Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (12 page)

            “Look man, I
didn’t think you’d get so pissed.”  He rushed from the door to the locker area,
but Harold was too fast.  With a couple fistfuls of David’s scrubs, he pulled
the man back into the room.  Face-to-face with David, Harold did his best
impression of a cold-blooded monster.  “I panicked, dude.  Let me explain.”

            “Then explain,
stop running.”  Harold eased his grip on the man’s clothes.  David swallowed
and started talking fast.  “That woman thinks I’m at fault.”

            “No, no, not
really… ”

            “What are you trying
to pull?”  Harold muttered, shaking David for some emphasis.

            “Okay,” David
screamed, “When Orlen showed up I… panicked.  I told her you were the one
responsible for keeping track of the blood units.  That you had final control
over the organization and management of the blood samples.” 

            David’s response
confused Harold, so much so his grip on David’s scrubs slackened and the man
slipped out of his reach.  He was expecting David to confess how he’d figured
out Harold was stealing blood pints from the hospital.  Instead it seemed like
he was confessing himself.

            “Mephisto’s,”
Harold muttered. 

            David grimaced,
“I didn’t think you’d heard all of that.”  He took a breath, the air whistling
through his nostrils and deep into his lungs before being forced out through
his mouth. 

            “Look, I just
needed to get the heat off myself,” David said nervously.  He didn’t look like
he planned on bolting from the office for greener pastures anymore, but the guy
remained edgy.  Harold leaned against the counter beside him and kept up the
mean monster attitude to get the rest of the story out of David.

            “What are you
saying?”  Harold asked. 

            “What you mean
you didn’t know?  

            A look of
comprehension dawned on David’s face. 

            “What?  What was
all the shit,” David gestured angrily towards the desk, “just now about if you
didn’t know I was taking blood units?” 

            Harold sighed, no
way was he going to explain how he himself had been taking blood units from the
hospital too. 

            How ironic. 

            The hospital
might never have noticed his occasional snacks on the go, but with two people
stealing units from the blood bank they must have noticed a strange increase in
the average volume usage of blood units by the hospital’s doctors.  No wonder
they sent someone to look into their lab. 

            “I’m fucking mad
because you basically accused me of stealing blood from the hospital and it
looks like you are in cahoots with that Orlen.”  Harold pushed away from the
counter and paced in the small office.  “What do you even need blood for?  Are
you selling it?”  Harold grabbed at his hair, casting a quick glance at David. 
He certainly wasn’t a vampire, but maybe something else?  It didn’t make much
sense.

            “You’re not… ” 
Harold hesitated on how to broach the subject without revealing too much, “One
of them?”

            David blanked out
for a second, then glanced down, “Oh no, no.”

            Okay, so not
infected.

            “Do you know how
hard I’ve worked to get here?”  Harold asked.  If he pressed hard enough on
David’s guilt he might get him to confess and clear up this matter before Orlen
did anymore investigating and realized two people were taking blood units.

            “I’m sorry man,
but it’s only for a little while.”

            “A little while?
No way, whatever you’ve got planned I’m not participating,”  Harold said
wheeling on his co-worker. 

            David cowered. 
It had Harold checking his teeth to make sure his fangs weren’t sticking out or
something.  No, no fangs.

            “You don’t need
to do anything,” David said.  “I just meant, you’re squeaky clean.  They’ll
look into you.  Check the tallies for times you were working alone and move
on.”

             That was exactly
what Harold didn’t want them to do because he
had
taken blood from
storage.  He’d been taking blood home since a few weeks after he’d started
working here, starting a couple of years ago.  Not a lot of time to a vampire,
but surely enough time for him to have slipped up somewhere along the lines and
left evidence, in the records, on a camera, something somewhere pointed to
Harold as stealing blood from the hospital. 

            “No way,” Harold said,
“You’re just going to have to confess and get your ass fired.” Harold knew
David would only get fired if he were lucky, most likely the authorities would
have to charge him with something like tampering with the blood supply.  They’d
even suspect him of being infected and test him.  He’d certainly never be able
to work in a medical capacity again, and he’d probably spend time in jail.

            “I can’t,” David
stepped towards him, his urgency strong enough to override the fear of Harold‘s
ire, as David grabbed Harold’s shoulder.  “I can’t, man, I’m in deep shit.  I
got to keep delivering the blood units to this guy or he’s going to, to take it
out of me Harold.”

            Now would have
been a good time for Harold to walk out of the office, find the Orlen woman and
tell her David just confessed to stealing blood from the hospital.  In David’s
distraught state, he’d probably confess to her under pressure anyway.  It would
save Harold a lot of trouble, a lot of trouble, hell, he already had the feds
after him to spy on that group therapy program.

