Angeles Underground

by Michael Pierce

  The man holding my leg brought my foot to his lips, and I felt his fangs taunting my skin as well. He too didn’t bite into me, but ripped at my skin, opening the flesh, with none of the numbing and nearly euphoric effects of a true vampire bite. Once the wound in my foot was open, he sucked on it with a fiendish fervor.

  The world disappeared as tears blurred my vision and flowed as much as my blood from multiplying wounds.

  “I’m sorry they have to heal you in the morning,” one man whispered into my ear. “We would make you so much more beautiful.” He removed the bandage on my hand—which wasn’t supposed to be touched—and gleefully gasped at the sight of another injury.

  His words and pleasure at my imperfections brought about more sobbing, which only seemed to fuel their enjoyment. I yearned to pass out, but so much adrenaline was pumping through me, it was somehow keeping me conscious. It may only have been minutes, but the torture felt like it extended for hours. By the time they were through with me, I was surprised to have any blood left. Some had flowed onto the sheets, but the two men had diligently licked up most of it.

  Once they peeled their sweating bodies away from me and got dressed, I was completely delirious. The blood was drying up, my tears had dried up too, and I couldn’t move an inch. All I could do was lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling—though not seeing it at all.

  Sometime later, I felt someone else joining me in bed and waited for the torment to begin again. A face nuzzled against my neck and I anticipated the sting of another set of fangs piercing my skin.

  But more pain didn’t come. The warm body trembling beside me didn’t attack but simply lay with me. I tried to make sense of the room—tried to bring my vision back into focus—then realized. It was Mallory. She didn’t say a word, but again, she was crying. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything either, so I closed my eyes, leaned my head against hers, and tried to drift away, out of this nightmare.

  16

  Matthew

  1949

  The nightmare started after my first day in the hospital. The schedule was completely back-to-front. I was told to sleep during the day and was granted short, supervised time with the general population once the sun went down. During this time, I had my group therapy sessions, personal counseling, meals, medication, and agonizing bouts of electroshock therapy. I lost time. I lost memories. And I began to lose my certainty of where I came from. The doctors told me I’d fabricated an elaborate story that had somehow tricked my brain into believing this so-called fantasy. I listened to other patient stories that they were convinced were just as real… And sounded just as crazy. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I had snapped and split from reality and my mind was doing what it felt necessary to cope. When the doubt truly began to take root in my psyche, the nightmare began—the monsters coming with it.

  But the monsters didn’t have to sneak in from the outside. They were already there—already spending time with me, helping me to get well. They never revealed themselves in a public part of the facility, only when I was alone in my room or during private electroshock therapy sessions.

  Dr. Mercer was the primary doctor I saw for individual counseling. She prescribed my daily medication and personalized treatment program. She was beautiful, appeared to be in her mid-30s, tall and elegant, with long chestnut brown hair and porcelain skin. Her eyes were deep sapphire blue.

  She came into my room while I was resting on my bed with a book I’d been allowed to borrow from the Common Room.

  “How’re you feeling this evening, Mr. Sanders?” she asked and laid the manila folder she was holding on the built-in sink next to the toilet.

  I could see my name written on the folder’s tab. “I think I’m okay. My head’s a little foggy.”

  “That’s to be expected,” she said. “It takes some time to get your dosage just right. We’ll continue to make minor modifications to get you feeling as good as possible.” She breezed up to me and put a soft palm on my forehead, then moved it down to my cheek. “You’re a little warm.”

  I was still getting used to her touch, but each time it felt a little more natural.

  Her fingers trailed down my cheek, onto my neck. “Yes, a little warm and flushed. Your pulse is racing.”

  I could feel my cheeks flushing and couldn’t do a damn thing to stop them. Most of the nurses and female doctors in this facility were attractive, but none of them quite compared to Dr. Mercer. She released a soft moan as her fingers caressed my neck and I closed my eyes to picture the touch of this beautiful woman taking place in somewhere—anywhere—other than a sanitarium.

  Her mouth was almost directly on my ear when she whispered, “This will only hurt for a moment.”

  And then I felt the burn of sharp teeth sinking into my throat.

  I tried to fight her, but she was as strong as Frederick had been. My feeble attempts to push her away did nothing more than an attempt to push down a brick wall.

  As I remembered with Frederick, the burning agony accompanying the bite steadily turned from pain to pleasure. A part of my brain wanted her to drain me more, not wanting it to end… But then there was the rational side of my conscious brain that knew if she didn’t stop, I would end up like the teenagers on the mountain. The conflicting emotions were tearing me in half.

  Dr. Mercer sucked on my neck and gently guided me to a lying position as my body grew weaker. And then she lifted her head with a gasp. The gorgeous vampire licked the blood off her lips, but more of it flowed down over her chin and dripped down her neck, toward her open shirt collar. She pulled a bloodstained facecloth from her coat pocket and wiped up most of the blood she’d missed. But there were a few red droplets she’d missed, even with the facecloth. When she was done cleaning herself, she placed the small towel back in her pocket.

