Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (20 page)

            Unable to find
the answer, he went back to bed to try and get back to sleep.  Harold woke to
the persistent poking of Zork’s eyestalks. 

            “Wake up,
jackass.  Wake up,” Zork muttered as it jabbed Harold in the cheek repeatedly. 
“Wake up, you’re in trouble.”

            “Fuck off slug
face,” Harold replied, smacking the eyestalk away.  He still had a good couple
of hours before group and he did not want to waste it talking to a slug.

            A good thumping
smack landed on his forehead.  How that kind of abuse didn’t hurt the slug’s
own eyes, Harold didn’t know.  “Now Jackass,” Zork muttered, “Donald’s here. 
He wants to talk to you.  What the hell did you do last night?”

            “Oh,” Harold
groaned as last night’s dream came flooding back to him, Orlen, bugs, a strange
poker chip, the attack on his roomie.  Harold glanced over to confirm the other
empty twin bed.  Vlad made good on his threats to tattle.  Stupid Vlad.

            Harold rolled out
of bed, narrowly missing Zork’s body with his feet.  The slug grumbled to get a
move on before sliming out of the room. 

            He stumbled into
the bathroom and spent a couple moments rinsing out his mouth with the
mouthwash.   Not a good idea to have blood breath when speaking with Donald. 
After pulling on some clothes Harold padded down the stairs to the kitchen
where he found Donald sitting primly on one of the kitchen stools with a highly
agitated Vlad pacing back and forth behind him.  He must have spent the rest of
the day working himself up into a state over Harold’s “attack.”

            “Good evening
Harold, I understand there has been some tension between you and Vlad,” Donald
said. 

            Harold sat at the
table.  “I didn’t think so,” he said.  Vlad stopped pacing and hissed.  Talk
about your ’fraidy cat. 

            “Well, you know
the house rules Harold,” Donald said, he marked something down on a an
envelope.  “No fighting or else I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

            “It’s not like,”
Harold said. 

            “Whatever the
cause, Harold,” Donald interjected, as he flipped over the envelope.  “I would
not want to be asked to leave the program, if I were you.  Your alternatives
aren’t pleasant.”

            Jail time, in
restraints, under sedation, without blood.   Harold cringed inwardly.  Not many
survived.  Time to swallow his pride and save his hide.

            “I understand,”
Harold murmured, “I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.”

            Donald looked up
at Harold with that odd little smile of his.  “Of course it won’t,” he said,
“However, I think it’s best if you apologized to Vlad and took his chores for
the rest of the week.  Acceptable Vlad?”

            The other vampire
stopped pacing.  “I thought you were going to kick the bastard out?”  He looked
worried.

            “Now, now, we all
make mistakes on the path to redemption,” Donald said.  “I’m sure you
understand.”  Donald turned his smile on Vlad this time.  He looked even more
worried and backed up a few paces. 

            “Sure, no
problem.  Apology accepted.”

            Donald’s clapping
hands caused both Harold and Vlad to jump, but only because it caught them off
guard.  Donald didn’t give Harold the heeby jeebies or anything, but he was
not, absolutely positively was not one iota scared of Donald Duck.

            “Excellent,”
Donald said soothingly, “I expect the both of you in group, bright-eyed and
bushy-tailed.  We’re working on journals tonight.”  Harold coughed into his
hand as Donald got up.  He smiled at Harold, then bade them goodbye. 

            Vlad didn’t wait
around either.  He snarled at Harold, opened the kitchen window and with a
twist, vanished into a black cloud on the night air.  Once again leaving Harold
wishing he knew how to do that trick.  He’d tried different things over the
years associated with vampires, flying, shape-shifting, sleeping in a coffin,
but usually ended up falling off of tall buildings.  He came to the conclusion,
he just happened to be one of those vamps who got around in sweet vintage
rides. 

            Harold had better
things to do at the moment, like gambling.  He got his coat from the hall as he
left.  Just because he didn’t fly, didn’t mean he couldn’t look the part. 

