Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (27 page)

            Harold was so
absorbed in the action, he jumped nearly three feet in the air as the wolf man
joined him.

            “Which one’s
winning?”  He asked.  Little pieces of raw ground beef were forever lost in the
wereman’s scraggly beard.  His forehead furrowed in confusion, “Who are these
people anyway, friends of yours?”

            Harold didn’t
answer.  He peered closely at Rufus for signs of sedation.  Dilated eyes,
slurred speech and general confusion.  Nothing out of the ordinary yet.  It
would probably take a few minutes for the sedative to kick in. 

            The ogre on the
floor roared, finally noticing what was going on around him.  He got up and
started for his friend, but a shout from Orlen halted him in his tracks.  For a
second or two, he hesitated, torn between Orlen and his own kind, but Orlen was
in real trouble now.  Donald had her pinned to the ground, crossbow lying
forgotten to the side, but in both hands a large gleaming knife produced from
somewhere on his person during the unobserved battle.  Orlen barely held the
knife tip at bay with hands on his wrists, but it descended none the less
towards her neck. 

            Another call from
Orlen for help in her hypnotic voice, now tinged with fear, made the ogre’s
decision for him and almost drew Harold out of his hiding spot.  Rufus started
forward too, but Harold yanked him back. 

            The ogre hoisted
Donald up by the back of his shirt and shook the man as a dog with a bone might
before sitting down to gnaw on it.  The wolf man tensed beside him, ready to get
up and run to his master’s defense even now, but Harold urged him to stay and
see what happened.   Throughout all of this the lights continued to flash.  The
ogre didn’t sit down to eat Donald after the horrific bout of shaking.  Instead
he dropped the noodle limp man to the floor and looked to Orlen for
instructions. 

            She stood up,
dusting herself off and kicked Donald onto his back.  He was either unconscious
or dead.  Harold hoped for the latter.  It would be much simpler for everyone
involved.  Now, he had to get out of here before Orlen found him. 

            He skirted round
the wereman who dazedly asked what was going on.  Harold shushed him.  Instead
the man asked his question again, louder this time and a bit angrily.  Harold
continued around the island on his hands and knees, hoping Rufus might forget
his question and follow or just forget it.  The wolf man did neither, he
followed and asked questions, refusing to shut up. 

            He stopped and
peered around a counter, shushing Rufus.  Orlen and her savior were now across
the lab trying to figure out what to do with the ogre still stuck in the
panel.  It continued to drain electricity from the wall, making the lights
flicker.  Donald must have one hell of an electric bill to be drawing so much
current.  Orlen directed non-electric ogre to pick up a nearby stool.  He did
so, came forward and at her signal swung it into the other ogre, freeing him
from the wall with an electrical pop.  The ogre hit the floor with an alarming
thud and the lights went out completely.  Harold decided to run for it.

            In the darkness
they made it to the far corner of the lab, dashing between spaces where island
counters no longer sat and trying in general to move quickly, but Rufus made it
difficult.  He could see little in this complete darkness and hear the others
moving around, but Rufus’s pestering was loud enough for a deaf man with
clogged ears to hear.  Plus, he was starting to slow down, the sedative finally
hitting him.   Harold got fed up and told Rufus to be quiet or he would leave
him here.  Not the smartest move.

            “Fine,” Rufus
said, he moved to stand up, “If you don’t want to tell me what’s, what is going
on, I’ll ask them.”

            Harold grabbed
the wolf man by the legs, knocking him down as he yelled out to Orlen.  The
electrical system picked that moment to restart and every light in the lab
flickered back on.  Harold scrambled up the smelly man and wrapped his hands
around his mouth, muttering for him to shut up. 

            They both lay
still as heavy footsteps drew near their hiding place.  Harold stopped
breathing and the wolfman’s eyes got wide as he looked up at something behind
Harold.  He couldn’t make himself look, but knew exactly what it was as a meaty
hand lifted him into the air by the back of his shirt.  He closed his eyes and
waited for the shaking to start.  

