Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor

FLESHEATERS AND BLOODSUCKERS ANONYMOUS

H.C. Hammond

Copyright © 2012 by H.C.
Hammond

All rights reserved. This
book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used
in any manner whatsoever

without the express written
permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States
of America

First Electronic Printing,
2012

Firelands Publishing

[email protected]

www.febsbook.blogspot.com

Source images for book cover
courtesy of:

Alexander Baxevanis.
Pallet
Central.
September 3, 2010. Ratcliff, London, England, GB. Accessed January
2012.
Flickr.com
.

Taber Andrew Bain.
Folding
Chair.
November 21, 2007. Carson, Virginia, US. Accessed January 2012.
Flickr.com
.

For my family, who kept me writing.

Chapter One

            Harold spent a
lot of time thinking about blood.  Its alluring warmth and coppery flavor were
manna, a precious resource, hard to procure, but so, so worth the effort.  He
spent many hours of his life considering the substance.  What drew him to it. 
How he could get at it.  How he could avoid it and why he deserved the torment
of that downright, blood-red, dirty, sloppy substance.  Mostly at this moment,
as he sat in one of many titanium white holding cells in the Columbus police
metropolitan complex, he spent time ruminating on how his need for it kept
getting him into trouble, more of it lately than usual.

            As far as the
myth of vampires went, Harold could admit he didn’t measure up.  He wasn’t
mysterious or menacing or all that sexy.  Just about the only things that got
him laid were the reputation associated with vampires and the hypnotic ability
it afforded him.  Even that stopped now that Maria was in the picture. 

           
And now
for
the first time in nearly eighty years, he’d been caught trying to get a good
meal, by the law.  Harold could practically smell a future filled with burning
flesh.

            They threw him in
the slammer for charges of attempted murder, it was really only attempting to
get a good meal on his thin frame.  He doubted the judge would see it that
way.  Even in this modern, enlightened age, those infected with
Human
Abeoviridae
didn’t get the same fair shake as everyone else.  He nibbled on
his fingertips as he thought, nipping on each one in turn and sucking on the
flesh just enough to draw a drop of blood before moving on to the next. 

            Vamps didn’t do
well in prisons.  The guards kept to a diurnal schedule.  First day in yard and
Harold would turn into so much barbeque.  Maria would miss him and weep salty
tears over his urn ensconced ashes at a state paid funeral, but he’d still be
ubër dead.  Dust to dust and ashes to ashes.

            Shit, shit,
shit.  Harold jumped from the bench to pace the room, counting the footsteps
heel to toe, one, two, three, and four.  His shit seriously hit the fan this
time, five, six.  No way, he’d be able to go back to his life and no way to
survive going to jail, seven, eight, nine.  Harold might actually have to skip
town and start fresh, ten, eleven, twelve, something he’d avoided all these
years, thirteen, fourteen.  He didn’t want to leave, fifteen steps to cross the
room, no bigger than his bedroom.  The vampire turned ninety degrees and
started walking.  This city was his home, his first home, one of the last
connections to, well, before, two, three, four. 

            He made it a
point to be extra careful where he fed, five, when he fed, rotating through
random, six, seven, eight, neighborhoods of the city on a regular basis, nine,
steering clear of other infected’s territory.  Only nine steps before his red
flyers bumped the wall, practically claustrophobic in here. 

            The cops just got
lucky, although having Tasers to take him down didn’t hurt either.  His chest
still stung from the prongs.  If he could actually fly, Harold received enough
juice to make it to Los Angeles and back.

            Everywhere this
past year, Harold encountered police cruisers.  It took more effort to sneak
around at night.  He’d been avoiding “eating out” and taking from the blood
bank at work, increasing the risk of getting caught fang deep in a pint. 

            The booking
officer’s heavy footsteps, mingled with two others stopped Harold’s fretting.  
They were coming to take him before a judge, a good time to escape.  Have the
officers just walk him out the front door with a few soft words.  He could get
away, but he’d have to keep running.  They knew his name now, had his prints
and mug shots. They knew he was infected.

            A fevered thought
screamed, jump them, as the cell door swung open and one cop asked him to step
forward.  Harold slumped towards them, a vamp with very few options.  The
booking officer guided him down the hall, one hand on his upper arm, the other
gripping a cattle prod.  Two distinctly ogrish officers brought up the rear.  The
police station lay silent with inactivity.  Other than him, they were having a
slow night.  Just his darn well luck, he supposed. 

            A couple of other
cops eyed him from the booking station and a small, Asian woman sat alone on a
bench by the entrance.  Harold had a very hard time looking away from her. 
Slowly, her red lips turned upwards in a closed mouth smile.  Her eyes were
wide and icy, bright green.  Despite his predicament, he was glad to head in
the opposite direction.  Sure were a lot of crazies around here.

            They walked down
the hall to the courtroom, at least what Harold thought was court.  When guard
opened the door, it turned out to be nothing more than a well-kept
interrogation room.  Within sat two men, one squat and large and one tall and
thin, suits with their dark grey Tweeds and Gentrys, sunglasses and skinnies. 

            These two
certainly weren’t cops and he doubted they were public defenders.  That only
left one option, they were with the government. 

            He wasn’t sure
what this meant for him, but he doubted it good. 

            On the table lay
a manila folder.  He assumed it was his file or at least about him.  The tall one
gestured for Harold to sit in the wooden chair opposite.  Neither of them
bothered asking the guard to take off Harold’s handcuffs.  Rather than put up a
fuss he sat down with his hands in his lap.  They stared at each other, to the
point where it began to get awkward.

