A Mixed Bag of Blood (4 page)

“I . . . could I use your restroom?” Remington said, trying to not sound ill.

“You sick?” the man asked, his right eyebrow raised. He trained the shotgun at Remington. “Were you bitten too? Infected?”

The girl came over, her lips forming into a frown, and swatted the gun away.

“Daddy,” she said, harshly. “Stop it.”

He looked at her as if she were crazy, then said, “He could be sick, turning into a living corpse.”

“Mister—” the girl began.

“My name’s . . .” Remington was struggling, the cross’s power draining him. “My name’s, Remington. Remy for short . . . if it pleases . . . you.” He was hunched over now, his stomach cramping up, insides feeling as if they were on fire.

“Let’s go,” the man said. “Do your puking in the bowl. Then I want to see your naked ass. Make sure you ain’t infected.”

“Pleased to meet you, Remy,” the girl said, seeming as happy as could be. “My name’s Tilda, and this here mean man is my daddy. “You can call him, Bill.”

Remington managed to stand erect. He told the girl it was nice to meet her, then hurried from the room.

Standing in the hallway, his strength returned and his nausea vanished, but he kept up the charade of feeling ill.

The bathroom was down the hall. Bill followed him to it. Remington closed the door, expecting to be left alone, but Bill had remained right outside. He made fake vomiting sounds and then flushed the commode.

He couldn’t risk going back into the living room and worried that there were more crosses throughout the house. He still didn’t know if there were others around, though he didn’t think so.

Thinking of the color photo at the end of the row of pictures, he wondered where the woman and boy were. Dead? Missing? Or somewhere in the house? Maybe she had left Bill and her daughter and had taken the boy with her.

Remington didn’t like this. He was weak from lack of human blood. His mind wasn’t sharp. He was thinking too much. He just needed to act, to attack and kill. Once he had human blood in him, he’d feel better.

“Daddy,” Tilda yelled from somewhere down the hallway. “Come here. I have to show you something.”

“I’m busy, Til.”

“Now, Daddy.”

Remington grinned. The little bitch was running the show. Daddy’s little girl, or little girl’s Daddy?

“Mister?” Bill said.

“Yes?”

“Be right back.”

Remington listened to the man’s heavy footfalls grow fainter as he walked away.

He cracked the door open, closed his eyes and inhaled. His extraordinary sense of smell picked up the two familiar odors of Bill and Tilda. No other human scents were detected, but something rotten was in the air. Possibly meat, but he wasn’t sure. The lack of proper nutrition was truly beginning to aggravate him.

Remington would rather have made sure there were no surprises waiting for him—other people, blessed crosses—but the time had come to strike. He would wait until the man returned, then open the door and drink him dry. He’d then call the daughter over, needing her out of the living room and away from the cross.

A few minutes later, the man’s thunderous footsteps announced his return.

“Mister,” he said. “You done?”

Remington hadn’t even begun yet. “Yes. I’m done, Bill. Be right out.” A tingle of excitement ran along his pallid flesh. Fangs protruded from his gums as his ravenousness grew to an almost uncontrollable rage. He threw open the door, fangs bared, and sprang forward like a jaguar on prey, only to be struck across the face by the cross that had been hanging in the living room. His face burned, the skin bubbling like the stew in a witch’s cauldron.

“Demon of hellion blood,” Bill yelled, holding the cross inches from Remington’s body.

“I told you he was a bloodsucker, Daddy,” Tilda said, standing next to her father.

“You were right, sweetie,” her father said.

The girl smiled, as if she’d received an A plus on a test.

Remington had been in worse positions before. He had to keep them occupied, talking. “How’d you know?”

“My little girl here told me,” Bill said.

“I mean, how did she know?”

“Never mind,” the man continued. “I had my own suspicions, demon. When I watched you go into the bathroom, I didn’t see a reflection in the mirror. Thought maybe it was just the angle I was standing at, but then my baby girl here explained a few things.”

Remington laughed, even though he could hardly move. He needed to keep the dialogue going for as long as possible. Think of a way out of the situation he was in.

“What things?” he asked.

