by HC Hammond
Harold turned back toward the man who nodded before he could speak.
“I know a lot about you Harold,” Donald stated, “I know a lot about vampires in general and you too Rufus.”
The werewolf plastered his face and hands against the glass, shuffling his feet and snuffling like he could actually smell the meat.
“Rufus, I wanted you to see me put the sedative in this meat.” Donald hoisted the tray closer to the famished werewolf. “I’m doing this for your personal safety.”
“Oh please,” Harold muttered.
“I want to keep the both of you secure,” Donald said. His face settled into a pleasant smile, “I also want you to know about everything I do for you Rufus. Trust is important to me.”
“Which is why you’ve locked us up in such a spacious cage, right?” Harold muttered. He couldn’t help himself. He needed to keep his cool to get out of there, but he just couldn’t help himself. More than anything he wanted to break through the glass and destroy Donald.
“Please step back now. I’m turning on the lights,” Donald said, “Rufus, I trust you, so please don’t try anything silly.”
Harold pulled the werewolf away from the window and backed off himself. Lights wouldn’t affect a werewolf, but no doubt Donald put something in place for Rufus too. This was it. Their chance to get out. He had to be quick.
Donald moved to the door. Harold mimicked him, staying a good ten feet away from his side of the cell door. Rufus stood where Harold left him. Lost in a food induced fervor.
The lights flickered off and then on again. Their unnaturally bright shade of white burning his eyes. Except those in front of the door which remained off. Donald peered into the window. Harold waited for it. The moment when Donald noticed it was slightly darker in front of the door, but he didn’t.
Harold’s ears strained for the sound of the door’s lock turning. Each touch of the keypad by Donald brought freedom a that much closer. When the door cracked open it was an explosion of metal to him. Harold darted forward to grasp the edge and pry it open.
Wait. He did hear an explosion of metal. Donald wasn’t looking at him. He was staring across the lab, pure fright swiped the smugness from his face. Harold forced his way through the door and Donald didn’t fight him. He remained entirely focused on the lab doors as both thudded to the floor on the opposite side of the lab. The three inch thick metal turned to crumpled foil. Two very burly, very large ogres came in, flanking Orlen between them.
The next moments were a blur. Donald produced a loaded crossbow almost from nowhere and fired at one of the ogres. The silver tip did nothing to improve the creature’s mood when it pierced the left shoulder.
In retaliation, the ogre picked up one of the fallen doors and hurled it at Donald who effortlessly ducked it. Harold didn’t duck in time and the swiftly moving object snagged him, carried him on it, right into a wall. The drywall gave way behind him, creating a Harold-shaped dent. Pain told him he was still alive.
The others continued on in their fight. Donald’s crossbow firing shots in rapid rat, tat, tat form. To Harold’s dazed gaze, Orlen appeared to dash forward and leap triple summersault the length of the lab in an Olympics worthy move. She engaged Donald in hand to hand combat, real live Hollywood style stuff.
Harold was amazed Donald kept up with her. As they danced the eternal battle around each other, the ogres went on a rampage around the lab, destroying beakers, Bunsen burners and the like, wresting entire islands from the floor and hurling them along the walls.
Harold, still trapped between the wall and the door, found a space between them for a hand hold and pushed. A couple of false starts and he managed to push the door loose from the wall. To be fair, he wasn’t in best form. Falling to the floor, Harold crawled along the baseboards, sticking close to the counters for cover. He got close to the open cell and considered heading in there for safety, but didn’t want to get trapped again.
Rufus crouched against the door pane, feeding on handfuls of tainted ground beef.
“What the hell are you doing?” Harold reached forward to pull the bowl away from Rufus but nearly lost a finger to the crazy man’s bite. He hissed at Rufus to stop eating the damn tainted meat, but the wereman continued wolfing down the beef like he’d never seen real live beef before and staring Harold down, prepared to defend his meal.
“Your choice dog-boy,” Harold muttered.