  “I’ve been yearning for that since the first moment I saw you,” she whispered.

  I wasn’t quite sure if she was talking to me or simply herself, but didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to move. I closed my eyes and prayed this was only a dream, maybe a side effect of my medication or a new manifestation of my delusions. I knew now I really was going crazy.

  “You’re home now, Mr. Sanders. We will continue to take good care of you, especially since you will be staying with us for a very long time,” Dr. Mercer said, retrieving the manila folder from the sink. “I’ll see you tomorrow for our 9:30 session.”

  And with that, she was gone, leaving me to my thoughts, my nightmares and my still dripping wounds.

  As my stay in the sanitarium increased, Dr. Mercer visited my room for late-night treats more and more. And she was the first, but certainly not the last. Doctors who had no prior interaction with me visited to feed. And the nurses didn’t even come one at a time; two, three, and sometimes four entered my room together, drawing blood from all areas of my body. Many of the nurses were not there simply to feed, but also enjoyed playing with their food. They beat me, scratched me, burned me, and broke me in more ways than I could count. For those kinds of grotesque games, one of the nurses would always smear some of her own blood onto my wounds, causing them to miraculously heal in seconds. I’d be left on a bed of previously white linens that looked like a murder scene, yet with no exterior wounds remaining. My body would be nearly completely recuperated, but my mind—well, my mind was not so easily healed. My mind collected and retained the scars… all of them.

  It seemed the Sisters of Mercy Psychiatric Hospital was run entirely by vampires. In all the common areas, everything appeared normal—if one could ever entirely describe a sanitarium as such.

  There was only a short window of visiting hours late in the evening for family and friends. The unsuspecting visitors didn’t know it was first thing in the morning for us; our lethargy was explained by our prescribed medication and general overall conditions. It was never mentioned that sleep reversal, constant fear, and chronic blood loss were also major contributing factors. Sisters of Mercy was either a well-kept secret or an expertly design
ed punishment.

  I never had human visitors. When my door opened, it was for one of two reasons: either it was time to feed or time to uphold the ruse of treatment.

  One evening when Dr. Mercer opened my door, none other than Frederick strolled into the room. His pale skin had a slight glow to it and he held a smile that beamed ear to ear.

  “You promised to play nice,” Dr. Mercer said. She remained by the door, holding it open with her back.

  “You don’t have to remind me of the house rules, Catherine,” Frederick said.

  “It’s just that Mr. Sanders and I have grown close. Very close. He is currently my favorite pet—patient.”

  “He looks quite fond of you. I can tell by the terror in his eyes,” Frederick laughed.

  “You don’t know him like I do. I’ll be back to check on him soon,” Dr. Mercer said. She stepped out of the room and let the door close and lock behind her.

  I sat up straight on my bed, scooted back, and was forced to stop when I hit the wall.

  “Surprised to see me?” Frederick asked.

  I said nothing. I didn’t even understand why I was so afraid. I’d been through so many grisly encounters with vampires over the past so many weeks—I’d lost count of them—that I should have been desensitized.

  “Do you think this was an accident?” Frederick stepped closer to the bedside. “Do you think this is all a misunderstanding or some cosmic irony to escape one vampire, only to be imprisoned by others? This was by design, Mr. Sanders. I had you put in here. I have a tremendous amount of influence with a great many things. I said I would give you another chance. Here I am. Here it is. All you have to do is guide me to the portal and you can be free of this place forever. What do you say? Do we have ourselves a deal?”

  I found a small sense of relief that Frederick was still asking about the portal since it meant he hadn’t found it yet. And the fact no one else asked about it led me to believe Frederick was keeping this information to himself. He could use his great influence to have other resources scour the mountainside, but it didn’t sound like he was doing that at all. It seemed this was information he wanted all to himself.

  “If I refuse?” I asked, gazing into the dark eyes of the formidable vampire.

  “Do you like it here, Mr. Sanders?” Frederick asked. “You haven’t yet begun to see the true horrors of this place. I can’t break you too quickly, just a piece at a time.” Frederick slashed at my face with his claws, raking the curved tips across my face and ripping me wide open.

  I screamed. Frederick smiled at the outpouring of blood and tears.

  “Oh, come on, Mr. Sanders. That was nothing. It was but a love tap.” Frederick slapped me across my marred cheek where bits of flesh now hung in ribbons.

  I tried to picture every face left on ParallEarth. All their lives were in my hands. The portal itself was supplying air to the malfunctioning station, so everyone aboard was safe for now… as long as they weren’t found. Picturing the faces of all the people I served helped maintain my resolve and block out enough of the pain.

  Frederick backhanded me across my ruined cheek, causing my head to ricochet off the stone wall. My head spun, and I rested it on the mattress, the sheets of which soaked up the blood.

  “I made it up,” I whispered. “It was just a story.”

  “A story that has kept you alive this long,” Frederick replied. “But I’m no fool. I will not allow you to die on me, not until you take me where I want to go. Then if you wish for death, I will mercifully oblige. But not before.”

