by HC Hammond
“Watching me,” Harold said. Mephisto was referring to the feds. Why would a guy like Mephisto be concerned about a couple of government agents on a power trip? Sure, he’s running an underground illegal casino and stealing blood by the vat but, he probably had enough goons and money to keep this operation under wraps.
“I’m sure you are well aware of your precarious position, Harold,” Mephisto soothed, “and I do regret having to bring a fellow, well, you know, into this trouble, but I fear someone is working to destroy us.”
Harold shook his head. “Us. As in me and you?”
Mephisto laughed merrily along with Orlen’s titters and the creaking chuckles of the zombies. “I do like you. Not the two of us, but all of us.” A grand sweep of the room with his arm encompassed everyone present. “I intend to stop it, but I must know for certain that I’m right. That it is really him.”
Lots of people wanted to destroy the infected. It was practically illegal to be undead. Harold started to feel screwed over again. Everyone wanted Harold to do something. Harold don’t kill people. Harold go to rehab. Harold spy on this guy. Blah, blah, blah. He sighed.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why should I care?”
Mephisto walked to the corner of the office where both bay windows facing the casino joined.
“Look at them, Harold. All of them. For all the major differences, they’re just bodies in need. And I take care of them. I give them what they need.”
Oh boy, nut job alert. He had to always run into the weirdoes. Harold moved further from Orlen’s line of sight. It was unnervingly creepy the way she looked at him. He crossed his arms. “In exchange?” He asked.
Mephisto turned to Harold, his face unnatural and unnerving. Geez, he was surrounded on all sides here.
“In exchange, they give me what I need, what we all need.” He finished the sentence with a grand sweep of his arm at the others in the room. “You see Harold, it’s really just an economic exchange, a symbiotic relationship. One takes from the other to provide for another, in support of the self.”
Another candidate for Donald’s support group, Harold thought. Donald might be particularly pleased to have a chance to work on this guy’s complexes.
“Sounds like a circle,” he tilted his head slightly, “or a triangle?”
“Well, you know what I mean,” Mephisto said, “we all rely on each other. As I am about to rely on you Harold.” Mephisto stepped closer to Harold, close enough to meet him eye-to-eye, compadre to head honcho. “I am going to ask for your help in finding out what’s happening to our fellows in your group. What sort of devious conniving the know-it-alls have contrived for us poor souls trying to get along.” He locked eyes with Harold. As if it would be more convincing of Mephisto’s complete and utter trustworthiness. Mephisto might even latch onto his arms with both hands to further convince him with a helping shake. Harold blurted out the next thing that popped into his mind.
“I think it’s just group therapy. Maybe you should try it.”
Mephisto chuckled
“I like you Harold, you are funny, but not too smart.” He frowned, tapping lightly on Harold’s forehead. Harold felt another surge of desperate anger. Major invasion of personal space.
“You know as well as I, there are those who would happily maim, kill and or destroy us simply because we’re different. You’ve been dealing with them yourself of late. Those nasty government agents seem to have you in quite a bind.”
Harold stepped out of Mephisto’s personal space and surveyed the room. The zombies were ever so perceptibly edging towards the food cart. If they thought they were doing so on the sly, they were sorely mistaken. Mephisto’s senses were just as sharp as his and could detect their slightest movements. Not that zombies were able to move without creaking and groaning like old doors.
Orlen stood by the cart, staring enraptured at Mephisto. Her idolization was almost good enough to satisfy his urge to just… bite her to death. Orlen, the mysterious and hypnotic threat, was herself hypnotized by the simple seduction of a vampire. Not himself of course, but still, pretty hilarious. He could see it in her eyes, the same as the eyes of every person he’d ever hypnotized. She trusted Mephisto implicitly and would do anything he asked. He wondered how her zombie friend felt about that.
At least, Harold could relax in being immune to the hypnotic suggestion. Mephisto was putting out all his suggestive power and Harold felt not an ounce of duty to follow it.
