Good & Dead #1 (12 page)

“Thanks,” Michael said, looking around at the piles of laundry and paper that engulfed the room.

“I’m promoting efficiency,” Randy said.  “That’s always a good thing.” Randy picked his sandwich back up. “Okay.  So you can’t remember anything.  Why didn’t you tell the cops that, then?”

“Well…” Michael said, pushing a fallen strawberry across the floor with his foot, “I keep having these nightmares…”

“Yikes,” Randy said, leaning in, “do you think you saw something in the alley?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, “I think I probably did.  I mean, concussions don’t just happen.  Maybe somebody hit me.”

“Yeah,” Randy said, a blob of mustard falling from the corner of his mouth onto the table, “but your head had no lumps.  It’s was a lump-free head.”

“Oh yeah,” Michael said. “Then I guess the concussion thing doesn’t make sense at all.”

“Huh,” Randy said, shoveling grapes into his mouth.

Michael frowned.  Bell had said that it was normal to not remember turning—or deciding to turn. Michael shuddered at the thought of what he’d seen in that moment, but she hadn’t said anything about the hours beforehand disappearing.  He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something someone wasn’t telling him.

“Well, thank you for telling me the truth,” Randy said into his bowl of fruit.

Michael just shrugged, staring at his dust-covered piece of floor fruit, guilt twisting his stomach into knots. 
I hate this
. 

“I think you should tell the police anything you remember if it comes up,” Randy said.  “It might not seem like an important detail to you, but it may help them with the case.”

“I just don’t want to be a suspect.”

“Do you think you touched anything in the alley?”

Michael sighed with frustration, “I don’t know.  Maybe.  I can’t remember!”

“I know, man,” Randy said. “I just don’t think you have anything to worry about unless your fingerprints are on anything, or your blood or dandruff or something.”  Randy loved all the shows in the cop/spy/legal genre.  “What are you playing with under there?” Randy asked, leaning back in his chair to see under the table.

The legs of the old wooden chair creaked ominously, and Randy’s eyes grew as big around as dinner plates. 

“Oh, crap!” Michael said, reaching across the table to grab Randy’s arm.  But it was too late.  There was a sharp crack, and then Randy and the chair were on the floor. 

Randy laughed from the floor. “I guess I am fat!”  

“Are you okay?” Michael walked around the table and bent down to help. 

“I’m fine,” Randy said.  He tried to sit up, his arms flailing, but he was laughing so hard he couldn’t do anything.  His struggle for verticality had gotten his blood pumping, and his cheeks were flushed red beneath his glasses.

Michael could almost hear the blood pumping through his friend’s veins, almost taste the metallic liquid on his tongue.  He was gripped by a new and vicious feeling. 

“Help me up,” Randy said, grabbing Michael by the upper arm, pulling him closer toward his helpless body.

Michael could feel himself losing something.  He wasn’t the same person. For an instant, all that mattered was the blue vein pulsing under the white skin of Randy’s neck.  All that mattered was making it turn red.

“Dude,” Randy said, still flailing. “Seriously, help me up.”

Michael was startled by a sharp pain in his mouth.  It felt like knives stabbing through his gums.  He felt with his hand and found two razor sharp fangs descending eagerly.

Michael shook himself. 
No.  Not him.

He backed away on all fours as fast as he could.  He turned his face away, and the room spun with the nausea that came with resisting.  He felt as if his body was at war with his mind or as if there was a new part of his mind.  A part that meant to take over.

He heard Randy struggle up on his own and stamp over toward Michael.  It was still there, humming in his head like the sinister music in a horror movie, commanding him to attack.

“Stay back!” Michael yelled, surprised to hear a snarling voice escape his mouth.

Randy froze, but Michael’s new senses were screaming at him that prey was nearby, telling him that all he would have to do would be to kick out the legs, and pounce….

“No!” he whispered.  He would think of something else.  Good times.  He closed his eyes tight.  Charlotte danced through his mind; the way her long hair looked in the morning light, how small her hands were.  The voice did not vanish, but it quieted down enough for him to catch his breath.  He felt the razor edged teeth retract.

“Dude,” Randy said, clearly unsettled. “What is wrong with you?”

Michael kept his breath steady.  He wasn’t ready to turn around and look at him.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said, still on all fours.  “I…was…trying not to throw up.”

“You’re sick again?” Randy asked, taking Michael’s chair. “Maybe they drugged you, like in that movie.”

“No,” Michael said, “I’m not drugged.”

“Well, maybe—“

“Could you please leave?” Michael asked abruptly.

“Are you mad about the chair?” Randy asked, confused.

“No,” Michael said, careful to sound calm, “I’m not mad about the chair.  I just want to get some rest.”

