Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (5 page)

            David let out a
dramatic “Aaah” to announce his return and the oh so good feeling of an empty
bladder.  “You’re early,” he said, running a hand over his dark skinned, smooth
shaven head.

            “Couldn’t wait to
see you,” Harold said.

            “Ah,” David
picked up a clipboard, “I knew you had the hots for me.”

            Harold blew air
out of his mouth and leaned back in the office chair.  He clasped his hands
behind his head.  Most nights in the hospital were drawn out.  Everything about
a hospital involved waiting.  It was something that confused most people.  It
certainly confused Harold. 

            People expected a
mad dash to the rescue and frenzied doctors, harried nurses and lots of
screaming with words like “stat” sprinkled in.  He figured all people imagined
a scene from
ER
waiting for them when they came into the hospital to get
treatment, when most of the time treatment involved a lot of waiting around. 

            Even the
emergency room patients waited around to be seen, heart attack patients were
stabilized, given medication, put on heart monitors and given oxygen masks
while they waited it out.  Patients waited for nurses, then doctors, then
technicians such as, Harold to come along.  Then, the technicians waited for the
machines to do their work, while nurses and doctors waited on them.  When the
results came in, doctors spent two minutes diagnosing the patient, most of the
time.  The patient was given a drug or a treatment and left to wait it out. 
Eventually, if they were lucky, the patient got better and went home. 

            When he first got
the job, a technician told Harold most patients came to the hospital in pain
expecting things to get better immediately.  When in fact, things usually got
worse before they got better.  It was just a part of the treatment plan and
another part of the big waiting game. 

            After completing
the paperwork and processing and filtering of backlogged blood from earlier in
the day, Harold spent most nights waiting for something to do.  It actually got
kind of boring, though in a good way.  Harold always had his blood to keep him
company.

            “Have you gotten
all the samples done?”  Harold asked David.  David nodded while still looking
at the clipboard.

            “What about the
donations?”

            David nodded again.

            “Anyone need
blood drawn?”

            David shook his
head.  “Naw, man.  It’s slow.”

            Harold groaned,
tonight was going to be an especially long night.  He’d probably get really
bored and find himself sneaking back into the fridge for some snacks if he
wasn’t careful.  Once he’d gotten caught.  Had his mouth on the bag of blood
when the door to the fridge opened and David came in.  Most people dismiss it
as a trick of the eye when they see something out of the ordinary and David
quickly accepted Harold’s explanation that he’d left out his contacts and was
looking up close to see the blood type on the pint he held.

            “Want to play
poker?”

            David looked up
from the clipboard with a grin.  “I thought you’d never ask.”

            Harold was
already pulling out the deck of cards from the desk drawer.  David pulled a
seat over to the desk and cleared a space amidst the rubble of paperwork. 
Harold shuffled and started dealing when the phone rang… the ER. 

            David took the
deck and kept dealing while Harold called down to them on the phone.  The cops
had dragged in a suspected vamp and needed blood tests.  The nurses didn’t want
to go near him to do the drawing.  Harold sighed.  He hated these cases.  It
brought home how closely he lived to the edge.  The danger of getting caught was
always right around the corner.  Now that he’d actually been caught, Harold
could safely say it was no better being on the other side of the needle.

            “Don’t look at my
cards,” Harold said to David and got up to get the right kit. 

As he walked down the well
light hallways he steeled himself against what he’d see.  Vamp handcuffed to
the bed, desperate looks, begging even.  It’s not you, they don’t know about
you, he thought.  You have to stay calm. 

            He focused on the
surroundings as he walked through the hospital.  With the bright lights, he
could almost imagine he was working the day shift.  Maybe it was part of why he
enjoyed the hospital so much, they kept everything so well lit and with very
few windows.  No windows in the hallways and certainly not in the office where
he spent most of his time.  To him, it almost seemed like a normal job working
the middle of the day, but then he got to the emergency room and saw the wide
bay windows of the waiting area and the dark night beyond and heard the nervous
chatter of the ER staff. 