“Duh,” Tilda said. “Like how freaking cold your hand was when I escorted you into the living room.”

Remington wanted to stake himself. How could he have been so careless? It was the damn animal blood he’d been living on. It made him stupid, sloppy.

“And then you got sick on the couch,” Tilda continued. “I saw the way you looked at the cross. You were fine when you came in, and when my Daddy mentioned the mirror, well, our suspicions were satisfied enough.”

“Thought you found a juicy nest, bloodsucker?” Bill asked, and rammed a boot into Remington’s ribs.

The pain was welcomed compared to the draining he felt from the blessed cross. He might’ve had a chance, but with the animal blood being the only drink he’d had, he was at the human’s mercy.

“I wasn’t going to—” Remington began, but was cut short when Bill sent his steel-toed boot into his jaw.

“Every word out of your mouth is a lie,” Bill shouted, spittle flying from his maw. “Get the necklace, Tilda.”

“Yes, sir, Daddy,” Tilda said, a hint of glee in her voice.

The girl ran up the stairs. Remington heard a drawer open then close. She trotted lightly back down the staircase and handed something to her father.

“Hold this,” Bill said, giving Tilda the cross. “Keep it on him, close.”

“I know how to do it, father,” Tilda said, and smiled wickedly, clearly enjoying herself.

Bill lifted Remington’s head up and looped something around his neck. Part of the item was lifted and held out so Remington could see it. He was wearing a necklace with a plain wooden cross attached to it, the thing obviously blessed.

“We’ve got a special treat for you,” Bill said, and he and Tilda both chuckled.

Remington wanted to pass out, but that wasn’t how being in a blessed cross’s presence worked. He would writhe in agony for hours, only feeling as if he might die.

Bill dragged him down the hall and into the kitchen. Tilda opened a door and Remington was tossed down a flight of stairs.

“Have fun,” Bill said.

“Say hello to Teddy and Mommy while you’re down there, Remy.”

Remington lay at the foot of the stairs, cold, rough cement below him. The door at the top of the staircase closed, leaving him in complete darkness. But like all vampires, he had night vision, allowing him to see in the gloom.

With as much discomfort as he was feeling, he felt a sense of relief, even joy, befall him. They were keeping him prisoner, which left the possibility for escape, at some point. Although weak and achy, he glanced around. If he could gather enough strength, and find something to cut the necklace off—

He froze mid thought.

A rotting-flesh odor washed over him, much like the one he smelled upstairs, only it was stronger now. To his left, something moved. He heard moaning and the shuffling of feet. With much effort, he turned and saw two zombies coming toward him. One was small, like a child, the other, a woman, with stringy golden hair. Teddy and Mommy, he knew. They had been in the house after all, just not the way he’d imagined.

Panic filled Remington’s body. He was trembling with fear. He’d been undead for two hundred and five years. He couldn’t go out like this, bested by a little girl and her dumbass father.

But there was nothing he could do. His strength was all but gone. He could only laugh, the action turning hysterical as the zombies approached. He was laughing so loudly he thought he might go insane, that was until the zombies began tearing into his flesh and devouring him. Then all he did was scream.

It’s Nice Not To Have To Share

I stuck the nail file into my sister’s temple, poked her a few times to make sure she was dead. I knew she was gone, her lifeless eyes staring at nothing as they bulged from their sockets, but it’s always a good idea to be thorough.

The prosecution, my neighbors, newspaper reporters (via the articles), even my Dad, believe I’m evil, but I can assure you that I’m not. My mother’s too medicated to have a true opinion so I’ll leave her out of this. The only other person to substantiate my claim that I am not evil is my psychologist. As a Harvard educated man—the degrees hanging from the walls of his office telling me so—he doesn’t believe in evil.

I have supporters, people that truly understand my plight and know how hard it was for me and my sister, Sally. None of them, of course, had the courage to do what I did. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her with all my heart and with every breath I inhaled. We had a bond unlike normal sisters, but it was that bond that inevitably broke us.

Everywhere I went, she was there like a freckle on my nose. I, we, never had time apart. We always watched the same television programs, each having to endure the other’s bad taste as we took turns with the remote. Showers were terrible, intrusive, to say the least—most people using that time to unwind, wake-up, refresh or pleasure themselves. Not me. Not with her always there.

