Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (24 page)

Chapter Fifteen

            Many things
flitter through the mind on reaching consciousness.  Sensations from the body
start rushing up the nervous system to the brain.  It’s time to eat.  It’s time
to pee.  That sort of thing.  The alarm may be a screeching banshee to the ears
or a soothing Muzak, depending on your preference.  The mind questions where it
is and even who it is, an experience more and more common for Harold as he got
older.  It always took a moment to orient himself to the modern world.  Often,
he still woke up expecting to see sunlight bursting forth through long gone
crystal panes to hit the wall of a long deserted bedroom.  His nose even perked
up, seeking out the familiar scent of pancakes and sweet syrup.  Harold hasn’t
craved pancakes in seventy years.  He hasn’t gotten up with the morning sun in
eighty, but still his mind orients itself to this first identity every time. 
And, seeing no sun and smelling no pancakes, he remembers.

            This time he
didn’t have long to orient before the pain in his head jerked him forcefully
from his waking slumber.  His next initial thought was hangover, but he found
he couldn’t move.  His hands and feet were bound in irons and heavy chains and
his third thought was kinky sex with hangover, but that theory went out the
window when he made the mistake of attempting to sit up with an arrow in his
back. 

            “Careful there
Harold,” Donald said lightly from somewhere behind him, “It’s a nasty wound.”

            Harold panted to
the sharp, rhythmic throbbing in his chest, so close to his heart, burning his
insides with a silver point.  He tried to pass out again, but unconsciousness
refused him.

            “What are you
doing?”  Harold asked between painful throbs.  “Why are you doing this?”

            “Oh now, Harold,”
Donald walked into his peripheral vision, “don’t play dumb.  I know you were
here.”  He clucked softly. 

            The room’s
blazing bright, lights blinded Harold initially to anything outside his body. 
He focused on his surroundings and came to a horrifying realization, he was
back inside the PhenoChem building in one of the white cells along the far wall
of the laboratory. 

            He wasn’t in the
chamber where Skellie died, but he could see its burnished steel hull across
the lab.  Close enough to concern him. 

            “I have never
been here before,” he whispered, eyes locked on the chamber. 

            Donald stepped
closer, still in Harold’s peripheral vision, but only a scant few feet away.             

            “You can’t come
in here, tear up the walls and expect me not to check the building’s cameras.” 
Donald said.  He bent forward.  “You crushed part of the wall with your hands
yesterday while spying on me.” 

            Harold closed his
eyes.  He remembered the rush of fear and adrenaline flooding him on seeing the
skeleton’s horrible death.  He dug his fingers into the soft drywall during and
only wanted to get out of there afterwards. 

            Donald smiled,
leaning forward to whisper in Harold’s ear, “I guess you were just a little
scared.”

            Harold lunged at
Donald, baring fangs and anger, but the therapist danced out of his way. 

            “I’ve dealt with
faster than your like,” Donald said, “and always got away.”  He walked around
Harold, giving him a wider berth.  The vampire tried to follow his movements
with his gaze, but had to stop when his back protested with a flaming sear of
pain. 

            “Sorry Harold,”
Donald came up behind him, “I suppose I’ve left it in long enough.”  He grabbed
the arrow and pulled it out with a surprisingly strong arm.  Harold screamed. 
It felt much worse coming out than going in.  

            “Did that hurt?”         

            Donald giggled,
tossing the arrow to the sidewall of the cell.  He walked back around towards
Harold’s front.  “I’m going to put you down eventually Harold,” Donald said,
“right now though, I’ve got another errant group member to deal with before he
causes more trouble.”  The last word was said on a lilting high note, like a
child taunting his sibling saying, ‘I know something you don’t.’  Harold didn’t
know what to make of Donald’s words, but was too focused on searing pain to
worry about it.

            He looked down
his nose at Harold.  “I know you regenerate during the day so don’t think about
feigning prolonged injury with me.  Otherwise, I’ll just have to put another
arrow in you.”