            Another death,
though, in a long line of them.

            “What, you’re
going to be killed?” Harold asked tiredly. 

            The barest
glimmer of hope shown in David’s eyes and Harold already regretted not walking
out of the office.  David straightened, wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand, he tended to spit when he got upset, and scratched his head.  Harold knew
exactly what he was doing, David was trying to figure out just how much he
could afford to tell about why he’d been taking blood from the blood bank.          

            “You aren’t good
at this manipulative stuff David, so you’d better just tell me the whole deal,”
Harold snapped and David came to attention. 

            “Right,” David
grimaced and evaded Harold’s eye, “you know how I like cards?”

            Harold groaned,
turning away from the sack of human stupidity.  He was going to leave, no point
in trying to save a dip wad who’d gambled his life away.  Even Harold hadn’t
been  so stupid when he got turned into a vamp.

            “Wait, wait, it
was a one-time deal, don’t leave me in this man,” David spread himself in front
of the doorway.  “You can’t, you’ll be killing me if you turn me in.”

            “I could kill you
for trying to get me in trouble,” Harold said.  David had no idea how close
he’d come to being so much slush for the Petri dish a few minutes ago. 

            “Harold, I got a
debt with a real bad guy,” David hurried, “He’s a really psycho.  I swear I
didn’t know how fucked up he was.  It’s the casino downtown, Mephisto’s.  They
gave me a line of credit.  Harold, they just kept extending it.” David was
hanging onto Harold’s scrubs now in a desperate imitation of Harold’s earlier
attack.  “Before I knew it, I was in so deep… I couldn’t pay it back.  They’ve
got my savings, my car.  Harold, he was going to make an example of me,” David
spit the words into Harold’s face.  “Do you know what that means?”

            Harold pried
David’s hands from his shirt and led him to the desk, where he forced David to
sit down before he wet himself and got it all over Harold.

            “Why are you
taking blood?”  Harold asked, glancing around the room for the paper towels.

            David looked up
at Harold with a stark blank face.  “He wants it.”

            Spying the paper
towels, Harold wrapped his hand with several layers of them before pulling them
off of the roll.  Harold wiped the spittle from his face.  “What?  You get him
blood units and in exchange he erases your gambling debt?”

            “He credits me
the black market price for every unit I get him,” David said. 

            Harold spied spit
on his scrubs and grabbed more towels to wipe it up.  “So, he’s got customers
buying underground or something?” 

            David pressed his
hands together in a prayer-like fashion, sliding them between his knees.  He
hunched over as he continued to stare at Harold.  “I think he drinks it.”

Chapter Seven

            Harold slipped
into the halfway house after a long drive home from work.  More frustrated than
ever, Harold still had to go to group before this fucking forever night would
end.  A quick trip to the shared bathroom to wash and brush his teeth and Harold
was back on his way out the door to group.  The warehouse smelled absolutely
foul when Harold got there, worse than the usual dog food and normie goods.  He
panted through his mouth, hoping the smell didn’t have to do with whatever
Donald had planned for this evening.  Unfortunately, it did.          Besides
the usual semi-circle of folding chairs and nearly abandoned refreshment table,
another table sat in the center of the room.  On it were several pints of clear
fluid and a thermos filled with some of the same stuff, steaming and foul.  The
sight of several Styrofoam cups on the table made him groan.

            Donald briskly
entered group, calling for everyone to settle down.  There were creaking groans
and chairs shifting and Harold took his seat next to Zork who greeted him with
one bobbing eyestalk.  The slug seemed quite happy, in direct contrast to its
mood earlier and very full and round.  Stuffed to the gills, in fact. 

            Donald poured
some of the steaming concoction into a Styrofoam cup.  He held it high in the
air and paraded it around for everyone to see.  “Thanks to the folks at
PhenoChem I have a wonderful new tool to help curb those nasty cravings
everyone,” he said.

            A pharmaceutical
company well-known in the search for a cure for the virus, PhenoChem was a
sponsor for FEBs. Harold didn’t know much about the company, except that they
had cornered the market in treating Abeos and were responsible for a number of
programs to aid low-income and poverty-stricken infecteds in dealing with their
conditions.  They also made numerous health and beauty related products such
as, Flesh Butter for the zombs and Blood-Be-Gone tooth polish for the vamps. 
Harold had a tube of it at home.  Good stuff.  From time to time, Donald
brought in product samples for the group members to try out.

            Oh no, Harold
thought suddenly, really, really oh no.   He was going to have to drink that
stuff.  Harold saw from the faces of several others in group they knew it too. 
Donald just might have an uprising on his hands. 

