by HC Hammond
“Fine,” Orlen eventually relented her verbal attack, “We need to get back to Mephisto. Come Harold.”
He watched himself from an oddly detached point of view as he started following Orlen around the room like a mechanized man doll. The tension in his muscles back in full force, the strange sense of peace soothing his mind. John lagged behind, nudging Rufus’ prone form with his over-inflated foot. A long stream of viscous drool oozing from his open, brackish mouth.
Orlen noticed and yelled at the ogre and again her grip on Harold loosened, but not enough.
“Fine bring it, but I don’t want you eating in the van,” Orlen said to placate the hungry creature. He smiled and picked up the wolf man, tucking him under one long arm. John also grabbed his now dead compatriot by the arm with a free hand and dragged the body along behind.
They made a strange trio marching through the empty Phenochem building and upstairs Harold saw it was night outside, which explained the absence of people to be frightened off by the sight of them dragging two bodies through the lobby. If it had been just him, with his luck, some night security guard probably would have popped up by now with a large gun and a chip on his shoulder about vampires.
Orlen directed them to a black van, much like the one his missing friends, the feds, preferred using. Most likely, Orlen chose it out of necessity, to hold the large creatures traveling with her. The ogre climbed into the back with the body and Rufus, still asleep. Orlen drove and he sat passively in the passenger side seat. It didn’t take long to get to the glittering haven of Mephisto’s.
They parked around back by the loading docks. Orlen made a brief phone call to someone in the building to make sure it was all clear before they got out and headed in through the darkened cargo entrance.
They had quite the operation in the casino loading area. Zombies moved packages to and fro, containing everything from money to blood to human food for the front end of the casino. Harold could smell all of it. His disconnected state also seemed to disconnect him from his growling belly, because the blood didn’t bother him at all as they were wandering through the facility. The ogre dropped off his compatriot along the way in the capable, but rotting hands of a pair of zombies. John didn’t give up Rufus though, and continued cradling the limp werewolf in his arm. The ogre had more assiduous plans for the wolf later on.
They moved into the more reputable white washed hallways between the two halves of the casino. It bustled with activity. Frightened normies who’d lost their shirts were being escorted along the halls by well-preserved zombies in makeup and wigs, no doubt being taken to rooms where they would pay their dues in blood. How many pints of blood for a hundred dollars? How many for a thousand?
Harold didn’t really care. He lazed in Orlen’s blissful haze, following her quiet commands.
Eventually they wound their way up the stairs and into the opulent hallways before Mephisto’s office, where Orlen briefly tried ordering the ogre to leave its intended meal outside the door, but the monster put up such a fit that she relented. One must know after all, when to pick one’s battles.
She knocked three times and entered at Mephisto’s command, followed by Harold and then the ogre.
Harold’s nose picked up the rich scent of warm blood, but his body felt no urge for it. In a way it was kind of a relief from his natural tendencies. Mephisto draped in a robe of the finest velour and fur trim, turned to them with open swept arms from where he stood at the window.
“Ah Harold, so good of you to join us,” Mephisto came over to pump Harold’s arm enthusiastically, but couldn’t pry it up from its rigid position at his side. He frowned at Harold’s blank look and general disarray. “Not having a good day, Harry?”
Mephisto turned to Orlen, “My dear, please,” he said, gesturing at Harold’s hypnotized state. Orlen giggled a little for the vampire and released Harold from his bondage with a word.
It all came back in a rush; reality, emotions, hunger, blazing hunger in his body for food. He found himself intensely willing to clamp down on any of the several warm bodies in the room, especially with the delicious odor of blood in the air. He looked around and saw the cart of blood by Mephisto’s ornate desk. He’d been enjoying another meal when they came in. Harold flew at the cart and sank his teeth into the first pint he came across, sucking it dry with slurping efficiency. This quickly followed by a second and third and several more pints in a bloody haze before he slowed enough to realize he was on the floor. The cart knocked over. Plastic containers littering the area around him. He was also very uncomfortably full, but in a good way. Already he felt stronger with the blood in his belly. He groaned and fell back on the floor, a half smile on his face. Muttering to no one in particular, that was the best meal he’d enjoyed in a long time.