Michael heard his shoes scuff the wood floor and the little thud of the table legs as Randy pulled up on it to stand.  “Alright,” Randy said, picking his jacket up off of the floor where it had fallen with the broken chair.  Michael listened to the rustling sound of Randy re-packing his grocery bags.

He didn’t turn until he heard the door slam shut.

He ran to the bathroom to inspect his mouth.  It looked completely normal, except for two spots on his gums, just above his canines, where the flesh was a darker red, like a freshly healed wound.

“Okay, okay,” he said, his panic rising, “This is really happening.  Yeah, okay, that’s okay.  You have a plan.”

What to do when you’re panicking?  Research.  Research always helps.
Michael stumbled over to his computer and was relieved to find it was already on.  He clicked the world icon. 
The world will help.
  He typed “vampire” into Wikipedia and set up a proper research session: he grabbed a bag of Doritos from the cupboard, cracked open a Mountain Dew and began to read.

“Vampires are mythological or folkloric beings who subsist by feeding on the life essence (generally in the form of blood) of living creatures, regardless of whether they are undead or a living person.”

“Neither mythological nor folkloric,” Michael said bitterly, scanning the page.

“However, it is Bram Stoker's 1897 novel
Dracula
that is remembered as the quintessential vampire novel and which provided the basis of modern vampire fiction. 
Dracula
drew on earlier mythologies of werewolves and similar legendary demons and ‘was to voice the anxieties of an age,’ and the ‘fears of late Victorian patriarchy.’  The success of this book spawned a distinctive vampire genre, still popular in the 21st century, with books, films, video games, and television shows.”

Bell didn’t seem to think that
Dracula
was very accurate, Michael thought, remembering her reaction to Michael’s Bela Lugosi impersonation.

The picture to the right of the text was of a gruesome antique painting in which a wild-looking brown haired vampire was de-bowel-ing a large man. 
This isn’t helping
.

He caught a glimpse of the little digital clock at the corner of his screen and realized that the last meeting of his calculus class was in thirty minutes. 
Yeah
, Michael thought,
a room full of defenseless math geeks whose attention was focused on their papers?  Not so much.
  Even at the thought, the hunger inside seemed to stir.

He put his head down on the table, the wrought iron transferring its flower pattern onto his forehead.

I’ll just have to do it.  There is no other way
.  He googled the nursing home, and double-checked that visiting hours ended at eight. 
I’ll do it then.  I can’t go to the play like this.

Michael got the bag of peas from the freezer and selected his rogue in World of Warcraft.

I just won’t see anybody else until tonight
, he thought, pushing the panic to the furthest corner of his mind where it could hang out with thoughts of his plummeting grade point average and what he would have to do that evening.

The nursing home was as still as it had been the night before.  The fat security guard was asleep at the door, and the florescent lights were buzzing so loud Michael could hear them from his perch in the frozen oak tree around the back.

He had already ensured that the window had not been locked since his last adventure.  It was propped open with a stick Michael picked up in the yard.  “One, two, three,” Michael whispered, tossing his bag through the narrow opening and cringing as it thudded on the linoleum inside.  He had leaned the scythe up against the outside wall of the building- it was nearly as tall as the window so he should be able to pull it in once he was inside.  The first time he broke in he hadn’t thought of that and had tried getting himself in the same time as the scythe.  He was glad the blade wasn’t real.

He got a firm grip on the thick branch above him, and swung himself through the window.  He landed as quietly as possible, crouched low and listened.  Nothing was moving. 

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and stood.  Reaching out the window, he could barely brush the scythe’s rubber blade with his fingertips.  He reached as far as he could on tip-toe and grabbed it.  He pulled it in and turned to face the empty hall.  Still nothing moving. 

He picked up his large bag and ducked inside the bathroom.  His hands were shaking violently as he unzipped the bag and extracted the costume. 
Calm down
, he told himself as he fastened the button at his collar.
You know why you have to do this
.  He forced his feet to move toward the door, stowing the empty bag under the sink.  He put the mesh face piece in place and stepped cautiously into the hall. 

Now all he had to do was…drink the blood of a kindly great Grandfather.

Remember the plan
, he told himself firmly as he tip-toed forward
.  You walk in and you walk straight to his bed.  You don’t hesitate.  You don’t give him a chance to talk.  You just get it done.
 

The hall of rooms was as dreary as it had always been.  No decorations, no cheerful wreaths on the doors.  This is where those whose time was almost up came to meet their maker.  Michael just didn’t think he’d ever have to be the one to make that introduction. 