Thunderous vibrations shook the floor. Harold peeked around the corner of the island. One of the ogres was down on his back, unconscious, Donald standing victoriously on top, a king of the living hill, his crossbow aimed directly into the creature’s face. The other ogre was down the way ripping out the mechanism of Donald’s watery death chamber. Orlen was nowhere in sight.
This other ogre, apparently not realizing his companion was in mortal danger, tore out the control panel for the chamber and reached his great trunk of an arm into the wall, ripping out wires and mechanics and possibly dusty chunks of concrete block. All the while, he mauled and growled and groaned. Harold had no idea what he was saying, but he looked like to be having fun until he managed to rip out the wrong wire.
Lights across the lab flickered on and off, as the ogre bellowed. His arm, stuck in the wall, siphoned off the high wattage electricity normally shunted into the death chamber. In the flashing darkness, Orlen came into leaping contact with Donald, pulling him off balance to the floor where they struggled. First Donald was on top, then Orlen, then they both rolled to the side, trading kicks and struggling over the crossbow. The defeated ogre sat up, holding its head in pumpkin-sized palms, completely unaware his compatriot was now in mortal danger (perhaps already dead, Harold didn’t really know how much voltage an ogre could handle).
Harold was so absorbed in the action, he jumped nearly three feet in the air as the wolf man joined him.
“Which one’s winning?” He asked. Little pieces of raw ground beef were forever lost in the wereman’s scraggly beard. His forehead furrowed in confusion, “Who are these people anyway, friends of yours?”
Harold didn’t answer. He peered closely at Rufus for signs of sedation. Dilated eyes, slurred speech and general confusion. Nothing out of the ordinary yet. It would probably take a few minutes for the sedative to kick in.
The ogre on the floor roared, finally noticing what was going on around him. He got up and started for his friend, but a shout from Orlen halted him in his tracks. For a second or two, he hesitated, torn between Orlen and his own kind, but Orlen was in real trouble now. Donald had her pinned to the ground, crossbow lying forgotten to the side, but in both hands a large gleaming knife produced from somewhere on his person during the unobserved battle. Orlen barely held the knife tip at bay with hands on his wrists, but it descended none the less towards her neck.
Another call from Orlen for help in her hypnotic voice, now tinged with fear, made the ogre’s decision for him and almost drew Harold out of his hiding spot. Rufus started forward too, but Harold yanked him back.
The ogre hoisted Donald up by the back of his shirt and shook the man as a dog with a bone might before sitting down to gnaw on it. The wolf man tensed beside him, ready to get up and run to his master’s defense even now, but Harold urged him to stay and see what happened. Throughout all of this the lights continued to flash. The ogre didn’t sit down to eat Donald after the horrific bout of shaking. Instead he dropped the noodle limp man to the floor and looked to Orlen for instructions.
She stood up, dusting herself off and kicked Donald onto his back. He was either unconscious or dead. Harold hoped for the latter. It would be much simpler for everyone involved. Now, he had to get out of here before Orlen found him.
He skirted round the wereman who dazedly asked what was going on. Harold shushed him. Instead the man asked his question again, louder this time and a bit angrily. Harold continued around the island on his hands and knees, hoping Rufus might forget his question and follow or just forget it. The wolf man did neither, he followed
and asked questions, refusing to shut up.
He stopped and peered around a counter, shushing Rufus. Orlen and her savior were now across the lab trying to figure out what to do with the ogre still stuck in the panel. It continued to drain electricity from the wall, making the lights flicker. Donald must have one hell of an electric bill to be drawing so much current. Orlen directed non-electric ogre to pick up a nearby stool. He did so, came forward and at her signal swung it into the other ogre, freeing him from the wall with an electrical pop. The ogre hit the floor with an alarming thud and the lights went out completely. Harold decided to run for it.
In the darkness they made it to the far corner of the lab, dashing between spaces where island counters no longer sat and trying in general to move quickly, but Rufus made it difficult. He could see little in this complete darkness and hear the others moving around, but Rufus’s pestering was loud enough for a deaf man with clogged ears to hear. Plus, he was starting to slow down, the sedative finally hitting him. Harold got fed up and told Rufus to be quiet or he would leave him here. Not the smartest move.
