dark with rows of small golden lights ringing the ceiling. A wall-sized two-way mirror blocked the room in on two sides, providing a god’s eye view of the casino floors. Out of the corner of his eye, Harold noticed four people in the room, including two zombies in the corner, Orlen’s skele-toy and one half-broken down. A man, a vampire stood before the cart. His blood-smeared grin welcoming Harold even as he flew at the cart between them.

  Harold laid into a pint of blood, sinking in and draining it halfway of the warm syrup before his mind regained enough control to scream at him. He was an idiot of the first order.

  Harold’s eyes snapped around the room, noting a more detailed placement of its occupants. The two zombies had the good grace to appear shocked, at least he thought they looked surprised. With their muscles frozen into place with decay, he had a hard time telling. Orlen did not look shocked or surprised. She looked smug. Feeling the need to express his anger, Donald would say it’s not good to keep those feelings bottled up, Harold furrowed his brows, still sucking on the blood, gave her his best “I-hate-you-from-the-bottom-of-my-heart-and-soul-and-other-nether-regions” look and flipped the bird. She blinked.

  The final occupant, and obviously, head honcho, also did not look shocked to see Harold. He was happy. It was a very disturbing look on anyone with a face pasted in clotting blood.

  Harold sucked his pint of blood dry as he moved onto grabbing a few pints from the cart to go. Man, it was loaded. Piled high with warm and fresh blood and some not so fresh flavors for dinner. A vamp could literally gorge himself on this meal and still have some to share. Perhaps it was the reason the other guy wasn’t currently choking Harold like a turkey on thanksgiving and stuffing his mouth with empty blood bags for coming in at the wrong time. No vampire enjoys being interrupted during a meal.

  Except this guy. He actually smiled, as if he were expecting Harold for dinner, which he supposed was true with Orlen here. Or, Harold thought, kicking himself mentally for once again being slow on the uptake, it could be because this guy was a vamp and heard him coming down the hallway ten minutes ago. Maybe it was all of the above. He could really be slow sometimes.

  The other guy snapped his fingers and the zombies supplied two steamed towels for them. Harold could only accept, since it was the polite thing to do, but he made sure to stuff a couple more pints of blood into his coat pocket.

  The blood came off, revealing a respectable human being or the semblance of such a man in pinstripe suit with red vest, blood-red, of course. He looked vaguely European and all pleasantry, with deceptively warm eyes, but Harold knew better than to accept anything at face value anymore. Nothing in life seemed as it appeared, not even enemies.

  Was this man an enemy? Had he finally find his own nemesis with which to do battle across the ages as only true immortals can? He’d been listening to Maria read too many of her vampire books again.

&nbs
p; The man spoke with a nearly perfect Midwestern flat, “Greetings, Harold. We were wondering when you would join us.” Nearly perfect, but Harold’s ear’s picked up a softer, subtle accent lingering on the man’s tongue.

  “Dining with us this evening?” The head honcho gestured almost teasingly at the blood on Harold’s hands as he wiped them clean.

  “Thought I’d drop in for a snack,” he muttered, focusing on a particularly stubborn bit of gore under his nails, working to contain rapidly, growing panic. He’d gotten himself into a real jam here by sneaking around the casino. Plus, the barging in and stuffing his face bit from a moment ago. Harold half expected last night’s ogre to reappear from nowhere and bash his skull in. Already Orlen proved herself slightly, ahem, more dangerous than he’d thought on first meeting. This guy could be capable of anything.

  “Naturally,” the man said with a smile, “I would not expect less.” The man casually tossed the towel on the cart with not a glance at the remaining blood. Harold couldn’t help but wonder about the leftovers’ fate. His eyes refused to leave the cart, causing him to jump when the man next spoke.

  “Harold, I’m in need of your assistance. I had my lovely and quite effective assistant,” He gestured again, as grandly, at Orlen, who positively gushed adoration, “bring you here tonight.”

  “I was going to ask about that,” Harold said, a surge of calming anger slid through his pleasantly full gut. “I don’t enjoy stalking, harassment and threats.” He looked very pointedly at Orlen now, trying to hold onto his anger. She would not get the best of him. Anger at her felt good, gave him control, helped push down the nerves. It might give him the ability to get out of here with everything intact.

  “You know, neither do I. I do apologize. I should have invited you here properly, but I did not think I could risk more direct contact without them finding out.” The man held out his hand and Harold almost laughed in his face. Almost, but he didn’t quite have the balls. “You are being closely watched you know. My birth name is long gone, but everyone calls me Mephisto.” He kept his hand outstretched, long enough for some other men to feel awkward and quietly withdraw, but not this guy. No, he remained all smiles, and contained assurance until Harold felt forced to shake his hand. Gripping the warm, dry flesh in his own, Harold felt a little weaker.