            Harold scoped out
the emergency room before walking in.  Already adrenaline started coursing
through his veins, heightening sharp senses; smell, taste, sound.  Initially,
he mistook the sound of his own beating heart for the siren of an incoming
ambulance but realized his mistake when no one went to the doors in
anticipation of a patient.  Two security guards were over by the vending
machine, the night nurse was intent on the computer at the nurse’s station. 
Other people wandered in and out, Harold wasn’t too worried about them.  A row
of curtains hung in series along the wall opposite the nurse’s station to
provide some privacy for those who came into the emergency room.  The ends of
these partitioned rooms remained opened, so the nurses could look up and check
on someone at a glance.  It felt strangely surreal, skulking into the ER when
only half an hour before he’d felt so free and comfortable in the hospital. 
Harold had to force himself to relax, move normally despite the tension in his
muscles.  

            The patrolmen
came over to greet him at the nurse’s station where he checked in.  One, tall,
burly and looking like he was just waiting for retirement joked they’d brought
in a real live vamp.  A clatter of metal instruments on the linoleum floor came
from behind a curtain ahead of Harold, made him jump.  He ignored the deputy’s
smug grin, taking a few extra moments to sign in.  Steady, Harold, it’s the
same as every other time.  Not a great experience, but one he could handle just
the same.

            The deputies
brought over two men.  Both men were in a minor traffic accident driving home. 
They claimed the light pole jumped out at them and ran into their truck.  When
the cops showed up, each said the other had been driving drunk and each claimed
the other owned the vehicle.  They were obviously drunk and devised the scheme
to keep from getting into trouble. 

            When the cops ran
the truck’s license plate number, they found it was registered to Hilda
Tillman, common law wife of Bill Tillman, which to the cops indicated he was
probably driving, but Bill still maintained that his friend, Zeke drove the
car.  Both also refused a breathalyzer, so to be on the safe side the cops
brought both of them in to have blood drawn.  The ER doctor spotted Bill’s
condition as soon as he as saw the guy.

            Harold
immediately saw why the doctor called him down when a man came out from round
the curtain, watery eyes rimmed in red. 

            “Whoa, whoa,
there buddy,” the police officer stepped in front of the man, “Where do you
think you’re going?” 

            The man didn’t
look well.  Dried vomit ran down the front of his red flannel shirt, his dark
hair and mussed up beard and he stared blankly at the officer.  He muttered
something the officer couldn’t hear, but Harold was able to pick it up, him
rambling about going home before the wife got mad. 

            The officer urged
the man back with his cattle prod.

            Too late, Harold
thought, if you’re here, shit’s deeper than that.

            The officer got
the drunk back beyond the curtain with some careful maneuvering.           
            “Two puncture marks on the back of the neck,” the RN said, coming
to stand behind Harold, “Inflamed and weeping with nausea, mild catatonia and a
fever.  Looks like Abeos.  We need a blood test to confirm antibodies.” 

            Harold nodded,
asking if the man had presented any problems.  The nurse indicated that he’d
pretty much arrived in this state.  Harold sighed.  Infecteds usually did
arrive in a state of shock, especially near the end stages of transition. 
Docile, not fully aware, easily confused.  Not to mention the fact that he and
his buddy were picked up for drinking.  The alcohol didn’t help Bill’s immune
system.

             He wore a
flannel shirt and dark pants.  Both of the men were probably regular Joes
working day shift at the GE plant.  It was a Thursday night, payday and time to
knock back a few before paying the utilities and buying groceries for the
week.  Harold could bet if he opened Bill’s wallet he’d find a couple hundred
in cash the guy intended to blow on beer.  Unless, he’d already achieved his
goal, but he didn’t look that drunk.  He looked sick, very sick. 