Going to sleep wasn’t much better. Countless times I lay exhausted, wanting to drift off into a soundless slumber, but she wasn’t tired and kept me up, always talking or needing the light on. I punched her in the face once to show her I wasn’t playing around, but it was like hitting myself—her pain was mine. I learned to live with her, but the final straw was pulled when Gerri, my true love, came into our lives.

Gerri and I had an immediate connection. I had never believed in love at first sight, but the clichéd saying proved to be true. We fell deeply in love.

Gerri was beautiful, full-figured, and curvy like a back mountain road, but with the muscle-tone of a professional dancer. She had luscious full lips, perfectly shaped as if sculpted from Cupid himself. Her skin was smooth, like the finest Mulberry silk, and had the hue of fine Italian porcelain.

Gerri was a genuine soul, looking at what a person was on the inside. She was kind-hearted and selfless, spending a good portion of every week with the elderly at St. Peter’s Memorial hospital, making sure they weren’t alone on birthdays and holidays.

My jokes were corny, or just not very amusing, but she always laughed at them, making me feel special.

My sister and Gerri got along well, and that was important because Sally and I were always together. With my being a lesbian, and Sally liking men, we had to come up with a deal.

Whenever Gerri came over I would wait until Sally fell asleep before we made love. The same went for my sister when she had a man over—they would wait until I was asleep. She was my sister and as much as a man’s penis made my skin crawl, I accepted her heterosexual desires and needs. And as strange as the situation might’ve seemed, we managed well enough and had a nice routine going—until the night I caught my sister with Gerri.

I had my suspicions, wondering if Sally had been awake while Gerri and I made love. I could have sworn she moaned a few times and that it wasn’t Gerri, but Gerri assured me that my sister was sleeping.

One morning, early in the a.m., I awoke to find Gerri and Sally going at it. They had tried to be quiet, speaking in hushed whispers. Their breathing was heavy and rapid at times, with the occasional moan sneaking from one of their mouths. Gerri was too good in the sack for whomever she was with not to make any noise. I wanted to scream out, to rake my fingernails down my sister’s face, but I was frozen, numbed with shock.

My heart sank and I felt like crying out, but I remained still, and allowed them to finish.
My
Gerri was a two-timing whore. I should have known, with her acceptance of my situation and all . . . She was, obviously, turned on by the two of us, had a fetish for our kind, and bid her time well until she could have us both. I trusted her; loved her with every ounce of my soul. My heart ached like a rotting tooth—the pain unbearable. I chose to say nothing, waiting to see if Sally’s or Gerri’s guilt would cause one of them, or both, to reveal what they had done. Neither said a thing, and my sister went about her business as usual, seeming more joyous than was customary.

I let it go, chalking it up to a first time offense. I loved my sister and I was in love with Gerri. No one was perfect, myself included. But a week later, to my dismay, I caught them going at it again. Once more I said nothing, letting them finish as I felt myself dying inside.

I waited until morning, after Gerri left, before confronting my sister.

“I know what’s been going on with you and Gerri,” I said, lying in bed.

“Oh?” she responded.

“I caught the two of you twice now.”

“So. What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours,”

she said, not even turning to look at me.

“We had a deal,” I reminded her, as I climbed out of bed. “An understanding.” I wanted to kick her, but I played it cool.

“Well, Georgia,” she began, “since we’re always together, I figured we should share; like we do everything else.”

“Absolutely not,” I shouted. “And since when do you like women?”

“Since Gerri’s tongue whisked me away to a place no man ever has.”

I had to sit, the room was going out of focus and my legs felt like jelly. “How can you be so cold?” I asked. “She was my love, the other half of my heart, and you ripped her away from me, the only thing that I could call my own.” Tears began to well, blurring my sister’s face, melting it. I didn’t want to cry; didn’t want her to see me hurting, but the pressure was building within and needed to be released.

“It was impossible for me to sleep while you were having sex,” Sally told me. “The sensations drove me wild, your lover’s touch making me want moan, to cry out. I could only go with it.”