The zombie friend stealthily reached out a hand, tendons snapping loudly in his fingers. His middle finger barely grazed a pint container of blood. A gleam of satisfaction shown in his eyes. Cracking knuckles announced his grabbing a fistful of blood in hand. In the very quiet room it sounded loud to Harold and he was sure, to Mephisto.
“Darling,” Mephisto said and for half a second Harold thought the man was talking to him. He was not. Mephisto directed his grand smile at Orlen. Whip like, she smacked the zombie’s dusty hand. The zombie let go, Orlen caught it midair and tossed the blood to Mephisto before the zombie even realized what happened.
Did Harold neglect to mention zombies weren’t so quick on the uptake?
“Harold, I want to help protect our people from destruction at the hands of others. You can surely see how this program would eventually undermine our entire way of life if it catches on?” Mephisto shook the blood pint at Harold. “Vampires denying their culture, their birthright.”
Birthright? Harold thought, was there another aspect to vampirism Harold didn’t quite understand.
“Ogres denying themselves the things which give them the most pleasure in life,”
Yeah, thought Harold, that would be the grinding of bones to make bread. He was pretty sure people hadn’t changed their minds about the baking skills of these fairy tale creatures.
“Zombies, forced to go hungry,” Mephisto nodded at the zombie he’d denied a quick snack too, “or worse, forced back into the ground from which they came.”
Mephisto stepped close, invading Harold’s personal space again. A close talker this one. “Harold, we know the ‘graduates’ of your program are going missing. I fear the worst. We must find out what’s happening to those poor souls.” Mephisto gestured with invisible quotation marks for emphasis, right on either side of Harold’s face, one hand still holding the blood bag. “Will you help me?”
Harold stepped back, though it brought him closer to Orlen than he would have preferred.
“No,” Harold said, staring at the hated Orlen, and the still shocked zombie. “I think I’ve got too much on my plate right now to be dealing with a bunch of crazy people. You’re right there are feds on my ass. I’m on probation and there’s one hot chick at my apartment who has threatened to revoke my sex privileges if I don’t get my act together. I’m sorry, I got to go.”
Harold turned to leave, quickly sidestepping Orlen and the two zombies on the way. He was at least faster than her. Maybe one day soon, he could sneak up on the woman with her back turned. He knew where to find her now.
“Harold wait, you have not heard the best part.” Mephisto called after Harold, but he kept on walking. Apparently, Mephisto wasn’t about to let him leave because Orlen called after him next and told him to stop in her sickly, seductive voice and, damn it, Harold stopped and turned around.
He caught a bag of blood thrown by Mephisto. The O-positive and it was starting to get cold. A shame, if Mephisto wanted it to be any good he’d have to finish his meal fast.
“What’s this, one for the road?”
“It is an advance payment,” Mephisto said. He went to the cart and caressed the remaining blood pints. “If you find out what’s happening to those graduates, I will give you as much blood as you want, for the rest of your life Harold.”
Harold’s fanged quivered. Last he heard vampires tended to live forever and drank a lot of blood.
Chapter Thirteen
He slept poorly. Harold managed to sneak a meal from his hidden stash before heading to
bed. Still no Vlad, but he’d been in the bathroom all night with the dry heaves from attempting more of Donald’s blood substitute at group earlier. The blood Mephisto gave him had a wonderfully settling effect on Harold’s stomach and he thought he’d be able to sleep like a baby. Not so.
Harold tossed and turned, not able to find his zone and get a good night’s rest. His thoughts turned to Skellie. He didn’t know the skeleton very well, but he felt kind of sorry for the guy. No one knew what the skeleton was infected with, they only knew he’d been starving himself for Donald since joining group. His efforts were about to pay off, but Harold knew enough to be concerned. As the feds said, group members had a way of disappearing. This even bothered Mephisto, whom Harold couldn’t quite figure out. Mephisto was crazy, but even that couldn’t convince Harold couldn’t turn down a lifetime supply of blood. Not when his own efforts in securing food paled in comparison.