Chapter Twelve

            At first Harold
was afraid he wouldn’t be able to find the casino again.  Zork and the zombie
led him through an agonizingly, long series of twisting alleys and backstreets
and it really all looked the same to him as he drove around town.  Finally, he
settled for heading back to where he’d started yesterday, playing poker in the
backroom of some dingy bar.

            The door was
still off its hinge, though it continued to lean wearily against the doorjamb
where Harold left it.  The room was in better shape, someone went through with
a broom and swept up most of the werewolf hair.  According to his nose though,
Rufus’ scent, along with his own and the others still lingered.  His nose told
him that the cleaning person who came in, probably sometime during the day and
cleaned up the room, was a human, female, with A+ blood and middle-aged, but
her smell was hours old. 

            He meandered back
to the alley and turned right, following his memory.  The first few turns were
easy to remember, but as he got deeper into the maze of the city’s backstreets
he began to flounder.  Was it a left or a right?  Did he need to backtrack? 
Harold stood still for a few moments, trying to remember, until it occurred to
him to follow his nose. 

            He closed his
eyes and let the scents of the night create a picture in his mind.  Mingled in
among the flavors of still water, electricity, rats, metals, people, cats in
heat and literally millions of used food cartons was the distinct odor of one
angry slug.  Harold, unfortunately, would never forget Zork’s scent for as long
as he lived. 

            Yes, it was just
about a day old and it was the slime trail he’d been looking for.  The series
of twisting alleys turned into another well-traveled path for Harold as he
followed the faithful slime trail.  As if on cue, the scent was joined by of
other fellow travelers of the night.  Hundreds of trails, ranging from just
minutes to weeks old, all going in the same direction, joined the slug’s from
alleys and sidewalks.  One scent’s owner even seemed to run straight down the
side of a third story building.

            Soon he joined up
with other people, though none he recognized from the night before or FEBs.

            Harold pulled the
gambling chip he’d found on his nightstand out of his pocket.  Somehow Orlen,
through skill or trick, managed to get this chip into his room earlier in the
day.  She had no problem walking around in broad daylight.  Orlen could simply
walk into his room while he was sleeping and put him into another one of those
trance states, although a supremely bizarre one. 

            He hated the
feeling of powerlessness she caused in him.  His own inability to resist her
hypnotic glare and those damn eyes.  Just one more thing taken from him.  No
way was he going to let her get the best of him dammit.  He was a vampire and
he could turn people into mindless peons with the best of them.  He would too. 
If it came to it, he’d find a way to break her influence over his mind.  Then,
he’d break her.

            But first, he had
to find her, meaning he had to give into the slight urging command she’d
planted in his mind.  The soft, insistent need to find the guy in charge,
whoever the hell he was, probably another self-serving normie, like Donald, who
made a living off the undead.  If the supposed guy in charge tried anything,
Harold would break him too.

            When Harold
reached the casino, he was concerned the bouncer would remember him from the
other night, so Harold skirted around to the front, legal entrance.  Here the
normies gambled in ignorant bliss and lost more than money to the casino.

            It was bright. 
More than bright.  It was a supernova of blinking, bouncing lights in oranges,
reds, purples and blues.  The casino’s name blinked in a million red lights on
the marquee.  The living wandered in and out of wide double doors and the crowd
more than represented the range of fortunes fate had in store for humanity.  A
rich man, a poor man, a beggared man and a beleaguered man and more from great
literature crossed the threshold, many going in and fewer leaving.  No
discrimination here.  Everyone played equally with chance, though it was
obvious quite a few didn’t know when to quit the game.

            Harold crossed
into the front of the casino with no problem at all.  Though a bit pale, he
didn’t draw any attention, except from those very paranoid few guarding their
night’s winnings.

             It was also
noisy.  Almost too noisy for his ears.  He hunched into his shoulders and
looked to the ground in an almost comical attempt to block out the noise
level.  How could people stand it?  They seemed to relish in making as much
noise as possible.

