Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (14 page)

            He could go
someplace isolated, where those such as he had an easier time of it.  Where
there weren’t so many reasons to keep your guard up.

            He was tired of
hiding.  Tired of the need to lie, the need to show different faces to the
world.  So many years running, hiding, living amongst these people. 

            Why didn’t he
just leave?  Lit out while he still could and leave all this craziness to the
crazy people who ran it.  He’d heard of people like him living outside the
country, certainly living in a more relaxed atmosphere amongst the old world
traditions and superstitions of Europe.  Maybe he could go to Denmark, and
blend in on the red light district.  That’d be cool.  He could sell hotdogs on
the street corner for 20 kroner a pop and scout out potential meals himself. 
Surely, no one would miss the occasional tourist. 

            Harold could
easily see it now.  A quick night flight in the cargo hold of a local jet, just
to ensure he didn’t get exposed to any sunlight.  Slip out in the dead of
night.  Pick up a few local IDs, exchange his American dollar for the local
kronor and get a room above a sex den.  A few decades and he’d blend in like a
local.

            Though, he’d
spent so much effort getting his place here set up.  Effort threatened by a few
stupid mistakes, stupid lazy mistakes.  Oh god, what was he thinking.  He
didn’t have the brains to outwit an entire government equipped with endless
amounts of manpower, cash and time.  He probably wouldn’t even be able to keep
his job at the hospital.  They’d figure out he was taking the blood.

            Harold wanted to
run his fist through the nearest wall and generally tear himself up.  Things
were getting too damn complicated.  He couldn’t keep the threads of his world
separate anymore. 

            Harold got out of
the diner and drove home in a self-absorbed stupor, not bothering to change or
wash up before falling into bed beside a sleeping Maria.  Her warmth, her blood
pumping through her body made a familiar lullaby for him.  As crazy as it was
to bring his food and sex so close together, there was something to be said for
the nutritive quality of their relationship.  He was fucking sick and Maria had
ways of making him feel complete. 

            She made him feel
real, not just the pitiful shadow of a human male he felt like on most days,
cause let’s face it, being a vampire was not all it’s cracked up to be.  He
didn’t instantly gain charm, wit and the ability to pull in victims like flies
to honey once a vampire had sunk his teeth into Harold’s neck.  In fact, it
made it harder to get a date and most he did attract were rabid freaks that got
off on the idea of him draining them of their life’s blood.  The idea never
really got him off.  It’s a bit like screwing the steak you intend on grilling
later.  Not as appealing as it sounds.

            Harold traced the
ruffled silk sleeve of her nightgown.  Soft and smooth, feminine, and sleeping
in his bed, even knowing who and what he really was after dark.  Maybe a good enough
reason to stick around a bit longer.  Nothing like love to set a man straight,
he thought and pressed a cool kiss against her warm lips.  The chill slid
through her body.  Maria mumbled in her sleep, pulling away from him. 

Chapter Eight

           
The next evening, Harold received an unexpected
visitor at home.  Company was becoming a rather bad habit.  The rapid light
banging on his door roused Harold from his deep restorative slumber.  Maria
already up and gone for the day, several hours gone, and his bed felt empty and
cold.  He fought his way past the blankets and spilled out of bed, pulling his
still stained clothes around himself as he went downstairs to get whoever was
on the other side of the door to stop the god forsaken pounding.  It was still
early for fuck’s sake, and the sun still lingered on the western edge of the
sky.  The light streamed in through the cracks in the downstairs curtains. 

            Harold jumped
around the cracks of light and positioned himself carefully behind the door. 
He opened it a crack so the light angled in towards the living room and away
from himself and called to see who was on the other side.

            “Hello Mr.
Blank.”

            Harold groaned at
the cheery, but oh so efficient voice.

            “I’m sorry to
bother you at home, but I was wondering if I could have a minute of your time.”

            “Err, Ms. Orlen
now’s not the best time.  I was trying to catch some sleep before work, you
see.” Harold let the sentence trail off as usually served well enough to get
the message across to anyone crazy enough to try and roust him out of bed at
this time of day. 

            It didn’t seem to
work for Orlen though.  “Oh alright.  I’ll just take a moment of your time,”
she said, while she moved with surprising strength to push open the door enough
to slip through the crack.  Small thing that she was, and damned persistent. 
Harold quickly closed the door behind her to shut out the glaring light.  Orlen
darted into the living room, head up, eyes taking in the darkened state of the
apartment and general air of crappiness Harold strived for in his living
conditions.  She turned those owlish eyes on Harold and he felt very shabby for
it.  He shucked off his bloodstained trench coat and tossed it on the stairs,
muttering to himself about a bad morning. 

            Orlen waved his
half-assed explanations away.  “No need to explain, I am catching you on short
notice.”

            Harold rubbed his
palms on the back of his pants, hoping they were at least clean enough not to
draw attention.  “Why did you drop in, Ms. Orlen?”