            Nothing happened,
though, except he heard sniffing and opened his eyes to see he was being
inspected up close by an ogre.  The ogre drew back, lips parted as he exhaled
heavily through his mouth.  The stench of halitosis hit Harold full on in the
face, not pleasant.  He gagged, thankful he had nothing in his stomach to
lose.  The odor was something like rotted pumpkin meets used baby diapers.

            “English man?” 
He queried.

            Harold started
struggling.  He knew the children’s tale and wanted no part of it.  “No,
American, American!”  He hissed.  “Put me down!”

            The ogre sniffed
at him again, obviously confused.  He didn’t put Harold down, but instead
leaned back over the lab counter and pulled out a whimpering Rufus by the
scruff of his neck.  The ogre sniffed at Rufus and smiled, showing off his huge
brown dotted molars, perfect for grinding bones to make bread. 

            “John,” Orlen
called from where she stood beside Donald’s body in the center of the lab. 
“Bring them here.”  Finally, one of the ogres had a name.

            Any half-formed
plans for a meal were immediately forgotten by the man.  He turned obediently
to Orlen's request and dropped Harold and Rufus to the floor at her feet. 

            “Sorry to
interrupt you, Mr. Blank,” she smiled down at them, “but you missed our
appointment.” 

            Harold groaned. 
“It wasn’t exactly my idea.”  He pushed himself to his feet.  His whole body
feeling the pain of the past few days. 

            Donald’s body on
the other hand was limp, his chin touching his chest.

            “Is he dead?”

            Orlen stood way
to close to Harold than he would have preferred as she joined him in looking
down at Donald.  She smiled her patented prim grin and he could imagine the
things going on in her head. 

            “Not yet.”

            Orlen stepped
over Donald straddling his legs on either side with a stiletto leather boot. 
She picked up his knife from the counter with one hand and grabbed him by the
hair with her free hand.  Tracing the blade’s paper thin edge along his cheek
she called his name softly, willing Donald to wake up. 

            Donald came to in
a groggy state, mumbling to himself, not yet fully aware of his surroundings. 
Orlen continued calling to Donald, grazing the knife along his chin.  Harold
had to shake himself to loosen the hypnotic hold Orlen’s voice was starting to
gain over him.  A treacherous woman, even when she was focused on someone else.

            When Donald
failed to wake sufficiently to satisfy her, Orlen snapped the blade along the
underside of his chin, creating an inch and a half long gash in his flesh,
causing him to jerk awake. 

            The blood, paler
than usual and watery, flowed freely from his wound, two long rivulets raced
down his neck, around his Adam’s apple and pooled in the divot of his collar
bone.  Harold’s stomach twisted on itself.  He could smell the blood already. 
B-negative, tangy, sweet, but lacking in kick to his senses.  He would almost
call it anemic.  It still attracted him and he hated himself more than ever for
wanting it.

            He stared at the
blood on Donald’s neck, dimly aware of Orlen pressing the blade against his
jugular, ready to pierce the skin and pop the slippery, fibrous sheath open
with a flick of her wrist. 

            “How does it feel
to be on the other side of this blade?”  Orlen asked, breaking the hypnotic
atmosphere with the fervor in her voice. 

            “Not so good,”
Donald slurred softly.  He grunted as she pressed the blade into his skin. 
Orlen’s body language gave off some major revenge vibes.  He did not want to be
in Donald’s position right now.

            “You’ll never
kill another of us again,” she whispered, “I’ll make sure of it.”  Orlen
pressed harder, piercing the skin above Donald’s jugular.  Harold winced even
as his eyes locked on the watery red fluid like it were manna from heaven.  He
felt a sick to his stomach, still shaky, and weak from hunger.

            Rufus, whom
Harold had completely forgotten about, yowled and rushed forward knocking Orlen
off her feet.  In a shot, Donald was up, belying his apparent dazed condition. 
He kicked out at Harold catching him under the jaw.  Harold flew backwards and
hit the ground with a solid thud.  Flashes of light danced in his eyes and his
jaw cemented shut in a most painful manner.  Harold moaned softly and decided
to stay down.