            Harold headed
straight for the back wall, the most likely place for a private, employees only
space between the two opposing casinos.  It didn’t take long to get across the
main gambling floor.  Game tables were crowded with people, but the floor
remained open except for those taking a break from the games and ogres
patrolling the floor, no zombies though.  This side of the casino didn’t seem
to offer the same level of entertainment.  In fact, some of the people here looked
almost bored, or maybe entranced.  Were the slot player’s eyes glazed over a
bit too much?

            Before Harold
could reach a conclusion an ‘Employees Only’ sign loomed over the crowd.  He
slithered his way through the crowded floor, noises ringing in his ears,
threatening to deafen him when he finally got away from it.  This time there
were no guards watching the door.  It was only locked, not a problem.  A firm
twist of the doorknob and the lock snapped back, allowing the door to open
easily. 

            He slipped inside
and closed the door behind him before anyone noticed.  Harold didn’t exactly
look like a casino employee.  The typical darkened backroom lay before him. 
Harold sniffed out hidden dangers and while odors of something more than human
lingered here, they weren’t fresh enough to cause alarm. 

            One door stood
exactly opposite him across the room, but it featured a maintenance sign.  A
left turn and short hallway led to another door without a sign.  To the right,
down the long side of the backroom was a longer, wider hallway with a series of
doors and at the end a set of double doors.  A blind alley in which he’d be
seen immediately if anyone came in.  It felt like the best way to go. 

            Harold steeled
himself and started to the right, pausing to look in the open windows of each
of the doors he passed.  Some obviously detention areas for wayward gamblers
who thought they could stack the odds in their favor.  Other rooms were less
favorable to potential occupants.  Harold noted a couple of freezers in one room
and he could guess their purpose.  He kept his senses open for sounds, smells,
the sight of someone coming into the area.  Nothing, no one, and no sounds.  He
reached the double doors safely, which relieved and worried him.  The deeper he
got into this place, the less likely he’d be able to get back out without being
seen.  Of course, he was coming here to see someone anyway.

            Harold peeked as
far as he could down the hallway beyond the door’s glass panes.  He saw stairs
and it seemed right to slide his skinny frame through the doors and dash up
them.   Harold kept going until instinct told him to stop on the third floor. 
Beyond the doors on this level were much nicer surroundings. 

            A plush carpet
muted his footfalls.  Wood panels classed up the joint and very old paintings
of rich landscapes lined the walls.  He felt like he’d been transported a few
hundred years back in time.  Winged back chairs sat at strategic intervals.  He
could hear a few electronic devices hidden in the walls, probably cameras trained
on this hall.  All of it a very nice cover, but Harold didn’t know which way to
go through this new area of the casino.  Straight ahead or to the left, down
another carpeted hall?  His question was answered for him when he heard more
than one person’s footsteps approaching the double doors behind him. 

            Harold dashed to
the left out of sight.  He forced open the nearest door and slipped into a
janitor’s closet.  Harold held his breath as the footsteps came click-clacking
down the hall towards him.  

            The closer the
person got, the faster his heartbeat.  Not because he was nervous, though his
palms were starting to feel sweaty.  He recognized the person behind the
click-clacky footfalls.          

            Orlen. 

            Harold barely
kept himself from jumping out of the closet to confront her.  His fangs itched
to sink into her neck.  But, Orlen wasn’t alone and Harold wasn’t sure he could
hold his own against those walking with her.  Or her.  He had to be honest with
himself.  He wasn’t exactly great at fighting.  Sneak attacks sure, fighting
no.

            Harold waited
until they passed before leaving the closet and followed them at a very safe
distance down the hall.  He could smell them now.  A couple of zombies and
there was blood too.  A feast of blood.  Sighing into the O-negative scent,
Harold let it lead him towards his nemesis.