            “Pease call me
Katherine,” She giggled, “Mind if I sit?”  She asked taking a seat at his
kitchen table. 

            “Err, no.” Harold
followed her.  They stared at each other for a moment, before his manners
kicked in and he asked miss can’t-decide-what-she-wants-to-be-called, if she’d
like something to drink, coffee, tea,
blood
, he thought darkly.  He
stalked into the narrow apartment kitchen he and Maria shared.  Orlen decided
tea would be fine and Harold spent several clumsy moments looking through the
cupboards for a box of herbal tea Maria always kept handy.  Very aware of
Orlen’s eyes on him. 

            “It’s herbal,” He
called when he finally found it and then realized quite stupidly he needed to
heat up the tea water first.  God, how long had it been since he needed to make
tea?  Decades.  Harold didn't even cook for Maria, so much did he dislike the
smell and general presence of food. 

            Harold
successfully pulled a Christmas themed mug from the cupboards and heated some
water in the microwave.  He hissed, spilling the tea on himself when Orlen’s
voice sounded directly behind him.  “You know it’s awfully dark in here. 
Perhaps I should open the blinds?” She said.

            Before Harold
could so much as say no, Orlen reached up and pulled the cord on the blinds. 
Prison bars of light shot across halfway through the kitchen trapping Harold in
the scant darkness between microwave and oven.  He pressed himself back against
the wall, remembering his last painful experience with the sun.  Orlen, petite
and prim, stood on the other side of the window, light shafting the floor
between them.  She placed her hands on her hips and gave him a tight smile. 
“Are you all right Harold?”

            He took a deep
breath, willed the quivering mass of his flesh to stand tall and relaxed
against the wall.  All for naught though, since his body jumped fearfully when
Orlen stepped closer, walking into the light.  He half expected her to, to, he
wasn’t sure what, melt probably.  She didn’t though, she just stood there hands
on her hips, prim smile and owlish knowing eyes. 

            “Something
bothering you, Mr. Blank?” Orlen asked and right then Harold realized it, saw
it in her eyes.  She knew.  He didn’t know how, maybe something on some camera
he didn’t know about in the hospital, maybe she’d been asking around about his
past history and came across something questionable, hell, maybe she'd even
found out about the arrest a couple months ago, but Orlen knew alright and she
was playing with him.  Harold had been stupid enough to get trapped by her
too.  Damn it, he really was a stupid fuck. 

            He glared at her
from his place against the wall.  “No problems,” Harold said.  Orlen’s prim
smile widened slightly revealing a Machiavellian streak, and Harold wondered
exactly what she had in mind for him.

            “Excellent, my
tea?” She asked.  Harold looked down, surprised to see he still held a mostly
filled cup of hot water.  He nodded in the affirmative. 

            “Good,” she said,
holding out her hands just far enough to be within reaching distance of Harold,
but still well within the sun’s dying light streaming in from the window.  If
Harold were to hand the mug to Orlen he’d end up getting himself a nasty
sunburn.  He turned the mug so the handle faced outwards, gripping the cup edge
with the tips of his fingers and held it up to the edge of the light.  Handle
side inside the first bar of sunlight and mug side lingering in the darkness.

            Orlen’s hands
fluttered in the light for a moment, pale butterfly’s wings dancing across the
space between them.  She took the cup from Harold and turned away, a bold move
turning one’s back on a vamp.  Not that he could do very much to her, trapped
as he was on his side of the window.  Orlen left the light, standing on the
other side of it facing him again.  “Shall we sit?”  She asked

            “I’m fine with
standing,” Harold replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

            “Really,” Orlen
said, “well fine.”  She sipped her tea, murmuring it was good, quite tangy and
refreshing in fact.  “It’s not at all metallic like some drinks can taste. 
Have you ever noticed  Mr. Blank?  Certain liquids, with a metallic flavor,
almost like copper?”  Orlen asked. 

            “Yes,” Harold
muttered, “but then tea isn’t exactly my favorite drink.”

            Orlen’s eyes
gleamed at Harold and again he was struck with the impression she might be
something other than she appeared, something different from a neat, respectable
lady.  “No, I suppose not.  Then again, I find certain drinks too strong for my
taste too, things you might find better suited to your tastes.”

            “I suppose so.” 
Harold didn’t elaborate.  What’s the point when she so obviously knew already. 
Orlen probably thought she’d stumbled onto Harold’s dirty little secret and it
might be worth something to him in blackmail.  Ah, that’s why she dropped in
and not a cadre of SWAT team members armed to the nines with sharp pointy
objects and full spectrum lamps, which really did sting like hell, by the way. 

            “Yes,” Orlen
said.  Harold was beginning to hate the way she said that word.  He could have
ripped her head off in a moment if not for the stupid light coming in from the
window.  But soon, he thought, noticing how softly golden the rays have gotten
in just a few minutes, soon they’d be pink and turn mute in pale pinks, purples
and then, blackness. 