            He left the cell
through a metal sliding door to tend to some equipment in the lab.  Harold
scooted closer to the cell window.  It was painful work and slow going with his
back oozing his life’s blood.  Right now, he’d be weak as a kitten if he
actually managed to get his hands on good old Donald.

            When Donald
picked the crossbow up from the table to reload it, Harold’s tiny vampy heart
thumped extra hard, but the man only slung it across his shoulder along with a
real old fashioned, before even his time quiver of arrows with a variety of
points for killing a variety of creatures.  He also loaded a gun and slung it
into a shoulder holster under his light tan windbreaker.  Donald loaded on
other items Harold had trouble identifying beyond a cross on a necklace and
small palm bible. 

            The necklace had
to be more for spiritual assistance or use on other types of non-normies,
because Harold could attest to the fact crosses did diddly squat to vamps. 
They were perfectly nice symbols and all, but a cross wasn’t going to burn him
unless it just happened to be made of silver, fire or sunlight.

            Donald gave him a
wave and suck-my-ass kind of smile before leaving with his equipment.  This is
it, Harold decided as he sat miserable and bleeding on the titanium white floor
in a titanium white cell of a fucking titanium white death lab, he really
didn’t like Donald.  At this point, he couldn’t do anything about it.  He opted
to take stock of the situation.  First, Harold was to put it mildly, in a bad
way until he could sleep and regenerate and looking at all the blood he lost
when Donald pulled out the arrow even that might be questionable.  He was
already getting kind of hungry and even his own blood on the floor looked kind
of good.  Harold put aside the worry of food and healing.  Maybe there was a
way to get out of the room.

            He got up on his
feet and hobbled around the cell in a hunched over manner.  Practically
seamless from top to bottom except at the door and window featuring six inch
thick glass.  He might break through if he were in completely perfect health
and felt up to ramming into the glass like a cannon ball. 

            When he reached
the arrow Donald had thrown so carelessly against the wall, Harold almost
kicked it away.  On second thought he stooped slowly to pick it up by the
shaft, holding the silver point away from his body.  On completing his circuit
Harold eased down to the floor.  He ripped some fabric from the bottom of his
shirt and carefully wrapped it around the silver tip, making absolutely certain
it was completely covered by fabric before tucking the arrow into his coat
sleeve.  Momentous task completed, Harold scooted towards a wall and curled
onto his side

to sleep.  

            Harold woke hours
later to the distant sounds of Donald dragging a body down the laboratory
stairs.  His head roared and he felt a shaky all over.  He got into an upright
position and realized his back felt better.  It was a crappy heal leaving him
sore and tight, but still a lot better. 

            On the other
hand, his stomach was practically eating itself.  He had no idea how someone
like Skellie could have endured the pain of starving himself into near oblivion
to get out of the program.  Well, maybe getting out of the program was a strong
enough motivator for the skeleton.  Harold had no idea of the creature’s
situation prior to coming into FEBs.  Skellie did get his wish but not the way
he intended. 

            Harold shook his
head to try and clear the rushing sound of his blood in his ears.  He needed to
focus on the sound of Donald coming closer.  From the thumping, Donald was
definitely dragging something down the stairwell.  Something wrapped in
chains.  He got an involuntary shudder through his bones.  He was trapped in a
horror film with nowhere to go.

            The laboratory
doors opened.  Donald bent through them with a heavy and hairy burden.  It was
Rufus.  Now drugged and chained.  Harold saw red blood trickling down the
werewolf’s arm and knew he’d put up a fight.  It was enough for Harold to feel
a moment of shame for how easily he’d been caught by Donald.  Harold pressed
his forehead against the cell window. 