Mephisto’s chuckle garnered his attention. While he’d been feasting the man had been conversing with Orlen (the hissing bitch who had the fucking gall to put him back into another one of those goddamned trances) and she’d filled him in on finding Harold at Donald’s lab.
“So, I’m to assume this Donald is up to no good?” Mephisto questioned.
“It’s him,” Orlen muttered. Her delectable voice carried a ton of meaning.
The vampire looked at her. “The hunter?”
Orlen nodded.
“Well, it’s a good thing I sent you after Harold then. Otherwise, our friend would be nothing more than a pile of ashes now.”
Orlen’s raised eyebrow told Harold, she’d be perfectly alright with that. He pushed up off the floor, giving Orlen as good as he got in dueling eyebrows. Though, his legs quivered, threatening to give out under his weight.
“We’ll have to hurry if we’re going to catch up with the hunter,” Mephisto said, throwing off his cloak to reveal a garish, dark blue suit edged in sequins. He strode to the desk and pressed a hidden button underneath. He then moved to an intercom and called to an underling, asking for reinforcements to assemble in the loading docks.
“My dear, is he out of range?” Mephisto asked of Orlen, “Can you find him?”
Not knowing what the hell he meant, Harold looked at Orlen. She’d gone stiff as a board. Her wide, open eyes stared past them, unseeing, yet seeing, perhaps seeing more than he or Mephisto could ever acknowledge. Bright lights flared into life around her, orbiting in slow motion then seeming to freeze and burst outwards in all directions and were gone, poof, but Orlen remained locked in her self-induced trance.
Harold stepped around her, waving his hand in front of her face and getting no response. If it weren’t for Mephisto and John gumming on the wolfman’s head while he stood by the door, he could kill her with little effort.
“What is she?” He asked the elder vampire.
“A tracker,” Mephisto said, “we’ll have to wait while she looks for him. It should only take a few minutes.”
Harold shook his head at Mephisto indicating his confusion.
“Ahh, you don’t know,” the older vampire said, “Trackers are from a group of those descended from the infected. As we now know, the disease alters our DNA. Well, two people with Abeos get together and have little ones with Abeos and so on. The virus continues to alter the DNA in each generation, creating new more, interesting abilities.”
“Huh.”
Harold reluctantly turned from Orlen. He would have to wait on his agenda, leave it in order to save his own skin.
“The longer you live Harold, the more you’ll change too.” Mephisto stared at him from the desk, suddenly very, very old to Harold.
“Look,” he started, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t think I can stay to help out with this.”
Harold walked to the glass window overlooking the seedier side of the casino. It was nearly devoid of people. Zombies running, or more aptly, stumbling around with boxes in hand, disassembling tables, slot machines and the wrestling mat.
“You’ve obviously got a lot going on right now,” Harold gestured at the scene below, “and it’s not lik
e I don’t appreciate the help getting out of Phenochem.”
Mephisto came over and clapped a hand on Harold’s shoulder. Another unwelcome touch, he was getting to be too popular for his own good.
“This,” Mephisto indicated the cleanup crew below, “is nothing. We got a tip about a government raid and need to make everything kosher. No need to worry.”
Harold groaned inwardly, together they watched the zombie ants scurry around. “Well, fine and all.” He pulled away from Mephisto.
“I’ve had a very bad couple of days, hell, couple of months actually. I did what you wanted, found out what Donald was up to in group and now I’d like as much blood as I can carry and maybe some cash. We’ll call it even.”
Mephisto’s brows furrowed. “I am sorry, but we are going to need your help for a little while longer. This is the hunter.”
“I don’t know who the hunter is and I don’t care,” Harold interrupted.
Mephisto wasn’t fazed, “Fine, fine, but,” Mephisto clapped his palm against Harold’s cheek, “we do and you have been around him. You will come in handy.”