“Fine,” Rufus said, he moved to stand up, “If you don’t want to tell me what’s, what is going on, I’ll ask them.”
Harold grabbed the wolf man by the legs, knocking him down as he yelled out to Orlen. The electrical system picked that moment to restart and every light in the lab flickered back on. Harold scrambled up the smelly man and wrapped his hands around his mouth, muttering for him to shut up.
They both lay still as heavy footsteps drew near their hiding place. Harold stopped breathing and the wolfman’s eyes got wide as he looked up at something behind Harold. He couldn’t make himself look, but knew exactly what it was as a meaty hand lifted him into the air by the back of his shirt. He closed his eyes and waited for the shaking to start.
Nothing happened, though, except he heard sniffing and opened his eyes to see he was being inspected up close by an ogre. The ogre drew back, lips parted as he exhaled heavily through his mouth. The stench of halitosis hit Harold full on in the face, not pleasant. He gagged, thankful he had nothing in his stomach to lose. The odor was something like rotted pumpkin meets used baby diapers.
“English man?” He queried.
Harold started struggling. He knew the children’s tale and wanted no part of it. “No, American, American!” He hissed. “Put me down!”
The ogre sniffed at him again, obviously confused. He didn’t put Harold down, but instead leaned back over the lab counter and pulled out a whimpering Rufus by the scruff of his neck. The ogre sniffed at Rufus and smiled, showing off his huge brown dotted molars, perfect for grinding bones to make bread.
“John,” Orlen called from where she stood beside Donald’s body in the center of the lab. “Bring them here.” Finally, one of the ogres had a name.
Any half-formed plans for a meal were immediately forgotten by the man. He turned obediently to Orlen's request and dropped Harold and Rufus to the floor at her feet.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Blank,” she smiled down at them, “but you missed our appointment.”
Harold groaned. “It wasn’t exactly my idea.” He pushed himself to his feet. His whole body feeling the pain of the past few days.
Donald’s body on the other hand was limp, his chin touching his chest.
“Is he dead?”
Orlen stood way to close to Harold than he would have preferred as she joined him in looking down at Donald. She smiled her patented prim grin and he could imagine the things going on in her head.
“Not yet.”
Orlen stepped over Donald straddling his legs on either side with a stiletto leather boot. She picked up his knife from the counter with one hand and grabbed him by the hair with her free hand. Tracing the blade’s paper thin edge along his cheek she called his name softly, willing Donald to wake up.
Donald came to in a groggy state, mumbling to himself, not yet fully aware of his surroundings. Orlen continued calling to Donald, grazing the knife along his chin. Harold had to shake himself to loosen the hypnotic hold Orlen’s voice was starting to gain over him. A treacherous woman, even when she was focused on someone else.
When Donald failed to wake sufficiently to satisfy her, Orlen snapped the blade along the underside of his chin, creating an inch and a half long gash in his flesh, causing him to jerk awake.
The blood, paler than usual and watery, flowed freely from his wound, two long rivulets raced down his neck, around his Adam’s apple and pooled in the divot of his collar bone. Harold’s stomach twisted on itself. He could smell the blood already. B-negative, tangy, sweet, but lacking in kick to his senses. He would almost call it anemic. It still attracted him and he hated himself more than ever for wanting it.
He stared at the blood on Donald’s neck, dimly aware of Orlen pressing the blade against his jugular, ready to pierce the skin and pop the slippery, fibrous sheath open with a flick of her wrist.
“How does it feel to be on the other side of this blade?” Orlen asked, breaking the hypnotic atmosphere with the fervor in her voice.
“Not so good,” Donald slurred softly. He grunted as she pressed the blade into his skin. Orlen’s body language gave off some major revenge vibes. He did not want to be in Donald’s position right now.
“You’ll never kill another of us again,” she whispered, “I’ll make sure of it.” Orlen pressed harder, piercing the skin above Donald’s jugular. Harold winced even as his eyes locked on the watery red fluid like it were manna from heaven. He felt a sick to his stomach, still shaky, and weak from hunger.