He searched for the camera he had missed the first time.  It was there, in the furthest corner, recording a wide section of the dismal hallway.  Michael glared at it.  He had re-watched the footage several times back at his apartment. Unless they had moved it, it didn’t pick up the corner that he now peeked around.  Michael took a deep breath. 
Think skinny
, he thought as he slid out around the corner and pressed himself against the beige wall.  He crept around the perimeter, crossed behind the camera, and edged toward his target.

His heart was pumping dread through his body as he re-entered Mr. Westen’s room.

This time the television was not on.  The only sound from the other side of the curtain was the rhythmic heart rate machine and the even, peaceful breathing of the old man.

Michael put on his dark gloves and, with trembling hands, pulled back the curtain. 

“Welcome back,” Mr. Westen said, smiling.

Michael could only stare at him.  He sat upright, leaning against his many pillows, a Bible closed on his lap, his glasses in his wrinkled hand.  His bright eyes were calm, yet his hands were shaking.  He put the book and his thick glasses on the nightstand.

“Thank you so much for waiting,” he wheezed. “I had the nurses put my shoes on,” he said, pulling the thin white blankets down far enough to reveal his leather shoes.  “It’s from my favorite movie,” he chuckled. “I tried to explain to the nurses, but none of them watch westerns.  They didn’t believe you’d come back, but they humored me.”

There was such a huge space between them.  Really it was only seven or eight feet, but the act of taking the life of this sweet old man was light years away—the distance could not be breached.  Michael couldn’t bear listening to him talk.  He was sure there were people who still loved him.  He couldn’t do this.  He just couldn’t. 

“Does it hurt?” the old man asked, the first hint of fear dimming the sparkle in his eyes. “Dying?”

God I hope not
, Michael thought, shrugging. 

“Of course,” he said, recovering, “You wouldn’t know, would you?”

Michael shook his head.

“To tell you the truth,” he grimaced as he tried to adjust his pillows, “I’m so excited I can’t stop shaking.”

Michael cocked his head to the side.

Mr. Westen laughed heartily.  “Everybody around here has been asking me if I’m ready, and I tell them all the same thing.  Ever since she died, fourteen years ago next month, I’ve been saying my wife “was” my best friend.  Now I’ll be able to say she “is” my best friend, and I’m so excited.

“I feel like I did the night I asked her to marry me.  I’ve got butterflies,” he said, pressing a shaking hand to his stomach and smiling.  His skin was so thin that he was nearly transparent, and Michael could see the veins in his hands even from across the room.

Suddenly there was no distance between them.  The light years had been traveled.  He was there, by the old man’s bed, and that new part of Michael that had yet to be set free was taking charge.  In his mouth there was the sharp pain and the briefest taste of his own blood.  And then he was holding the old man down with one arm and cradling his head in his other.  The florescent lights overhead buzzed on in their petulant song as his pearlescent fangs sunk into the loose skin, never a chance of them missing their mark.

Michael’s senses reeled as the warm liquid raced through his body.  Every inch of him reveled in the long pulls he took at the man’s throat.  The weakness that had permeated his muscles all day was soothed, and replaced with strength.  It was like wandering for hours in the freezing snow and then finding oneself suddenly sitting by a roaring fire. 

Even though Michael’s mind beat wildly against all these sensations, this new part of him sang a satisfied song.  For an instant, he was in an in-between space; a place where he could grasp at the other self and fight for freedom from the hunger. 

The old man’s body went limp in his arms, and Michael was slammed back fully into reality.  He shook his head, trying to shut away the dark thoughts that had taken over his mind.  There was still an echo of the other.  A gentle, mocking laugh. 

Michael looked down at the bloodless face of the old man in his arms.  He jumped back so fast that he hit the wall, knocking over the heart monitor.  It clanged loudly as it hit the floor, beeping as it flat-lined, and Michael heard someone down the hall snort in their sleep.

He couldn’t take his eyes from the motionless form in the bed.  His heart beat madly inside his chest.  He leaned against the wall, and slid down in a nauseated heap. 

I just killed a man
.  Bile rose in his throat.

Then he threw up.  All over the cold green linoleum.  All over the side of the man’s bed.  All over the wheels of the toppled heart monitor.

He stood quickly, trying not to catch his hem in it.  He grabbed the scythe up out of the path, and looked around desperately for the mesh face piece.  It was over by the curtain.  He must have torn it off without realizing it.  He stepped over the splatter of vomit and replaced his disguise.  He turned to get out of there as fast as he could, but a horrible thought occurred to him at the door.

Is vomit DNA?
He asked himself in a panic. 
Oh crap.  Crap, crap, crap
.