Mephisto’s eyes went bright red. His open mouth revealed two very long, needle-sharp fangs. “Besides I do not think you have the strength to fight your way out of here.”
The door opened and a few zombies armed to the teeth, what few were left firmly in their sockets anyway, with guns, ammo and knives entered, including Orlen’s zombie lover, friend, special friend, whatever. It was a regular night of the living mercenary army. Mephisto met them with open arms, relinquishing a few zombies of their weapons and blades for his own use. Feeling frustrated with his lot, Harold decided to relinquish Mephisto of the few remaining blood bags on the floor. By stuffing them into the hidden pockets of his trench coat Harold created a comfortable padding of warm blood around his torso. All he needed now was an exit.
Mephisto and his mini zombie army conversed in long grunts, groans and vowel sounds. The ogre continued to quietly gum at a snoring Rufus. Harold considered doing something about it, but really, what could he do? Last time he’d tangled with Mephisto’s bodyguards they turned him into a piece of tenderized meat. At least the monster hadn’t started crunching on the werewolf yet.
Orlen came out of her trance with an ear piercing shriek. Harold and Mephisto both grabbed their sensitive ears. The zombies didn’t react, except for lover boy of course, who walked over to Orlen to support her by the elbow. He helped her to a seat and hovered over her.
“Did you find him?” Mephisto asked.
Orlen nodded, rubbing her shining brow with a pained look. Harold hoped it really hurt her, whatever she just experienced.
“He’s gone back to the halfway house,” Orlen whispered, “We’ll have to hurry.”
Mephisto grinned. He rushed to the mantle above the fireplace and pulled down a long, sharp knife displayed above it. He unsheathed it to reveal a glinting blade much like the one Donald used back in the lab. The look on his face, could only be described as mania, a kind of gleeful mania.
“To war then,” he said, catching Harold’s eye. This was a man prepared to go to all ends in pursuit of his white whale, and dragging Harold along with him. Harold swallowed nervously.
Chapter Seventeen
They swept along the midnight dark streets of the city in gleaming black vans and landrovers, a convoy of creatures heading to battle with one lone man. To Harold it appeared overkill, but it wasn’t his party so he didn’t speak up. In fact, he was just looking for the nearest exit, so maybe he could get out of this whole mess with his skin intact.
He wondered where Maria was, whether she was worrying about him. He hadn’t called since the terrible morning after this all started. A big part of him hoped she was worried or at least angry with him for disappearing. It would mean she cared and all of this hanging around wasn’t for nothing.
The city lights blinked by, barely filtering through the darkened windows of the van he rode in with Mephisto, the vampire looking decidedly black ops in his gear. He’d insisted on changing before they headed out. Orlen sat at the wheel and the same damn ogre sat behind her, hugging and drooling on an unconscious Rufus. Talk about playing with your food. The wolf man twitched and jerked in his sleep, as if subconsciously realizing his fate and desperately trying to wake up. Harold kind of hoped the wolf man never woke up, because it would be a terrible way to die. A hypocritical thought and Harold knew it, but he didn’t care.
They formed a semi-circle of parked cars in front of the halfway house. Lights were on in the recreation room and Harold remembered it was Baywatch night. Everyone except the zombies probably sat drooling in front of the television. Maybe they’d miss most of the fun. The hoard, totaling maybe twenty in all plus his group, piled out of the vehicles. They milled about in front of the house, looking uneasy and unattended.
Harold glanced behind him, relieved to see his car parked where he left it, sporting a couple parking tickets on the front window, but otherwise unharmed. He considered edging towards the back of the group in hopes of slipping away unseen, but a heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder. It seemed John was there to keep him in line.
Beyond the sweaty scent of ogre, something familiar pricked his nostrils. Harold stuck his nose straight into the air to try and get above the smell of those around him. He couldn’t place the scent, but it was familiar and held unpleasant connotations and it wasn’t Donald, though the man never had much of a smell to him.