            “Many of you have
confided in me, outside the group,” Donald said, “Telling me, it’s really hard
to fight those cravings for the taste and fulfillment of blood or flesh.”  He
wandered closer to the chairs where the zombies tended to sit in a group.  They
cowered as one from the liquid filled cup.  It truly did smell foul.  “While
our ultimate goal here is to return to normal, fulfilling lives, it is
important to wean ourselves from these substances as quickly as possible.” 
 
Donald swayed his index finger at the zombies,
tutted, tutting them. 

            “We need to stop
taking in the poison if we are to change and be free,” Donald said loudly.  A
little half-hearted clapping erupted from the other side of the group, from a
couple of very pale and weak looking creatures, advanced members of the group. 

            “Thanks.  I know
it’s tough for those of you trying earnestly to make the transition.  Normal
food can be distasteful on first try.  It can even make some of you ill. 
Making it all the more difficult to get back to normality.”  Donald wandered
back to the table.  Harold was pretty sure this stuff would make him sick too. 

            "To aid us
in our transition to happier, freer lives I’m going to offer you this unique,
experimental blood substitute courtesy of Phenochem International, who have
also kindly sponsored our halfway house program.”

            Zork snorted
loudly enough through its air holes to draw everyone’s attention.  Harold
shifted in his chair, feeling uncomfortable under their combined gazes.

            “Sorry, had to
blow one,” Zork muttered. 

            Donald twitched,
but Harold gave him credit for it being almost unnoticeable.  He turned from
Zork.  “I want everyone to begin taking this artificial blood today.  Zombies,
I haven’t forgotten about you,” Donald turned to them, “There is a soy-based flesh
substitute in the works with the company for flesh eaters.” 

            Zork and several
others around the circle groaned at once, which left Donald unfazed.      “Add
this to your regular menus folks.  It’s going to be your lifeline from here on
out.”

            Donald and
another group member wheeled the cart around the room passing out cups of the
clear stuff.  The werewolf seemed to be missing from group tonight. 

            When Donald got
to them, Zork spoke up.  “I don’t really need to use this stuff chappy.”  Zork
muttered,  “I can eat other normal food fine.”  Donald held up the cup with a
raised eye. 

            “I’m perfectly
aware of your dietary habits Zork.  Speaking of, we missed you for dinner last
evening.” 

            Zork shrugged
non-existent shoulder.  Yet, Donald held up the cup of steaming, clear gel
until Zork took it with an eyestalk.  Harold’s cup held nothing different.  The
whiff of it repulsed him.  He doubted he could stomach this stuff, but Donald
would make them try anyway.  Other members in the group, those lucky enough to
have picked up a cup of coffee before group started, stealthily emptied their
goop into the coffee cups and set them aside.  One or two even went so far as
to spill their fake blood on the concrete floor behind themselves.  Donald
turned to him with a gleeful smile before he could do the same. 

            “Okay everyone!” 
He clapped his hands together.  “Let’s be brave.  Let’s do this all together.” 
Funny, Harold didn’t see him picking up a cup for himself. 

            Nobody moved.

            “Now, now, the
first sip is the hardest.”  Donald looked around.  Still nobody moved.  He
turned his gaze back on Harold.  “Harold, why don’t you set an example for
everyone.  Show them how tasty it is.” 

            Harold shook his
head and tried to push the cup off on one of the creatures sitting beside him,
either Zork or the skeleton.  It didn’t matter.  But neither of them would have
it. 

            They each already
had their own.

            “Come on Harold
now,” Donald cajoled.  “Drink it up and show us how much progress you’re
making.” 

            Harold wasn’t
getting out of this.  All eyes were on him and he had to do it.  If only to
make it look like he was playing the game, participating with the program and
being a good little boy.  He pictured the two feds and the threat of a very
short life in prison… More than enough inspiration to make him gulp down the
liquid.

             Like an audience
of a reality game show, the group uttered a collective groan.  Harold agreed
with the thought.  He choked on the stuff, the consistency of liquid latex and
not at all similar to the thin, watery nature of fresh blood.  Harold almost
wished the gel had no flavor, rather than the poor attempt it made at
replicating the taste of blood.  Something metallic imbued the substance, as if
a lot of iron had been pumped into the fluid, but underneath the artificial
blood held a flavor of dried and reconstructed protein, maybe chicken meat.

             Harold choked
again, but decided to go for it and chug the rest of the gel.  Get it over with
as quickly as possible.  He dropped the cup and clamped a hand over his mouth
to fight the rising tide of his stomach in revolt.  It did not agree with his
decision.