  Dr. Mercer burst into the room. “Frederick, you promised! Look at him!”

  “Remember who finances this facility, Catherine,” Frederick barked, then exited the room.

  17

  Sean

  I knocked on Fiona’s door the following evening and this time was in luck. Fiona’s mother answered with a smile, seemingly happy to see me, and invited me inside.

  “How are you holding up, Ms. Winter?” I asked as we strolled into the main living area, removing my backpack and setting it on the floor by the dining room table.

  “The police are doing what they can to locate her,” she said. “So, all I can do is wait.”

  “I still can’t believe she wouldn’t call or text or anything to let you know she’s alright. God, I hope she’s alright.”

  “I trust in her ability to take care of herself,” she said, sounding almost dismissive. “It’s upsetting, but I probably should have been more upfront about her father—given her more information about who he was when she was younger—which may have prevented this from happening. But I guess you know what they say about hindsight.”

  I nodded.

  “So, as you can see, I have no new information to provide,” she said, picking up a filled glass of red wine from the kitchen counter, then moving over to one of the couches. “I’ll be sure to let you know when I do.”

  “Do you have Facebook?” I hadn’t been able to find her profile, but it didn’t mean she didn’t have one.

  “No,” she said indifferently. “I unplugged from the whole social media thing. It’s quite freeing.”

  She wasn’t going to make this easy. “Well, then can I have your number, so I don’t have to keep bothering you?” I asked, following her toward the couch, but remaining on my feet.

  “There’s a pad on the counter. You can write down your number and I’ll send you an update as soon as I receive some news,” she said and took a sip from her glass.

  “Alexis would like to be kept in the loop too.”

  “You can update her with what you receive, can’t you?”

  I felt like she was trying to get rid of me. “Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry; I’m just worried about her.”

  “As am I.” She took another sip from her wine glass, her gaze drifting toward the television even though the screen was off. “Was there more to why you came?”

  “Umm… Yeah; there is,” I said and headed back to my backpack. I brought it over to the couch, unzipped the main pocket, and removed a manila folder. “Please take a look at these,” I said, handing her the folder.

  Fiona’s mother set down her glass and opened the folder, finding the stack of photographs.

  “I know you take good pictures,” she said, casually flipping through. “She’d practically wallpapered her room with them until recently.”

  “Take a closer look at the background of all those pictures. They all contain the same guy—some clearer than others—but I’m confident they all contain him. Do you recognize him?”

  “Should I?” she asked, going back to the start of the stack.

  “According to him, you should.”

  “I see.” She reached for a pair of reading glasses on the end table, put them on, and scrutinized the first picture again. “I’d say that looks a lot like Matthew Mercer,” she said after flipping through the stack again.

  “Okay… so you do know him.”

  “Not well, but yes.”

  “He said you worked with his mother, so you all go way back,” I clarified.

  “That’s true. His mother and I go back quite a few years, but the kids didn’t spend much time together.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling like the revelation I’d brought to her wasn’t having the impact I’d been anticipating. “But don’t you find it odd he’s in the background of all these pictures—like he’s stalking her?”

  “He’s already been cleared,” Fiona’s mother said, closing the envelope of pictures. “The police questioned him yesterday. He didn’t run away with her if that’s what you’re afraid of. Don’t get me wrong, I do find it a little odd he’s in the background of some of these. But half of them are blurry, so I can’t really tell if that’s him or not. I feel you might be projecting since you identified him in the others. I can assure you, he’s harmless.”

  And with that, I didn’t really know what else to say. Feeling a heaviness in my shoulders, I collected the manila folder and stuffed it bac
k in my bag.

  “Thank you for your concern and your effort to help, but the situation is in the hands of the authorities and they’re doing what they can to find her. The best thing we both can do is allow them to do their jobs.”

  “Yeah… you’re right,” I said, weakly.

  “And like I said, I’ll let you know when I hear something.”

  “That reminds me, I’ll write my cell number on the pad—in the kitchen, you said?”

  “On the counter. There should be a pen beside it.”

  I threw the backpack over my shoulders and found the pad she was referring to. I wrote my number as legibly as possible, then wished her a good evening before showing myself out.

  Something still seemed very wrong—with Matthew, and now with Fiona’s mother. I knew she was always a strong woman, but she seemed too calm. Her only living daughter had recently run away and she didn’t seem to be panicking at all. I couldn’t understand how that was possible unless she knew something she wasn’t telling me.

  I replayed the conversation again as I sat in my car, at a vantage point from which I could still see Fiona’s apartment.

  Did I really offer the information about how Matthew fitted into their family? I thought back and believed I had; all she had to do was confirm what I’d said. That sure was clumsy on my part. When she first saw Matthew in the pictures, she seemed hesitant about how to respond. Then I voluntarily gave her the direction. Boy, that was stupid.

  18

  Fiona

  Mallory received a visitor later the same night and was dragged by the hair from my bed, back to hers. And when it was all over, I came to her side.

  Kelsey found us the next day lying side-by-side in Mallory’s bed and went through the process of healing each of us.