Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (10 page)

            In the moments
since Maria slipped out, the grey morning lightened to an imperceptible blue. 
Harold’s eyes absorbed this color as much as they could.  Soon he’d get to the
breaking point where the sun would start burning, but at this point it remained
tolerable.  He missed the sunrise, the slow awakening shifts of vibrant color
on the horizon until a fully new day stretched before him. 

            At last the sun’s
light peeked over the edge of the horizon in swatches of pink-orange.  Maria
would call it salmon.  Harold thought it blinding as he hissed and shut his
eyes against the glare.  Already he could feel the prickling heat on his cold
skin.  Around now he usually flicked the blinds closed against the remaining
sunrise and continued to sit for an hour or so imagining its progression in his
mind’s eye.

            Today he didn’t. 
Perhaps it was the lingering nostalgia tonight’s meeting brought up, but Harold
wanted to leave the blinds open longer.  It was important to test one’s own
limitations now and then.  Maybe he could gradually get himself used to being
up during the day, if not able to stand outside in the middle of the bright
sunlight.  Harold started yawning around six in the morning and would be stone
cold passed out by eight o’clock.  Maybe… At least he could try to stay awake,
watching more and more of the sunrise.      

            Like water slowly
heating in the shower, the sun’s rays pressed against his skin.  First it
prickled, then it stung like millions of tiny needles all across his face and
arms.  His clothing protected most of his skin, but the exposed flesh already
started developing a sunburn and the sun wasn’t even mouthing the horizon yet. 
Harold grunted, squinting through his eyes, determined to wait until the very
last moment this time.  More colors, yellow-orange, egg yolk, and pale
sunflower flowed up over the distant buildings and trees.  It spread across his
lobster red arms and legs, creating a sunburn the likes of which he hadn’t felt
in decades.  Finally, it got to be too much and Harold reached for the cord,
knowing the sun would come in moments.  A sharp glint of light across the
kitchen floor distracted him as the sun’s first rays jumped the horizon.  Hot
flaming pain seared his face and forearm.  He shielded his eyes.  Screaming, he
pulled the cord, shocked it hadn’t burnt under the sun’s heat and flopped down
on the linoleum floor, convinced he’d caught fire. 

            “What, what’s
going on?”  Zork burst from the cupboard at Harold’s pathetic cries, tea cups
over each round globe of an eye.  He’d laugh, if it weren’t so fucking
painful.  After a few moments of rolling around Harold managed to convince
himself that he was not on fire, but that didn’t dissipate the lingering pain
coursing over his skin.

            “Stupid vampire,
why’d you do it?”  The slug called from his perch. 

            Harold decided to
ignore Zork.  Hissing and groaning, he stumbled upstairs to the bathroom,
fumbled the shower on and stepped fully clothed into the relief of cold water
spray.  Peeling off his clothes was like peeling away layers of skin, but
fortunately, he only suffered some burns on his upper body.  The human
equivalent of a sunburn from hell.  He let the water pummel his face and
shoulders where the sun hit the worst.  Under the spray, the pain died down to
tiny cold prickles.  When Harold turned to let water cascade across his back,
the pain returned to its full throbbing force on his damaged skin.  Harold
quick turned back to face the shower.

            It hurt to even
think about getting out of the shower and Harold was already starting to fall
asleep on his feet.  What the hell, what the hell, what the hell!?  Harold
turned off the shower and stumbled out.  Each movement of his upper body set
off a fresh hell of pain.  Harold perused himself in the mirror, slow turning
his head to peer at the red, peeling flesh on his shoulders. 

             Not having a
reflection was another misnomer about vampires; he could see himself in the
mirror.  Whatever sort of mythological power was supposed to have made him
transparent to mirrors, Harold must have missed the memo.  Good thing too, or
he’d end up wandering around with missed spots of blood on his face.          

            He brushed his
fingers over the tender angles of his face and thought he could feel a couple
of large blisters rising across his forehead.  Great, he looked like a pizza. 
At least he could get into bed and heal before Maria saw and freaked.  In the
meantime, something to take care of the pain.  He rifled through the medicine
cabinet until he found half a bottle of Aloe Vera gel and squirted the cool lotion
onto his hands, spreading a thick layer of it across his chest, shoulders, neck
and face.  It felt surprisingly good.  He’d get gunk all over the bed sheets,
but the gel eased his burning pain.  He also popped a handful of aspirin into
his mouth and chewed them.  He could absorb chemicals from medicines and some
liquids, though that much aspirin might kill his stomach.  For him, it wouldn’t
matter by this time tomorrow. 

            Before Harold
could even get out of the bathroom, someone was knocking on his front door. 
Probably the feds here to get Zork.  Harold sleepily opted to ignore it as he
did with Zork and continued slathering Aloe Vera on the exposed parts of his
body.  It didn't go away, the knocking turned into a pounding and developed a
distinct rhythm, Bang-bang, slap, Bang-bang, slap. 

            Harold eased into
his pants and went downstairs sans shirt. 

            “I know you’re
tall enough to get the door,” Harold called out to Zork, whom was
inconveniently out of sight.  To his not so surprise he beheld the two men in
black who met him in jail and again at the diner where he also learned they
monitored a certain slug.  Harold’s sensitive nose didn’t pick up the scent of
sluggy unsalted mucous in the room or outside.  Harold could discern however,
that Agent Potts had a marijuana habit and he’d taken great pains to wash and
dry clean his clothes to hide the smell, but it was now a part of him,
filtering its sickly sweet way through his lungs, blood, tissues and bones. 

            Along with that
herbal odor another familiar, but dangerous scent clung to Agent Bergstrom,
sharp and coppery.  Harold shuddered, remembering the pitch black eyes behind
the sunglasses.  If he weren’t careful he might end up scenting more about this
creature than was good for him.    