He looked around wildly for something to clean it up with.  There was nothing but the blankets.  Michael could barely bring himself to look at the old man, let alone strip his bed down to the sheets.  He opened the drawers of the nightstand with the toe of his sneaker.  There were some hand towels.  He grabbed two fistfuls and desperately started wiping up the chunky mess. His billowing sleeves wouldn’t stay out of the way; they flung little bits of vomit all around the room as he cleaned. 

“Crap”, Michael said, looking at his pile of dirty towels and his poorly cleaned mess. 
This is pointless
, Michael thought hopelessly, his eyes welling up with tears in his panic.  He couldn’t help but stare at the body lying motionless in the bed.  His tears spilled town his cheeks and his throat burned.  “I am so sorry,” he whispered, looking sadly at the limp form in the thin white blankets.

There was a soft
tap
in the hall.

Michael choked down his tears and stood quickly, double-checking that the face piece was in place and snatching up the scythe.  Another tap.  What was it?  Michael concentrated on the sound.  It was the soft impact of rubber-soled shoes on the linoleum floor, just outside the door.  Michael looked around for somewhere to hide.  But there was only the bed, the nightstand, and the toppled heart monitor.

Crapcrapcrap! 
He kicked the mess of towels under Mr. Westen’s bed and drew himself up to his full height. He stepped quickly toward the door and held the scythe out like a staff.  His gloved fingers were crossed inside his billowing black sleeve. 
Please be scared
, he thought hysterically,
and please don’t have a gun
.

A sharp, middle-aged face rounded the corner.  She wore pale blue scrubs and a thick knit sweater.  Her eyes locked onto the darkness of his costume for the briefest of moments before she jumped back and screamed like an overpaid actress in a horror movie.  She landed on her scrub-clad bottom and backed out of the room as fast as her legs could kick.  Michael took a step toward her and she screamed again, getting to her feet in a mad panic and running back down the hall the way she had come.

Michael ran back down the hall and into the bathroom.  He grabbed his bag and tore off the costume, stuffing fistfuls of the fabric inside even as he focused his hearing down the hall, where she was screeching her unintelligible explanation to someone on the other end of a phone line.

He was out of the window in a flash, running across the lawn, breathing in the cold air.  He leapt easily over the troublesome fence, scythe and bag in hand. 
Tanish was right
, Michael thought as he rounded the corner from the alley to the well-lit street, not even breathing heavily,
it does come naturally
.

But at what price?

Michael slowed to a walk and swallowed hard.  His eyes burned. 

A high-pitched beeping sounded from his wristwatch.  11:30; he had to get to the theatre.

The streets were sparsely occupied with pedestrians, and it was easy enough to catch the sight of a cab.

Michael opened the door and started to get in but the driver protested.  “Hey,” he said in a thick New York accent, “You can’t carry a weapon around like that.”

“Oh,” Michael said. “It’s rubber.” He bent it easily to show the man.

He grunted his consent but looked only slightly less annoyed.

It took Michael a minute to get the scythe into the cab.  True, the blade was fake, but the shaft was still wooden, and he had to find the right angle to put it at so that he would still have room for the overstuffed backpack and himself.  It smacked into the bullet proof glass behind the cabbie’s head.

“Hey!  Watch it,” the man said gruffly.

“Sorry.”

He got situated and the car sped off.  Michael dug his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed his friend.  Randy answered on the third ring.

“Hello?” he said, clearly having just finished telling a joke, as lots of laughter blared out of the phone along with Randy’s greeting.

“Hey, quick question.” Michael ran a hand through his curls, straining to keep his voice calm.  “Is vomit DNA?”

Randy laughed.  “Why on earth do you need to know that?”

“No reason,” Michael said, noticing some puke on the bottom of his sneaker and trying to rub it off on the filthy carpet of the cab. “Is it, though?”

“I don’t think so,” Randy said, “I saw it on an episode of something.  Pretty sure it’s too acidic or something.”

“Oh,” Michael said, only slightly relieved, “Okay.  Thanks.”

Randy laughed and hung up.

Michael snapped his phone shut and put it back in his pocket.  His heart beat madly in his chest.  He had to press a hand to his stomach to keep from adding another smell to the harassed cab.  He should feel relieved that he hadn’t left DNA at the crime scene, but his mind reeled against the reality that there was a crime scene at all. 

Michael’s vision blurred as he stared down at the glossy wooden handle of the fake weapon.  Regret tore at his insides.
I should have just starved.  I shouldn’t have chosen to live in the first place!

Michael wiped angry tears from his face as they pulled up to the curb in front of the theater.

The cabbie peeled off the minute the door was shut and honked his way into position for another passenger just up the street.  Curses flew from the ousted cabbie who had been politely pulling up to the curb.

Michael stood on the sidewalk, holding the scythe limply at his side.