The ogre grunted, escorting Harold to Orlen and Mephisto. Orlen’s special zombie friend joined the group too, giving Harold a look and placing himself between the them. The zombie could have her.
Mephisto asked Orlen about Donald. She turned, pulling lights out of the nothing around her and stared at the house. It wasn’t quite the trance state she’d put herself into before, but close enough to make Harold’s skin crawl with the remembered itch of those tiny red insects.
She came out of it after a few moments and nodded to Mephisto, “He’s somewhere on this property. I can’t pinpoint him, but it’s dark.”
Some clue, Harold thought, it’s nighttime outside.
Mephisto clapped his hands and the sound rang loudly, getting everyone’s attention. “Oops,” he whispered, “forgot myself.”
A few zombies grumbled amongst themselves. Harold recognized them from the group meetings, but they didn’t live in the house. Even the woman who cried in group and wore wigs to cover her munched on scalp stood there armed to the teeth for a scary shootout. Harold didn’t know she had a grudge against Donald.
They broke off into several smaller groups at Mephisto’s direction and moved to surround the house. Harold, urged onwards by his new drooling friend, followed Mephisto and Orlen into the alleyway beside the house. No lights illuminated their way, but Harold and Mephisto at least, could see easily in the dark. Orlen kept her red lights close by, blinking as they did, in and out of the space around her.
Mephisto stopped at the side door to the house, motioning Orlen over to speak with him. They debated whether to head inside or not, but Orlen indicated Donald was outside, somewhere on the property. Not to be daunted, Mephisto had Harold unlock the door so he could send in a couple of the zombies to look around. They tottered into the house, wrapped in their belts of ammo, cradling large automatic weapons and in general, looking prepared to blend in.
The rest of the group continued onward down the alley in search of Donald. It opened up into the large backyard slash parking lot where Harold could see others tottering round in the dark, members of Mephisto’s contingent on the lookout for their prey. However, they found no sight or scent of Donald. Everyone stopped and stared around at each other. Guess, Orlen’s not always right, Harold thought.
Then he heard a sound like a trickling faucet to his left along the back wall of the house. Mephisto turned his head to better catch the sound.
They crept up on the noise as softly and slowly as possible. Considering his nursemaid, Harold had no choice bu
t to follow. He bent low and stayed close to the outside edge of the group.
The noise led them to Donald and the very strong scent of gasoline. He was dousing the outside of the house with it.
Donald stopped and stood up, staring right at them. He laughed. “I know you’re there,” Donald said, “Finally come to face me, Nosferatu?”
Harold almost answered, but realized Donald was speaking to Mephisto, not him. The older vampire stepped forward, pulling his knife blade from its sheath.
“More like you are the one avoiding me hunter,” Mephisto responded, “with good reason too. You have been killing our kind for centuries. No more,” Mephisto cried, raising his blade to battle to the death. Donald did the same.
Then the patio light flickered on and everyone froze mid act, looking up at the light as children do when caught sneaking downstairs after bedtime, except all of these kids had knives, guns and fangs and many rotting things.
Vlad stumbled out the sliding glass door, wine glass of blood in hand, Mephisto’s zombies behind him. He took in Mephisto and Donald prepared to do battle, zombies and ogres in the distance and Harold accompanied by an ogre drooling over a sleeping werewolf, hiccupped, and nodded to Donald.
“This is top notch stuff,” he slurred, raising the wine glass to Donald before downing the rest of the blood. His resulting belch rang out across the lawn and elicited a couple of half-hearted claps from some zombies. He bowed lazily for them.
“Got more of this tap?” He asked Donald.
“Yes Vlad,” Donald said, “it’s on the table in the kitchen. Do share with everyone.” He called after Vlad as the vampire disappeared back into the house, brushing past the decidedly confused zombies Mephisto sent in earlier.
“You drugged them?” Harold asked. He couldn’t believe the balls on this guy.
Donald sighed and turned to Harold with a “what-did-you-expect” look. “I couldn’t very well have them leaving the house after I set it on fire.”