            He watched
through slit eyes as Rufus screamed at Orlen again, the sedatives slowing his
movements and probably his good judgment.  Harold rolled out of the way in time
to avoid John the ogre’s stomping feet as he came forward, but the ogre did
nothing more than look at the scene, confused as to whether he should help
Orlen or grab Donald who was now heading for the exit. 

            Rufus’ attack
stopped as the sedatives kicked in all at once and he slumped into a doze on
top of a petite struggling Orlen.  She let out an outraged cry and John opted
to help her, letting Donald escape up the lab stairs.  

            Once more the
ogre lifted Rufus up, though he was now completely passed out, and sniffed at
the wereman with hungered interest.  He had no time to grab a quick meal before
Orlen bounced up, verbally railing on the creature for letting Donald get
away.  She ordered the confused ogre to drop it, referring to a sedated and
snoring Rufus, and go after Donald.  John did so, thundering off after Donald,
but Harold doubted he would catch up in time to stop the man from slipping out
into the street and if he were smart, disappearing forever. 

            Harold sat up,
pressing his hands against his face.  He couldn’t open his jaw.  After several
failed attempts to open it naturally, he forced it open by prying fingers
between his teeth and yanking down.  It came open with a disturbing crackling
sound and a good amount of pain, but it would heal with a long night’s sleep
and lots of blood, if he got near any, ever, again.  He tested his jaw a couple
of times and found it workable if he didn’t push it further than it was willing
to open on its own. 

            Orlen seethed by
the counter.  She faced away from him but tension filled her tiny body, her
fists balled and tiny red lights flickering in and out of existence around her
bent head.  He figured it was as good a time as any to get out of there.  He
levered himself up on unstable feet and hobbled as quietly as he could towards
the exit, much like Rocky at the end of his career making fight, but without
the career or the win.

            “Stop Harold,” Orlen’s
sickly sweet voice halted his tracks, apparently he didn’t get moving soon
enough.  He tried to continue walking, but couldn’t even lift his big toe with
a screaming thought.  Orlen’s voice had completely disconnected him from his
body.  His face screwed up with the effort of trying to break free, of trying
to find some sort of willpower in his gravely weakened body, but nothing,
nothing.  A remarkable sense of peace slid over him.  Though a small flame of
hatred towards Orlen still glowed in his belly, but it could be the hunger
talking.    

            “Turn around and
come back to me Harold,” Orlen commanded him.  He doubted she felt as
controlled as her voice sounded, but she was definitely back in control of her
ability.  Harold followed her orders as calm as you please, no longer caring to
fight the woman’s commands. 

            She smiled up at
him, multitudes of red lights weaving between them, some settling on his skin
and leaving their white hot marks.  He wanted to swipe the malignant insects
off, but was equally powerless to follow the urge.  Orlen had complete
control.  She brushed his chin with cold, bony fingers.

            “Ouch, that hurts
Mr. Blank,” Orlen whispered.  It was worse than death.  He didn’t want her to
touch him.  Repulsion welled up in his empty stomach and he wanted to expel
yellow bile onto her face, if only to break her contact with his flesh.  Get
her and those damn burning red sprites away from him, but he couldn’t even
vomit.  He just stood there and took it.

            Orlen continued
to stroke his swelling chin and jaw with odd fascination where Donald had
kicked him.  Maybe she got her rocks off on pain.  Maybe it was being in
control.  Either way, Harold really didn’t like where this was starting to go. 

            His savior came
in the form of John grunting his way down the stairs and into the lab,
empty-handed as Harold expected.  Orlen lost interest in him, cursing the
creature and in general ranting about doing a job herself if she wanted it done
right.  During her rant Harold felt some degree of autonomy come back into his
body.  He found he was able to release a silent fart that his artificially
enforced tension kept uncomfortably bound within his bowels.  Unfortunately, he
couldn’t move, apparently he’d need Orlen’s direction for actual movement, but
it was a small release.