            An inert Rufus
appeared to be a heavy burden for Donald.  At least the man wasn’t superhuman
in strength, only stronger than he let on.  The two of them made slow progress
across the lab.  Rufus slung over the man’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry. 
Donald panting and straining under all that weight.   It would be a lark if
Donald threw out his back now.  Most of all Harold found his gaze drawn to the
trail of blood in their wake.  He’d never tried werewolf blood.

            At first Harold
thought Donald intended Rufus for the chamber, but his tortuous walk across the
lab brought him toward the cells, towards Harold’s cell.  He dropped the
werewolf to the floor in front of the cell door.  Its eyes were open, but
drugged and glossy.  Its thin, pink lips drew up around an open, drooling mouth
with several long, pearly-white canines, courtesy of regular dental checkups. 
A great pink tongue lolled from his mouth and stuck to the tile like a damp
sponge.  Matted fur bunched out from under a torn button up shirt collar in
great curling sprigs and swirled along the rest of the body, only to be
interrupted with matted cowlicks, ripped clothing and twigs and leaves from his
wild run.  To Harold he looked kinda’ crappy. 

            Donald, equally
matted and foliage strewn, grinned down at Harold.  He tapped the glass and
signaled for the vampire to move back away from the door.  Harold responded
with a growl, slamming his fist against the glass.  Donald laughed, wearily
shaking his head. 

            He tapped a control
panel outside and the lighting directly above flickered off, then on again in a
stronger, painful full spectrum lighting.  It seared his eyes, even as he
closed them, and stung his skin, instantly making it red and swollen where
exposed.  Harold danced backwards into the darkened corners of the cell, where
the lights remained off.  The door opened and Donald dragged Rufus in. 

            “Harold, please
understand,” Donald grunted as he pulled on the werewolf, “this will go much
more smoothly if you just do as I tell you.”

            Still in the area
of full spectrum lighting, he bent over Rufus and began undoing chains with
practiced ease, completely unfettered by the fact that he was in the same room
with a werewolf and a vampire.  Chains off, Donald rolled Rufus onto his side.

            “So he doesn’t
choke on his own tongue,” Donald quipped, “I’ve lost a few of them by accident
that way.” 

            “I don’t see why
you’re keeping us alive,” Harold whispered.  He cradled his stinging hands in
his lap.  At least these lights weren’t as strong as the sun. 

            “This one, the
troublemaker he is, tried so hard in group,” Donald sighed, a look of
disappointment on his face.  “PhenoChem’s still working on a cure for the
infection in wolves.  I thought he’d be better served in a secure facility.”

            “Secure
facility,” Harold said, looking anew at the drugged man.  It made sense, if
Harold could believe anything Donald said at this point, which he couldn’t. 
“You mean he serves you better in here for testing.”

            Donald smiled,
but didn’t answer the taunt.  “You on the other hand,” he said, stepping
forward, right to the edge of the light.  “I’m going to have to find out just
how many people you told about all this.”  Donald gestured around the cell and
surrounding lab with open palms.  “I’m sorry, but unless you tell me everything
now, I will resort to torture.”

            Harold stared at
Donald.  He was dizzy and hungry and miserable.  His hands, head and face
burned with the irritation of a severe sunburn.  He was pretty sure he would be
here for a long time, and suffer a lot more pain and indignity before this was
over, but he did not want this to be game over just yet.  His life still meant
something and small sliver of hope that is was, he might find a way out of here
alive and with hide intact.  The minute Donald got what he wanted, he’d chop
Harold into tiny vampy steaks and toss them into that glorified electric
chamber for fun.

            “Okay then,”
Donald rubbed his hands together.  “I’ll leave you two to think it over for a
while.” On his way out of the cell Donald looked over his shoulder, “Don’t
worry about Rufus, he’ll be fresh as a daisy when he wakes up.”    

            Donald left them
alone.  The lights blinked off and back on in their previous florescent glow. 
The therapist didn’t linger.  He went through the main doors and out of sight. 
Leaving Harold nothing to do except watch the werewolf breathe.