            “I’ll be leaving
long before the sun goes down, Mr. Blank,” she said, seeing Harold looking at
the window or perhaps reading his mind, something not entirely outside the
realm of possibility in this world.

            “Then you should
be leaving.  It’s dangerous around here after dark,” he said.  Orlen’s little
smile returned. 

            “Not so dangerous
for me as you might think,” she replied.  Orlen took a long sip from her tea
and licked her red lips.  “This needs something sweet.  Have you got any
honey?”

            “Afraid not,”
Harold muttered.  He looked up at the ceiling with a groan.  “There’s sugar in
the cupboard to your right.” 

            She thanked him
and opened the cupboard, pushing aside some oddly named spices Maria brought
home and pulling out a box of sugar.  She poured a lot into the mug, so much 
Harold was almost tempted to joke, asking her if she’d like some tea with her
sugar, but that would put them on easier terms with each other.

            Lacking a spoon,
Orlen stuck a finger in the hot water and swirled it around to mix up the sugar
in the drink.  The heat didn’t bother her at all.  Harold looked away when
Orlen sucked the wetness from her finger and only looked back when she lifted
the mug to her lips.  She drank it down in one long swallow.  He could only
imagine how well she used to do at college kegger parties.  Orlen set the mug
back on the counter with a satisfied “ahhh,” making Harold think of the old
Coca Cola ads he used to see as a kid. 

            “It's
interesting, a man such as yourself would have so much food in the house,”
Orlen said, looking into the refrigerator. “You don’t appear to be living the
bachelor life here, well, at least in the kitchen.  The rest of your
apartment... ” Orlen trailed off with some mild disgust at his lack of
furniture.  That stung.  Maria had done what she could, but Harold staunchly
refused to change his outlook on possessions.  In fact, she only really got to
decorate the kitchen and the dining room because they were areas he rarely
used.   

            “Living with
someone are you, Mr. Blank?”  She asked popping out of the fridge with one of
Maria’s oranges in hand.  She threw the orange into the air.  Harold followed
the high arc of the orange as it wavered perilously close to the light and fell
back into Orlen’s waiting hand. 

            “A girlfriend
perhaps?”  She asked softly.  Harold’s eyes snapped to Orlen’s pale green ones,
cool green, actually, damn frosty, in fact and startling on someone of her
Asiatic ancestry.  She threw the orange into another high arc. 

            “Yeah,” Harold
said.  His eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the orange as it fell in its arc
back to the safety of Orlen’s palm.  She tossed it up again, up, up into a high
arc almost hovering in space before her icy stare. 

            “That’s
interesting Harold,” Orlen’s voice came softly.  Harold nodded, eyes still
locked on the orange as it began its descent from the high arc into the
vertical drop. 

            “Harold,” Orlen
said in her soft even voice, “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to be living
with a human.”  Slowly, almost painfully slow it fell, down, down into Orlen’s
palm and came to rest.  Not for long though.

            “Why not?” 
Harold asked, feeling surprisingly languid for the first time since Orlen
showed up on his doorstep.  This wasn’t so bad, talking with her, as long as
the orange kept moving.

            Orlen’s hand rose
up, pushing the orange back into flight where its high arc yet again brought it
to eye level where it seemed to hang frozen between their locked stares. 

            “Why,” Orlen
whispered, “because you’re not quite human are you, Harold?”

            The orange
continued to hang impossibly.  Rotating in the space before Orlen’s eyes. 
Harold wanted it to fall and continue its natural course, but it wouldn’t.  It
stayed frustratingly still, locked between their stares.  Harold had an inkling
the orange wouldn’t move unless he responded to Orlen’s question.  He had a
trouble remembering what it was though.  Something about people, ah damn
orange.  Why didn’t she just let it fall?  It just frustratingly, stayed.                         “Harold,”
Orlen’s soft voice eased the tension of the frozen moment.  Harold leaned
forward, into the calm of it.  “What are you, Harold?  Tell me what you are.”

            Oh, she wants to
know, he thought, easy to answer.  He leaned into the soothing voice opening
his mouth to answer her and release the orange from its orbit.  The words
crawled up his throat, clung to his tongue, prepared to leap out into the air
to answer Orlen’s very important question.  A flash of light and a sharp
burning on his face caused a retreat and his not so secret flew.

            Harold jumped
back, slapping a hand to his nose.  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!  Fuckity, fuck! His
hissed, kicked the oven, slammed into the microwave and punched the walls a few
times just for good measure.  Harold cradled his face as he sank to the floor. 

            Orlen hadn’t
moved during the course of Harold’s brief violence.  She held the orange with
her left hand at eye level.  Fuck, then, at least the damn fruit hadn’t been
defying gravity.