            Donald, yelling
congratulations, slapped Harold on the shoulder.  He quickly turned from Harold
to address the group, drawing their attention back to him as Harold waged a
battle with his stomach.  Zork stared up at him with bulging eyes. 

            “How was it?” 

            Harold only shook
his head, swallowing a couple of times to see if his stomach would give up the
fight.  It settled, but only barely.  One by one, the remaining group members
each drank or pretended to drink their fake blood.  Nausea plagued him for the
remainder of the group, but he felt luckier than some of the unfortunates who
made a dash for the surrounding darkness after drinking Phenochem's latest
concoction. 

            Zork didn’t have
much of a problem drinking the stuff after all.  After some hesitation the slug
drank it down and remitted a large belch.  It said Phenochem could work on
improving the taste, then turned to Harold and called him a whiny ass.  The
zombies all looked greatly relieved at not having to sample the product, for
tonight at least.

            The rest of group
passed by in a blur filled with the miming gestures and groans of repentant
zombies.  A task Donald was more than willing to stand watch over.  Finally,
the moon rose high overhead, its pale glow shining through the warehouse
skylights.  Group ended, but not before Donald made everyone promise to drink
Phenochem’s fake blood for each meal.  A prospect that had group members groaning
while Donald remained cheerful as ever. 

            Still queasy
Harold hurried out, but did see Donald pull the skeleton aside for a more
private conversation.  He’d have stayed behind to listen, but there were things
going on in his stomach no vamp should ever have to experience.

            Zork rode with
him on the drive back to the halfway house.  Harold rolled down the window so
the wind might refresh him a little.  He really didn’t think he could survive
on a regular diet of the stuff.  So much worse than real food.

            “Didn’t see Rufus
in group,” Harold said while the slug was fiddling with the radio, sliming it
all up.

            “Haven’t seen him
in a few days,” Zork muttered, “He’s off with the wolves.  Full moon an all
that.  I bet he’ll get kicked out of his precious group.”

            Zork managed to
get the radio turned on to an eighties pop music station.  Harold frowned at
Zork’s musical tastes.

            “Maybe.”

            “Why care?  I
thought you were just getting through the program,” Zork muttered, “Donald must
be nuts to think everyone is going to switch over to that artificial crap.”

            The slug propped
itself up on the passenger side door and rolled down his window.  It got it
down about halfway before giving up and plastering part of its face against the
glass.  The radio collar clanked on the window and Zork’s eyes poked up out
into the open air like a couple of car antennas. 

            “You were the
only one who managed to drink that
crap
without problems.” 

            “Doesn’t mean I
enjoyed it.  Tastes like copper.”

            “Aw, poor baby,”
Harold chimed and Zork promptly told him where he could stuff his sympathy. 
Despite himself, Harold smiled into the cold, dark night. 

            When they got
back the lights in the halfway house still burned.  Only a few members managed
to avoid the agony of drinking Phenochem’s fake blood, so many of them came
right back here to express their displeasure in the bathroom.  Harold decided
to vomit in the bushes before going inside.  Zork went straight in with nothing
more than a don’t puke on yourself.  A few moments later, Harold felt decidedly
better for expelling the contents of his stomach. 

            The halfway house
did not smell pleasant.  There were ungodly noises coming from the upstairs
bathroom and a line up the stairs, so Harold opted to cool it in the rec room
for a while. 

            He walked in on
the skeleton being congratulated by a group of zombies, other things and Zork. 
The slug slapped the bony creature on his shins with an eye. 

            “If you don’t
keep in touch,” Zork hissed, “I’m going to track you down and eat you.”  It saw
Harold and waved him over.  Before Harold knew it he was shaking a very weak
and bony hand.  A shiver ran through him at the touch and he pulled away as
soon as was polite.

            The creature’s
sallow skin pulled back to reveal his boney jaw and shiny, yellow teeth in an
attempt at smiling.  By now he was literally nothing but skin and bones, having
not eaten since before Harold even came to the program. 

            “This bastard is
graduating,” the slug said, “managed to slip past Donald’s bullshit meter.  If
I could get out of here… ”  Zork let the sentence die in a wisp of air from its
body.  Several other group members looked at the skeleton with a desperate kind
of envy, each having his own reasons for being stuck here and for wanting so
badly to leave. 

            “Matty,” Zork
addressed the skeleton, “I want you, first thing, to go get yourself a good,
heavy meal!”  This broke the tension and even earned a few dry chuckles.

            “We were taking
bets on how long it would be before we could see through you.”             Laughter
erupted around the skeleton.  Harold smiled, but he couldn’t really get into
the games.  He was worried.  This skeleton was the first to graduate since
Harold joined FEBs.  What would happen to this creature when he left?