            The two men invited
themselves into the apartment with swift glances around the gloom.  Agent
Bergstrom pulled off his sunglasses and sent potshot looks around the living
room.  The agent stared through his glasses at Harold. 

            “Nasty looking
burns,” he said and on cue the subdued pain flared up, stinging its way along
his chest and face.  Harold grunted, not commenting on his vulnerable state in
front of these two men.  It was not good way to be.

            “Zork,” Harold
yelled, “Get your butt out here.”

            Silence.  The two
watched Harold expectantly.

            “Well, Zork’s
your pet project.”

            “We could go
looking for Zork ourselves, but we’re afraid it would leave your apartment,”
Agent Bergstrom drawled the word, “in an even worse state of affairs.”

            In other words,
they were going to rip the place up getting to Zork.  Harold sighed, “I’ll get
him.”  Harold strode into the kitchen, face and shoulders burning, to where
he’d last seen the slug. 

            Following his
swollen nose, Harold started at the cupboard where Zork got into Maria’s teacups. 
Not there.  He followed the slime trail along the cupboard above the oven.  It
was obviously used, but empty.  No other mucous trails graced the walls,
except, Harold looked down at the oven.  He knocked on it with a fist and in
return could pick up a barely discernible grumble.

            Harold opened the
oven door to find Zork curled up in the back corner. 

            “Zork, if you’re
trying to give them the slip you’ll have to do better than this.”

            “Go away.”

            Harold almost,
almost pinched the bridge of his nose but stopped himself in time to avoid a
fresh wave of pain.

            “Get out of my
oven.”

            “Make me.”

            “Zork, I will
turn it on.”

            The slug emitted
a high pitched squeak then unfurled himself and slipped out of the oven onto
the floor where it silently glided over to Agent Bergstrom.

            “These delay
tactics only serve to make things worse for yourself Zork,” Agent Bergstrom
said, “You’re lucky Mr. Blank came and got you instead of us.”

           
“Yeah, yeah.”

           
Agent Bergstrom had Zork follow his partner outside,
the light from the open door shooting daggers across Harold’s living room. 
Blinking his eyes to free them of the afterimage Harold stepped from his
darkened kitchen.  Agent Bergstrom remained in his dining area.

            “What do you
want?” Harold asked.

            “Can we talk, Mr.
Blank?” The agent said. 

            “Not a good
time.”

            “We wanted to
catch you alone,” he said with a salacious grin. 

            “What does that
mean?” Harold asked.

            “Well, we know
you have a roommate of sorts,” Potts said.  The second agent came back inside
without warning and Harold shied away from the light again.  Potts sauntered
into the dining room, completely relaxed.  They both were and smug too.

            “You’ve been
watching me,” Harold said.  They probably bugged him and his place as soon as
they found him and spent all their time listening like greedy pigs to his sex
life. 

            “A matter of
national security,” Potts spoke up, “We’re here for two reasons.  Checking your
progress with group infiltration.  And informing you, that as a result of your
convenient closeness to Zork you are suddenly involved in our national
security.”

            They both looked
very serious now.  Harold’s skin burned from the residual heat of the sun and
he just wanted to be alone so he could whimper about his own stupidity in
private.  Why on Earth had he decided to watch the sun come up anyway?  Today
of all days.  Harold backed up a couple of steps to lean against the kitchen
counter, making it appear as if he were only shifting on his feet. 

            “There is nowhere
to run, Mr. Blank.  It’s daylight outside and we’re both trained in dealing
with infecteds,” Bergstrom said as he patted his jacket pocket.  Harold really
didn’t want to find out what was in there.

            “Where would I
run?  I’ve only just started group and have no information.”

            “Mr. Blank, sit
down,” Bergstrom pointed to the kitchen table, “We’ll explain everything,” he
said, voice annoyingly reasonable.

            Harold brushed
past the two agents, gritting his teeth against the pain.  He pulled out a
chair from the kitchen table and sat ever so gingerly in it.  The agents stood
opposite him at the table.  As one, they sat and clasped their hands in front
of them. 

            “We know you’ve
been speaking with Zork without our surveillance.  Do you know its origins?”

            Harold yawned to
feign boredom and revealed more than a little of his tiredness.  “Philly?”

            The agents
frowned at Harold. 

            “Many strange
things exist under the sun, or shall we say fast crawling away from it.” The
shorter agent exchanged a grin with his partner.  “But not even Earth can spawn
that slug.”

            Over the course
of his life, Harold never heard of any monster slug variations of Abeos.  He’d
just assumed it was because Zork was born with it or had a pretty rare strain. 
Of course, when Zork told him it was from outer space, Harold thought it was joking
around.  Now, a strange feeling crept up Harold’s spine.  The switch flipped in
his mind, that dim light bulb that Harold called a brain lit up and he knew, he
just knew. 

            “Are you saying
what I think you’re saying?”  Harold asked.

            “We’re saying E.T.
has landed, Mr. Blank.”

            Harold touched
his face and winced.  “So Zork is from,” He pointed a finger straight up at the
ceiling and whistled the theme song from X-Files. 

            “Yes.”

            “Holy Toledo,”
Harold shook his head, “no wonder you watch him all the time… ” He trailed off.

            The two men
stared at Harold. 

            “So you want me
to keep tabs on him too?”  Harold asked.

            The two agents
grinned at each other. Potts choking back laughter and looking about ready to
bust his gut.           

            “Do you think
we’d rely on a half-baked vampire to guard an asset as volatile as the slug?”

            Ouch. 

            “Fine.  You told
me get out.”  Harold gestured to the door and yelped.  The tight, charred flesh
on his shoulders split open from the unexpected movement.  A trickle of blood
oozed from the crack.