            He came around
the bed to prep the man for drawing blood.  He explained the process to the
man, who mumbled his name, as he went along.  Security guards and a patrolman
leaned in close to watch Bill.  In the other partition, a lone second patrolman
watched Bill’s friend.  The one who checked out clean on visual inspection.

            Bill, the drunken
undead, didn’t pay much attention to Harold’s spiel or the way Harold had to
pull on a triple layer of gloves, with the top layer reaching nearly to his
forearms or the mask or the safety glasses.  Harold didn’t need them, but he
wasn’t exactly out at work.  No way they’d let him work Phlebotomy, if they
knew.  They never would have hired him in the first place. 

            Harold sighed at
his safety precautions. The chances of transmission were low anyway.  Lots of
people have been exposed to Abeos; only five to ten percent actually got
infected.  Otherwise, they’d be up to their eyeballs in walking zombies and the
world would be very different.

            When Harold
pulled out Bill’s arm to swab it with alcohol, he started screaming and
struggling to get away.  The cops jump on Bill, pushing him down to the
hospital bed.  Bill is looking in Harold’s face with absolute fear.  He’s
screaming at the top of his lungs, bringing the nurses and doctors running and
the husky patrolman is leaning over Bill telling him to fucking shut up, but
Bill ignores it, continuing to scream and stare at Harold with wide bloodshot
eyes. 

            He is still
holding onto Bill’s forearm with a steely grip and can hear the rapid pounding
of Bill’s heart as he twists and writhes on the bed, but can’t figure out why
this vamp is freaking out.  It sets Harold’s own heart into a rapid gallop. 

            The cops yell at
Bill to lie still.  He’ll be alright; they’ll get off of him, if only he’d
cooperate.  Bill refuses to cooperate; someone pushes Bill’s head onto the
pillow and his long hair falls back to reveal the bite.  Red and inflamed,
exactly as the nurse said.  Some mad creature had ripped into Bill’s flesh and
sucked out his life’s blood and Bill’s eyes are locked on Harold. 

            Harold panicked;
he backed out of the curtained area as a nurse rushes past him with a syringe
in hand.  A frustrated yell cuts through the air and Bill’s screams die down to
a rumbling upset.  Across the partition from Harold is another man, bearded,
flannelled and wringing his hands.  Instantly, Harold knows this is the other
guy the Sheriff’s office pulled in with Bill.  He’s also a vampire. 

            Harold can smell
it and see it in the man.  This guy has been infected for a long time.  No
wonder they didn’t see a bite on examination.  It healed without scarring.

            Harold placed a
hand on the nurse’s station desk to keep himself from falling.  His little
vampire heart beat a million miles a minute.  Had they not seen?  Had they not
made the connection? 

            The husky officer
came cursing out of the partition.  He spotted Harold and pointed and fear slid
through him again.  They knew, everyone knew. 

            The cop came
closer.  “You’ll still have to get samples.”  Then he turned and moved on
towards the bearded man who watched the scene unfold only seconds ago.  The
patrolman tried to shuffle Zeke behind the next curtained off partition.

            “No,” the man
said, backing away from the officer.  He glanced around the room, searching for
help.

            “Sir, your friend
is fine,” the officer said; stopping his forward movement, hand outstretched,
“We need to take some blood.”

            “I can’t be here.”
The man whispers backing further away.

            “Sir.”

            “No.”

            Zeke turns and
runs for the nearest exit, far outpacing the cop in speed, but the patrolman
doesn’t even try to run after the guy.  He pulls his Taser gun and hits the man
in the back as he reaches the exit.

            He tenses,
falling to the ground in seizures, a quick duh, duh, duh erupting from his
mouth.  A nurse screams with delayed panic and suddenly everyone in the ER is
backing away from them in the hurry.  For a few moments, Harold relieves his
own experience with a Taser gun.  The jolt, the way every muscle in his body
spasms and shakes at once. The sharp, electric almost pain of 50,000 volts.