Sleep finally came in the form of vats of warm, fresh blood to sooth his tortured soul. It didn’t feature Orlen or the feds and it was wonderful.
His anxiety followed Harold when he came into work the next evening. David sat in his usual place and greeted him as an old pal. It felt good to have David back on his side again. Tension in the workplace led to unwanted accidents.
Halfway through their shift, the supervisor came in to let them know they had finished their investigation of the department and everything looked normal. David looked both relieved and trapped. Harold guessed David still had a debt to pay off, but David knew what he’d been walking into when he started gambling his lifesavings away.
Too many people around him were being sucked into this thing. Either the feds got you, reformers got you or the infection got you. Harold wanted to see some light at the end of the tunnel.
Skellie had been working so hard to get out of the program, starving and groveling and conning to get away from the group. Now, Donald was more than likely going to do something insidious to the poor sap.
The skeleton was one of those who couldn’t go out in the daytime. He’d be a fright anyway. Donald would be coming over at five to set him free, but to what? The remaining hours of work had Harold feeling antsy and David yelled at him twice for screwing up slides. Clocking out at four was a relief.
He booked it back to the halfway house and parked the phantom in front just after four thirty, hunching down low behind the wheel. Harold stayed there for twenty minutes before his screaming joints made him sit up again. He lacked great surveillance skills. After spending a few minutes fumbling with the bucket seats he opted to lie down in back. Donald’s Landrover and distinctive footsteps were easy enough to discern by sound.
About a half hour passed before Harold heard the vehicle rumbling down the street. He almost pissed himself when it parked right behind his car. All he needed was Donald poking his head through the window to ask what he was doing. Just great.
Luckily, Donald hopped out and walked by with nothing more than a whistle and a literal skip in his step. It was disturbing on a middle-aged man who mentored creatures of the night.
Donald slipped into the halfway house. Harold craned his neck up at an awkward angle to watch the door. Some tense and painful minutes later Donald reappeared with the skeleton. He carried the skeleton’s suitcase and looked relatively jovial. Hell, the skeleton looked jovial too. The bastard ought too.
Harold dropped his head and lay prone as the two got closer. He could sense the skeleton and Donald without seeing them. As always Skellie gave him a feeling of hollowness, of hunger. It made him want to reach for the nearest pint.
Skellie hesitated at the phantom, as if registering Harold's presence in the car. Harold remained very still, eyes closed, hoping he gave the impression of someone sleeping off a bender. If Skellie knew the fake he didn’t let on with Donald and the two got into the landrover. Donald thoughtfully held open the passenger door for the skeleton and even buckled the seat belt for him. All the while he kept up this inane chatter about graduating the program and how proud he was about Skellie’s choices.
Harold scrambled to the front of the car as the landrover pulled away. Panicking when he couldn’t find the keys, he jabbed blindly in the dark, scraping knuckles and bruising fingers on the dash, the gear box, the ice scraper in the floor. They were driving away fast, almost to the end of the street now. The backseat only held a pair of Maria’s panties. He pocketed them. Harold checked his coat, jeans, shirt. Finding nothing, he yelled in frustration, slamming the wheel with his open palm. The ignition jingled. Oh.
Harold started the car, resisting the urge to turn on the headlights and pulled out to the street in time to see the landrover turn left at a stop sign. Harold gunned it to the end of the street. He felt kind of guilty for driving fast without his lights on, but this baby had kicking brakes. Just in case.
The landrover only remained a couple hundred feet ahead so he turned at the sign and immediately slowed, eased up some more. Donald’s granny driving nearly caused Harold to hit the back of the man’s car. Harold felt fairly confident the darkness would cover his phantom, but he didn’t want to risk getting too close and being seen.
