Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (29 page)

            Agent Bergstrom
acted agitated now, taking his hat off and running a hand through his dark
hair.  Harold guessed he wasn’t the only one in trouble with the law.

            “I haven’t seen
Zork in days.  Not since I told him what Donald was up too.” 

            “You told the
slug.”

            “At the time Zork
didn’t seem to care.”

            The G-man cursed,
turned away and back again, hands outstretched ready to strangle Harold.  “It’s
probably anywhere by now.  Do you know what you’ve done?”

            Harold smiled. 
Zork had high-tailed it, probably as soon as things got sketchy in the house. 
The slug must have been far more concerned than it let on with Harold.  “Sounds
like you’ve got a problem.”

            The G-man
stilled, considering Harold.  A tense moment passed between them.

            “If you know
anything tell me now.”

            “Why?” Harold
asked, “You going to let me go?”

            Looking around at
the carnage of captured bodies, blood, mud and gas, with a soft noise,
Bergstrom shook his head and put his hat back on.

            “I’d say yes,
but, I’m not sure you’d believe me.”

            “You’re right,”
Harold said.

            The federal man
stared long and hard at Harold.  Bergstrom was on top, but that could quickly
change and they both came to know it in those few seconds.  Perhaps there were
still a few loyalties to his kind in this turncoat, because he laughed.

            “Yeah, I guess
so,” he said, then turned to Harold’s captor, “Put him and the wolf in with
Mephisto.”

            Agent Bergstrom
pulled down his shades to wink at Harold, “I don’t want to see your face again,
Mr. Blank.”

            On that cryptic
note, the agent pulled Harold away and around the corner of the house behind
the zombies and Rufus and the ogres and Mephisto and Donald.  The front yard
had turned into a loading zone for undesirable market goods.  The zombies were
being urged into large covered army trucks, the ogres, still passed out, were
stacked up in a semi-trailer.  White vans and SUVs littered the road and Harold
was directed to one large van in particular. 

            The doors opened
to reveal Mephisto, Rufus, Donald and another fed guarding them.  His captor
pushed Harold up into the back and he caught a seat next to Mephisto who looked
oddly happy.  He kept glancing at Donald and his fangs were out, glistening
with saliva despite the darkened interior of the van.  Now, Harold thought
about it, it was odd for Mephisto and Donald to be placed in the same vehicle,
especially since they were trying to kill each other.  Donald shifted closer to
the agent on his right.  Rufus sat with his hairy hands in his lap, whimpering.

            His captor closed
the van’s doors once Harold was secured to the bench and banged on the outside,
signaling the driver to pull away.  They moved out slowly, weaving through the
maze of vehicles.  Harold took a longing look at his phantom through the
darkened back windows as they passed it on the street.  He imagined the blood
in the trunk had probably gone bad by now. 

            They traveled in
silence for several minutes with the only music being Rufus’ growing whimpers. 
Mephisto fidgeted with his cuffs, never taking an eye off Donald.  Looking
between the two of them, Harold started getting a bad feeling again.  He sought
comfort in the knowledge  of the broken arrow still firmly in place up his
sleeve.  No one bothered to check him for weapons.  Or they didn’t think he
would carry any. 

            Harold tried to
make eye contact with Rufus, but the Englishman refused to look up.  He thought
about kicking the wolf man, but didn’t want to draw unwanted attention from the
G-men guarding them.  Lacking any other option, he sat back and waited for the
show to start. 

            It didn’t take
long.  About fifteen minutes out from the house, the van slowed to a stop. 

            “Hey Mickey,” the
agent beside Harold called up front, “why’d we stop?”

            A lack of
response from up front prompted the agent to work his way to the driver’s
seat.  He banged on the wall separating front from back.  His hunched position
put the man’s neck in prime location for Mephisto to bite.  First mistake,
Harold thought, never get close to a vampire, especially a crazy one.