            He almost walked
into them as he turned a final corner in the old world themed halls, but
managed to recover himself and slip back out of sight.  They stood at a pair of
wooden doors.  The zombies pushed a cart, the source of the blood he smelled. 
One of the zombies was the guy he’d seen Orlen talking with at the casino last
night.  Orlen smiled sweetly at the zombie before knocking on the door. 

            Even at his
distance Harold could hear someone calling them to enter, and the muted voice
stroked a thread of recognition.  Here was the man he’d come to see, the man
Orlen’s nightmare urged him so strongly to visit that he felt the need in the
pit of his stomach like another hunger he lacked the willpower to fight.  Orlen
must be good at making people do what she wanted.  He could tell and so far
he’d only encountered two of her victims, himself and David.            

            The trio went
into the room, leaving Harold to struggle with his thoughts.  What to do next? 
He slipped down the empty length of hallway, ready to dart back to the safety
of the corner at the slightest hint of approaching footsteps.  They remained
far away on the other side of those double doors. 

            It didn’t take
long for Harold to get a strong whiff of premium grade O-negative blood and
snippets of conversation from the room beyond the doors.  Oh, it was lovely
stuff and fresh too.  Very fresh, warm fresh.  Harold groaned audibly, pressing
his nose against the door.  He really wasn’t getting enough to eat these days. 
Some poor sap down in the bowels of the Casino probably just endured enough
blood letting to leave him promising God in heaven he’d never gamble again.  At
least not with anything but money ...

            Harold let his
nose enjoy the strong scent of fresh blood while he listened to the group
eating noisily and it sounded as if they were really enjoying the stuff too. 
Damn it.  Harold should have had more than day old blood this evening.  His
stomach turned on itself, gnawing and growling and threatening to eat him
away. 

            He swallowed and
tried to focus on Orlen’s words, but it was impossible.  Oh, ho now the
fragrance of AB-positive mingled with O-negative, not as fresh mind you, but
oh, it was delicious.  Harold had never much chance to mix and match his blood
types.  It was too much bother. 

            He stood there
salivating in anticipation of the real treat on the other side of the door. 
Whoever was eating that meal continued to do so with great relish, chomping and
sucking and snorting.  

            Now his stomach
raged at him.  It was a very empty and hungry stomach.  It grew teeth, turning
on itself with hunger, gnawing at his willpower.  Harold’s fangs slid out of
their hidden sockets, glistening and sharp.  Had he been thinking clearly, he’d
have grabbed a bite to eat before coming to the casino.  Harold held his
middle, damned himself for not thinking ahead.  The sound of ripping plastic
and a gory whiff of more AB-negative blood dissolved what little strength
Harold had left.  He tore the door open one-handed, nearly ripping it off the
hinges and ran head long into the room with one thing on his mind, blood.

            The room was
quite large, cavernous even and soothingly dark with rows of small golden
lights ringing the ceiling.  A wall-sized two-way mirror blocked the room in on
two sides, providing a god’s eye view of the casino floors.  Out of the corner
of his eye, Harold noticed four people in the room, including two zombies in
the corner, Orlen’s skele-toy and one half-broken down.  A man, a vampire stood
before the cart.  His blood-smeared grin welcoming Harold even as he flew at
the cart between them.

            Harold laid into
a pint of blood, sinking in and draining it halfway of the warm syrup before
his mind regained enough control to scream at him.  He was an idiot of the
first order.

            Harold’s eyes
snapped around the room, noting a more detailed placement of its occupants. 
The two zombies had the good grace to appear shocked, at least he thought they
looked surprised.  With their muscles frozen into place with decay, he had a
hard time telling.  Orlen did not look shocked or surprised.  She looked smug. 
Feeling the need to express his anger, Donald would say it’s not good to keep
those feelings bottled up, Harold furrowed his brows, still sucking on the
blood, gave her his best
“I-hate-you-from-the-bottom-of-my-heart-and-soul-and-other-nether-regions” look
and flipped the bird.  She blinked.