Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (21 page)

            The final
occupant, and obviously, head honcho, also did not look shocked to see Harold. 
He was happy.  It was a very disturbing look on anyone with a face pasted in
clotting blood. 

            Harold sucked his
pint of blood dry as he moved onto grabbing a few pints from the cart to go. 
Man, it was loaded.  Piled high with warm and fresh blood and some not so fresh
flavors for dinner.  A vamp could literally gorge himself on this meal and
still have some to share.  Perhaps it was the reason the other guy wasn’t
currently choking Harold like a turkey on thanksgiving and stuffing his mouth
with empty blood bags for coming in at the wrong time.  No vampire enjoys being
interrupted during a meal.

            Except this guy. 
He actually smiled, as if he were expecting Harold for dinner, which he
supposed was true with Orlen here.  Or, Harold thought, kicking himself
mentally for once again being slow on the uptake, it could be because this guy
was a vamp and heard him coming down the hallway ten minutes ago.  Maybe it was
all of the above.  He could really be slow sometimes. 

            The other guy
snapped his fingers and the zombies supplied two steamed towels for them. 
Harold could only accept, since it was the polite thing to do, but he made sure
to stuff a couple more pints of blood into his coat pocket. 

            The blood came
off, revealing a respectable human being or the semblance of such a man in
pinstripe suit with red vest, blood-red, of course.  He looked vaguely European
and all pleasantry, with deceptively warm eyes, but Harold knew better than to
accept anything at face value anymore.  Nothing in life seemed as it appeared,
not even enemies.

            Was this man an
enemy?  Had he finally find his own nemesis with which to do battle across the
ages as only true immortals can?  He’d been listening to Maria read too many of
her vampire books again. 

            The man spoke
with a nearly perfect Midwestern flat, “Greetings, Harold.  We were wondering
when you would join us.” Nearly perfect, but Harold’s ear’s picked up a softer,
subtle accent lingering on the man’s tongue.

            “Dining with us
this evening?” The head honcho gestured almost teasingly at the blood on
Harold’s hands as he wiped them clean. 

            “Thought I’d drop
in for a snack,” he muttered, focusing on a particularly stubborn bit of gore
under his nails, working to contain rapidly, growing panic.  He’d gotten
himself into a real jam here by sneaking around the casino.  Plus, the barging
in and stuffing his face bit from a moment ago.  Harold half expected last
night’s ogre to reappear from nowhere and bash his skull in.  Already Orlen
proved herself slightly, ahem, more dangerous than he’d thought on first
meeting.  This guy could be capable of anything.

            “Naturally,” the
man said with a smile, “I would not expect less.”  The man casually tossed the
towel on the cart with not a glance at the remaining blood.  Harold couldn’t
help but wonder about the leftovers’ fate.  His eyes refused to leave the cart,
causing him to jump when the man next spoke.

            “Harold, I’m in
need of your assistance.  I had my lovely and quite effective assistant,” He
gestured again, as grandly, at Orlen, who positively gushed adoration, “bring
you here tonight.”

            “I was going to
ask about that,” Harold said, a surge of calming anger slid through his
pleasantly full gut.  “I don’t enjoy stalking, harassment and threats.”  He
looked very pointedly at Orlen now, trying to hold onto his anger.  She would
not get the best of him.  Anger at her felt good, gave him control, helped push
down the nerves.  It might give him the ability to get out of here with
everything intact.

            “You know,
neither do I.  I do apologize.  I should have invited you here properly, but I
did not think I could risk more direct contact without them finding out.”  The
man held out his hand and Harold almost laughed in his face.  Almost, but he
didn’t quite have the balls.  “You are being closely watched you know.  My
birth name is long gone, but everyone calls me Mephisto.” He kept his hand
outstretched, long enough for some other men to feel awkward and quietly
withdraw, but not this guy.  No, he remained all smiles, and contained
assurance until Harold felt forced to shake his hand.  Gripping the warm, dry
flesh in his own, Harold felt a little weaker.

            “Watching me,”
Harold said.  Mephisto was referring to the feds.  Why would a guy like
Mephisto be concerned about a couple of government agents on a power trip? 
Sure, he’s running an underground illegal casino and stealing blood by the vat
but, he probably had enough goons and money to keep this operation under wraps.

            “I’m sure you are
well aware of your precarious position, Harold,” Mephisto soothed, “and I do
regret having to bring a fellow, well, you know, into this trouble, but I fear
someone is working to destroy us.”

            Harold shook his
head.  “Us.  As in me and you?”

            Mephisto laughed
merrily along with Orlen’s titters and the creaking chuckles of the zombies. 
“I do like you.  Not the two of us, but all of us.”  A grand sweep of the room
with his arm encompassed everyone present.  “I intend to stop it, but I must
know for certain that I’m right.  That it is really him.”

            Lots of people
wanted to destroy the infected.  It was practically illegal to be undead. 
Harold started to feel screwed over again.  Everyone wanted Harold to do
something.  Harold don’t kill people.  Harold go to rehab.  Harold spy on this
guy.  Blah, blah, blah.  He sighed.          

            “Okay, I’ll
bite.  Why should I care?”

            Mephisto walked
to the corner of the office where both bay windows facing the casino joined.

            “Look at them,
Harold.  All of them.  For all the major differences, they’re just bodies in
need.  And I take care of them.  I give them what they need.”

            Oh boy, nut job
alert.  He had to always run into the weirdoes.  Harold moved further from
Orlen’s line of sight.  It was unnervingly creepy the way she looked at him. 
He crossed his arms.  “In exchange?”  He asked.

            Mephisto turned
to Harold, his face unnatural and unnerving.  Geez, he was surrounded on all
sides here. 