            It happened
almost faster than Harold could see.  Mephisto’s bite landed on the upper part
of the man’s neck, too high for a kill, but still painful enough to elicit
squealing. 

            The second agent
in back lunged forward to intervene, but didn’t quite make there.  He tripped
over Donald’s foot, landing hard on the grilled floor.  Harold kicked the man
in the head until he didn’t move. 

            The squeals died
down and Mephisto was already unlocking his cuffs with the agent’s keys. 
Donald managed to open the back doors and hopped out of the van dragging a somewhat
reluctant Rufus with him, as they were still chained together. 

            “Come on,” Donald
yelled at Rufus, pulling him along the street.  Mephisto hissed, finally
getting out of his cuffs and hopping out after them.  Harold fumbled for the
key as Mephisto dropped it and undid his own cuffs.             

            The van started
again, making a sharp U-turn and throwing Harold and the two unconscious agents
around in back as it followed the three escapees. 

            Harold managed to
slip loose of his own restraints and rolled out of the moving van.  He hit the
asphalt and felt something crack in his chest, but his fall was cushioned by a
few hidden pints of blood, which unfortunately burst when he landed on them. 
He allowed himself the luxury of laying still for just a few seconds while he
tried to breathe without breathing too deeply, because whatever he hurt it made
it exceedingly painful.  His hospital training told him it was most likely a
cracked rib.  However, he had a fear, the squealing van might turn and try to
make him into so much road kill.  Harold got up with much difficulty and
hobbled to the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the van as it peeled down the street
and turned into an alleyway after the three escaping creatures. 

            He was alone. 
Still, amazingly, it was dark out and the streets were empty.  Harold couldn’t
see or smell anyone, beyond his companions, in the area.  He heard Rufus
wailing about something or someone.  Without a doubt, Mephisto caught up to
Donald.  Otherwise, there were no feds or vamps or ogres and zombies.  He
probably had time to get to a car and get the hell outta’ dodge before they
came after him.  He could probably even get Maria too.  Harold started walking
away from the scene.  His back, and now chest and everything else still hurt. 
All of them were nothing but trouble, and hadn’t done more than get him hurt,
repeatedly.  No need to go chasing after that group. 

            His footfalls
faltered at Rufus’ cries reaching panicked painful levels.  Harold didn’t want
to turn around, but he owed the wolf a solid.  The damn guy couldn’t even
control himself half the time, was highly suggestible and had a thing for
Donald that was unnatural to Harold, but he did help him out of the lab. 
Harold sighed and turned around to make his way towards the alley. 

             When he got
there Donald and Mephisto were locked in a hand to hand combat again.  Donald
seemed to be on the losing end.  Oh well. 

            Rufus didn’t
share Harold’s sentiments.  The wolf man had lost a battle of his own with an
agent, presumably the driver who had him on his back with a baton to his
throat, slowly choking the wolf as he struggled to get into the fray with
Donald. 

            He also saw why
the van had slowed down earlier.  Orlen stood in front of the van’s headlights
watching the fight, or perhaps enjoying it.  He’d completely forgotten about
her at the house.  She must have used her abilities to slip away when the feds
showed up.  She had put her mojo on the agent too. 

            Harold stepped
forward and pulled the fed off of Rufus.  He might be in a weakened state, but
he was still strong enough to send the man flying backwards.  Rufus got up in a
flash and ran to save his master from what must be certain death in his eyes. 

            “Wait.”  Harold
couldn’t grab Rufus before he ran to join the fray. 

            He collided with
Mephisto in a full body slam, leaving the man only enough time to let out a
surprised erk before contact.  Orlen screamed.  She ran forward to save her
master.  Harold sighed again and hobbled over to the fighting. 

            Orlen had Rufus
by the hair and was barely keeping him from sinking his teeth into Mephisto’s
throat.  Donald sat beside them, guffawing and holding his stomach, finding the
sudden reversal entirely too funny for Harold’s taste. 