Rufus, whom Harold had completely forgotten about, yowled and rushed forward knocking Orlen off her feet. In a shot, Donald was up, belying his apparent dazed condition. He kicked out at Harold catching him under the jaw. Harold flew backwards and hit the ground with a solid thud. Flashes of light danced in his eyes and his jaw cemented shut in a most painful manner. Harold moaned softly and decided to stay down.
He watched through slit eyes as Rufus screamed at Orlen again, the sedatives slowing his movements and probably his good judgment. Harold rolled out of the way in time to avoid John the ogre’s stomping feet as he came forward, but the ogre did nothing more than look at the scene, confused as to whether he should help Orlen or grab Donald who was now heading for the exit.
Rufus’ attack stopped as the sedatives kicked in all at once and he slumped into a doze on top of a petite struggling Orlen. She let out an outraged cry and John opted to help her, letting Donald escape up the lab stairs.
Once more the ogre lifted Rufus up, though he was now completely passed out, and sniffed at the wereman with hungered interest. He had no time to grab a quick meal before Orlen bounced up, verbally railing on the creature for letting Donald get away. She ordered the confused ogre to drop it, referring to a sedated and snoring Rufus, and go after Donald. John did so, thundering off after Donald, but Harold doubted he would catch up in time to stop the man from slipping out into the street and if he were smart, disappearing forever.
Harold sat up, pressing his hands against his face. He couldn’t open his jaw. After several failed attempts to open it naturally, he forced it open by prying fingers between his teeth and yanking down. It came open with a disturbing crackling sound and a good amount of pain, but it would heal with a long night’s sleep and lots of blood, if he got near any, ever, again. He tested his jaw a couple of times and found it workable if he didn’t push it further than it was willing to open on its own.
Orlen seethed by the counter. She faced away from him but tension filled her tiny body, her fists balled and tiny red lights flickering in and out of existence around her bent head. He figured it was as good a time as any to get out of there. He levered himself up on unstable feet and hobbled as quietly as he could towards the exit, much like Rocky at the end of his career making fight, but without the career or the win.
“Stop Harold,” Orlen’s sickly sweet voice halted his tracks, apparently he didn’t get moving soon enoug
h. He tried to continue walking, but couldn’t even lift his big toe with a screaming thought. Orlen’s voice had completely disconnected him from his body. His face screwed up with the effort of trying to break free, of trying to find some sort of willpower in his gravely weakened body, but nothing, nothing. A remarkable sense of peace slid over him. Though a small flame of hatred towards Orlen still glowed in his belly, but it could be the hunger talking.
“Turn around and come back to me Harold,” Orlen commanded him. He doubted she felt as controlled as her voice sounded, but she was definitely back in control of her ability. Harold followed her orders as calm as you please, no longer caring to fight the woman’s commands.
She smiled up at him, multitudes of red lights weaving between them, some settling on his skin and leaving their white hot marks. He wanted to swipe the malignant insects off, but was equally powerless to follow the urge. Orlen had complete control. She brushed his chin with cold, bony fingers.
“Ouch, that hurts Mr. Blank,” Orlen whispered. It was worse than death. He didn’t want her to touch him. Repulsion welled up in his empty stomach and he wanted to expel yellow bile onto her face, if only to break her contact with his flesh. Get her and those damn burning red sprites away from him, but he couldn’t even vomit. He just stood there and took it.
Orlen continued to stroke his swelling chin and jaw with odd fascination where Donald had kicked him. Maybe she got her rocks off on pain. Maybe it was being in control. Either way, Harold really didn’t like where this was starting to go.
His savior came in the form of John grunting his way down the stairs and into the lab, empty-handed as Harold expected. Orlen lost interest in him, cursing the creature and in general ranting about doing a job herself if she wanted it done right. During her rant Harold felt some degree of autonomy come back into his body. He found he was able to release a silent fart that his artificially enforced tension kept uncomfortably bound within his bowels. Unfortunately, he couldn’t move, apparently he’d need Orlen’s direction for actual movement, but it was a small release.