            “In exchange,
they give me what I need, what we all need.”  He finished the sentence with a
grand sweep of his arm at the others in the room.  “You see Harold, it’s really
just an economic exchange, a symbiotic relationship.  One takes from the other
to provide for another, in support of the self.”

            Another candidate
for Donald’s support group, Harold thought.  Donald might be particularly
pleased to have a chance to work on this guy’s complexes. 

            “Sounds like a
circle,” he tilted his head slightly, “or a triangle?”

            “Well, you know
what I mean,” Mephisto said, “we all rely on each other.  As I am about to rely
on you Harold.”   Mephisto stepped closer to Harold, close enough to meet him
eye-to-eye, compadre to head honcho.  “I am going to ask for your help in
finding out what’s happening to our fellows in your group.  What sort of
devious conniving the know-it-alls have contrived for us poor souls trying to
get along.”  He locked eyes with Harold.  As if it would be more convincing of
Mephisto’s complete and utter trustworthiness.  Mephisto might even latch onto
his arms with both hands to further convince him with a helping shake.  Harold
blurted out the next thing that popped into his mind.

            “I think it’s
just group therapy.  Maybe you should try it.” 

            Mephisto
chuckled 

            “I like you
Harold, you are funny, but not too smart.” He frowned, tapping lightly on
Harold’s forehead.  Harold felt another surge of desperate anger.  Major
invasion of personal space.    

            “You know as well
as I, there are those who would happily maim, kill and or destroy us simply
because we’re different.  You’ve been dealing with them yourself of late. 
Those nasty government agents seem to have you in quite a bind.” 

            Harold stepped
out of Mephisto’s personal space and surveyed the room.  The zombies were ever
so perceptibly edging towards the food cart.  If they thought they were doing
so on the sly, they were sorely mistaken.  Mephisto’s senses were just as sharp
as his and could detect their slightest movements.  Not that zombies were able
to move without creaking and groaning like old doors. 

            Orlen stood by
the cart, staring enraptured at Mephisto.  Her idolization was almost good enough
to satisfy his urge to just… bite her to death.  Orlen, the mysterious and
hypnotic threat, was herself hypnotized by the simple seduction of a vampire. 
Not himself of course, but still, pretty hilarious.  He could see it in her
eyes, the same as the eyes of every person he’d ever hypnotized.  She trusted
Mephisto implicitly and would do anything he asked.  He wondered how her zombie
friend felt about that.

            At least, Harold
could relax in being immune to the hypnotic suggestion.  Mephisto was putting
out all his suggestive power and Harold felt not an ounce of duty to follow
it.  

            The zombie friend
stealthily reached out a hand, tendons snapping loudly in his fingers.  His
middle finger barely grazed a pint container of blood.  A gleam of satisfaction
shown in his eyes.  Cracking knuckles announced his grabbing a fistful of blood
in hand.  In the very quiet room it sounded loud to Harold and he was sure, to
Mephisto.

            “Darling,”
Mephisto said and for half a second Harold thought the man was talking to him. 
He was not.  Mephisto directed his grand smile at Orlen.  Whip like, she
smacked the zombie’s dusty hand.  The zombie let go, Orlen caught it midair and
tossed the blood to Mephisto before the zombie even realized what happened. 

            Did Harold neglect
to mention zombies weren’t so quick on the uptake?

            “Harold, I want
to help protect our people from destruction at the hands of others.  You can
surely see how this program would eventually undermine our entire way of life
if it catches on?”  Mephisto shook the blood pint at Harold.  “Vampires denying
their culture, their birthright.”

            Birthright? 
Harold thought, was there another aspect to vampirism Harold didn’t quite
understand. 

            “Ogres denying
themselves the things which give them the most pleasure in life,”

            Yeah, thought
Harold, that would be the grinding of bones to make bread.  He was pretty sure
people hadn’t changed their minds about the baking skills of these fairy tale
creatures.

            “Zombies, forced
to go hungry,” Mephisto nodded at the zombie he’d denied a quick snack too, “or
worse, forced back into the ground from which they came.”

            Mephisto stepped
close, invading Harold’s personal space again.  A close talker this one. 
“Harold, we know the ‘graduates’ of your program are going missing.  I fear the
worst.  We must find out what’s happening to those poor souls.” Mephisto
gestured with invisible quotation marks for emphasis, right on either side of
Harold’s face, one hand still holding the blood bag.  “Will you help me?”

            Harold stepped back,
though it brought him closer to Orlen than he would have preferred. 

            “No,” Harold
said, staring at the hated Orlen, and the still shocked zombie.  “I think I’ve
got too much on my plate right now to be dealing with a bunch of crazy people. 
You’re right there are feds on my ass.  I’m on probation and there’s one hot
chick at my apartment who has threatened to revoke my sex privileges if I don’t
get my act together.  I’m sorry, I got to go.”

            Harold turned to
leave, quickly sidestepping Orlen and the two zombies on the way.  He was at
least faster than her.  Maybe one day soon, he could sneak up on the woman with
her back turned.  He knew where to find her now.

            “Harold wait, you
have not heard the best part.”  Mephisto called after Harold, but he kept on
walking.  Apparently, Mephisto wasn’t about to let him leave because Orlen
called after him next and told him to stop in her sickly, seductive voice and,
damn it, Harold stopped and turned around.

            He caught a bag
of blood thrown by Mephisto.  The O-positive and it was starting to get cold. 
A shame, if Mephisto wanted it to be any good he’d have to finish his meal
fast. 

            “What’s this, one
for the road?”

            “It is an advance
payment,” Mephisto said.  He went to the cart and caressed the remaining blood
pints.  “If you find out what’s happening to those graduates, I will give you
as much blood as you want, for the rest of your life Harold.” 

            Harold’s fanged
quivered.  Last he heard vampires tended to live forever and drank a lot of
blood.