            He grabbed Orlen
and threw her back as he did earlier with the agent, at the same time pulling
Rufus up by his torn shirt collar.  He yelped.  Harold yanked the wolf man
around to drag him up out of the alley, but Orlen had other ideas.  

            How she snuck up
next to him without him realizing it, Harold didn’t know, but Orlen was in his
ear.  Whispering his name, pulling him down the dark well of hypnotic trance. 
Suddenly, he was no longer in control of his own body.  Amazing how every time
it was easier to fall under her spell.  Or maybe she was getting stronger. 
Harold didn’t know.  He just gave in, stilled and felt himself go all peaceful
inside.  He no longer cared about Mephisto or Rufus or even his girlfriend.  He
didn’t even care about his own life.  It was all so good. 

            Orlen directed
him to stand up and turn to Donald.  He’d stopped laughing now.  In doing so,
Harold inadvertently let go of Rufus who slid to the ground in confusion.  His
eyes went as round as saucers. 

            “Kill him,” Orlen
whispered, and Harold was on Donald, catching him before he could get into a
fighting stance.  Donald was more skilled and Harold injured, but under the
delightfully soothing trance he felt no pain at all.  His body moved of its own
accord.  Yes, he was directing his arm to pull pack and hand to close into a
fist.  Yes, he was now hammering Donald’s face until his nose burst and bled
like a ripe blueberry, but no, he didn’t feel the normal sense of fear, pain
and sense of ultimate consequence.  He didn’t question his orders.  He just
did. 

            Donald pulled
some kind of martial arts move and slid out from under Harold.  His face hit
the ground for a second time.  Some of the skin abraded from his cheek on
contact.  Now Donald was trying to snap his neck.  Harold could feel the bones
popping and starting to give.  He went with the sharp turn, flipping his whole
body round to face the man, pressing both thumbs to eye sockets to crush. 
Donald screamed, grabbing at Harold’s thumbs.

            “Kill him, kill
him,” Orlen said as she stood over the two.  Harold could feel her almost sexual
excitement.  She’d been waiting a long time for this death.  Harold felt no
compunction either way about it, except mild disgust still flickering somewhere
deep inside over her closeness, her pervading essence in his mind.

            While he rolled
around on the concrete, that more objective part himself watched Rufus stand. 
For a second he appeared to rush Harold, biting and crazed, in defense of his
master.  As Rufus reached them he leap over them and collided with Orlen. 

            She didn’t make a
sound.  Harold felt the pressure of Rufus’s teeth in her neck as if it were his
own and the pop of skin and jugular as they punctured, then the ripping of it
and the connection between them broke.  He was himself again, no longer trying
to gouge out Donald’s eyes.  Ripping and chewing sounds filled the night air
along with the fresh scent of blood.  Rufus was only doing what came
naturally.  Feeding. 

            He pushed Donald
off him and got up to stare into the dark corner where the wolf man hunched
over her body.  Harold felt glad of her death.  It was kind of the only way she
could be stopped.  Killed by someone she didn’t even bother facing, someone she
underestimated. 

            As Rufus fed on
the body, he whimpered.  He cried, as he crushed bones with jaws more canine
than human, choked and howled long and low at the moonless night.     

            Harold remembered
his first kill.  An accident the first time.  How quickly he’d grown used to
it.  The murdering and maiming, the feasting.  His own moral conscience
stretched so far it might as well have snapped.  The wereman’s unpleasant meal
reminded Harold of himself those first few times.  How hard he tried not to
kill, leaving terrified drunks and loners and prostitutes and homeless anemic
with fear of the vampire, but he didn’t kill.  When did he cross the line? 

            Growing cold and
wanting to do nothing more than get away from the scene, Harold turned only to
see Donald and Mephisto watching too.  Each mirroring disgust on their faces. 

            “I’m done, I’m
leaving,” Harold said to them, not that it really mattered to either one,
“Don’t try to follow me.  I don’t care who you are, I’ll… I’ll just kill you.”