They drove to the warehouse district across town, where group met, but they passed the meeting place by in favor of a nondescript, several stories high, office building. Harold worked himself into a tizzy during the drive. Every stop sign, every red-light, every time Donald slowed down he knew he was made. He fought the urge to drive away when they turned into the parking lot. Knowing where they went was enough for the feds, right?
He sighed, parking down the next street. Harold ran back to the building, sticking to the shadows on one hell of an annoyingly well-lit street. By the time he got there, they’d already gone in. He recognized the name of the building from its sign over the front entrance. Phenochem, maker of that hated fake blood concoction. Harold followed their scent inside.
A bevy of odors confounded him at first. The wide, open space of the first floor with, untended receptionist’s area on the far side, carpeted floor, waiting chairs, even a few potted plants gracing the corners, titanium white walls and strong underlying antiseptic odor gave the familiar impression of a medical facility. Is this what Donald meant by graduating?
On top of this hospital flavor were a range of other smells, both human and infected. Some were a little off to him. Many businesslike and anxious, some fear, anger, excitement. It took a good minute of serious concentration for Harold to identify Donald and Skellie in the mix. Their scent leading off to a stairwell past the receptionist’s desks. Donald’s scent reeked of growing excitement, his trail well laid along the path. He’d been here before, going back and forth with many others.
Down the stairs, he found a heavy basement door with keypad locks. A normal guy would have reached his dead end here. Luckily, Harold was a vamp. He sniffed the keypad, detecting with his nose the different keys Donald pushed and in what order. A good skill, not only for sneaking into places, but also for detecting when Maria wanted to get busy.
Inside, it was a crazed scientist’s dream laboratory. Doctor Jekyll would have been right at home mixing odd concoctions and drinking potions of his own making.
Harold stuck to the wall. No Donald or Skellie in sight, but he could hear them. Skellie’s nervousness pervaded the room. Many ‘graduating’ members of group probably started to sense something wrong about here.
The lab was laid out in a large L-shape, the vertical length of which Harold was in and could easily observe even though many of the lights were off. The bottom part of the ‘L’ that he couldn’t see, worried Harold. Donald and Skellie were down there now. Feeling none of the compulsion which had driven him to go forward in Mephisto’s casino, Harold inched his way along the wall of the lab. One hundred feet, sixty feet, he was close enough to hear them speaking clearly. Well, Donald spoke. He told Skellie how sorry he was things hadn’t quite worked out. Skellie kind of gurgled and clanked in a way which made Harold think of the Aquarium. Maria dragged him t
o visit it last winter when the sun went down before businesses started closing up for the day. The only time of year they could go out on live dates.
On one trip, the tanks were being cleaned by staff and the long squeegee they used to scrape the inside glass of pond scum made that gurgling, clanking noise. Harold slowed to a stop, afraid of what he might see down there.
Donald’s words, the sound, the building, all of this reeked of a Hitchcock movie. He’d never believed Donald’s group could give a second chance at normal life, but going down that corner meant facing the truth about his world. It meant admitting to himself and that there were no lights at the end of the tunnel. He was starting to realize why the werewolf stayed in denial.
He could turn and go back or he could continue on. In a way it was the ultimate question, to be or not to be. Would he claim life as it stood or would he turn tail and return to the darkness? He’d been hiding for so long. So many year spent in the dark while the world went on around him. Harold didn’t want to hide anymore.
He continued forward another few dozen yards. Around the corner, Harold saw Skellie, trapped behind thick glass in a chamber filled with water. Donald’s pale, vested figure stood in front as a child admiring some unique aquatic life form might. The skeleton twisted and writhed, clawing the glass with his bony fingers, making the clanking squeegee sound.
“I’m sorry,” Donald said, “everyone fails in the end. No matter what I do, none of you gets any better. I should have realized… it’s in your nature.”
Donald walked over to a panel on the side of the chamber and fiddled with it.