            If this was some
tactic designed to break him and get a confession, they were going be here a
very, very long time waiting to hear his life story.  Of course, he was already
a dead man so what were several more crimes on top of the one for which they
already snagged him.  At least he’d have someone to listen, someone who might
give a damn for some small reason about where he came from and why he did it. 
The tall one introduced himself as Agent Bergstrom and the man next to him as
his partner, Agent Potts

            “Mr. Blank, Do
you know why you’re here?”  Agent Bergstrom asked, startling Harold with his
soft voice. 

            “I figured,” said
Harold, looking down at his swollen, bitten fingers, “you brought me in because
of… ” It was harder than he thought it would be to admit his status.  Decades
of living with it only increased the shame.  “Well, my being a vampire.”  There
he’d said it.  They could do what they liked, but it didn’t change the facts.

            “Oh, that little
problem,” said Agent Bergstrom with a smile in his voice.  “We’ll take care of
it for you.” 

            Harold looked up
from the fingers he had been analyzing to try and decide if he could draw any
more blood, to gape. 

            “Beg your
pardon?”  He asked, “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

            “It means, Mr.
Blank, you don’t have to worry about jail, as long as you help us.” 

            Harold eyed the
two men.  He’d been expecting an interrogation and now they were dangling the
promise of freedom.  It might be a game, some trick.

            Bergstrom
continued, “We’ve watched for someone like you some time now.  You just happen
to fit the bill.  So, we’re arranging to have the charges dismissed in exchange
for your cooperation.”

            “My cooperation,”
Harold might have laughed at the word, but he didn’t quite have the balls. 
“What can I possibly do for you?”

            Agent Potts
shifted in his chair, scraping the metal legs across the floor.  Harold grabbed
one of his ears with his cuffed hands, grimacing at the lack of protection for
his other ear. 

            “Tut, tut,” said
Bergstom, “Our new vampire friend’s ears are quite sensitive you know.”

            “Huh, how
sensitive are they?” Agent Potts asked.  He leered at Harold. 

            Harold kept
silent, rubbing his ears to sooth away the sudden bout of tinnitus flaring up
in response to that horrible noise.  He wished he could think of something
suitably caustic to say, but couldn’t come up with anything more than “fuck
off” and the man already seemed more interested than Harold preferred.

            Harold tensed
when the taller man reached forward.  Maybe he could put up enough of a
struggle to make the pile of ashes representing his dead corpse look suspicious
to the cops.  No, they would probably sweep him up and pour him in the trash. 
End of story.  Oh, Danny boy.

            “We’re not here
to frighten you, Mr. Blank.”

            It turned out
that Bergstrom needed the folded manila envelope from the table.  He opened it,
pulling out the contents and tossing them in front of Harold without preamble. 
Harold spread them out with his hand.  Surveillance photos of people and
creatures he didn’t know.  Some normie in a sweater vest dominated the images. 
Harold picked up a creepy poindexter vibe.  Most of those undeads, he couldn’t
even identify them by type, but it’s always easy to recognize the physical
symptoms, were gaunt weak-looking creatures.  It was a misleading term.  These
people weren’t dead.  He wasn’t dead.  Each was either born with an affliction
from the
Human Abeoviridae
family or they contracted it later in life,
but they didn’t die.  Only the lucky ones died.

            One skeletal male
with skin stretched across his bones and another Harold could only describe as
a giant mottled black and grey slug wearing some sort of collar stood out.  For
several moments he pondered the images, trying to determine their validity.

            Harold sighed,
pushing back from the desk.  “I don’t know these people.”

            This was going to
be a very short interrogation.  At nearly 107 years, Harold had yet to make a
long-term acquaintance with any other vampires, let alone these different
people.  He’d no clue this many types of infecteds lived in the area and he
worked in a hospital, tested for them on a regular basis.  The men may not
realize it, but they’d just quietly blown his mind.

            “We didn’t expect
you too,” Agent Bergstrom said, “These are all members of a self-help program
called FEBS Anonymous.”

            “FEBS?”

            “Flesheaters and
Bloodsuckers.”

            “Cute,” Harold
muttered.

            “We didn’t come
up with the name,” the tall man said, expressing his first sign of displeasure
in this bizarre meeting.  He leaned forward to jab a finger at a photo of the
poindexter. “He did, Donald Smythe.  Created the program to help the infected
cure their illnesses and be normal again.”

            This time Harold
did laugh, “That isn’t possible.”

            “Members of the
group seem to think otherwise.”  Bergstrom turned his attention to arranging
the photos on the table according to some internal filing system.  “Thing is
Harold. We can’t find the graduates of his program to confirm it.  The
government wants to know more about this program.  We would like you to join it
and report to us on regular basis.  In exchange, we’ll have any charges against
you dropped and your true nature will remain your own private business.”

            “Hmmm…play spy
for the feds.  I’m going to have to say no on that.”

            Agent Potts
grunted at Harold from his chair.  Agent Bergstrom's hands stilled in their
work.

            “This isn’t
optional Mr. Blank.”

            The hell it
wasn’t.  Harold’s neck was the most important thing in his life and he sure as
heckfire wasn’t about to risk it in spy games, despite the way these two set
him on edge.  If this really was it, if he really had to … he could slip away
faster than anyone in the dead of night.  He just needed an opening.

            “Why don’t you
just ask this Donald character to let you know where these people are?  He
probably keeps in touch with his graduates.”

            Bergstrom removed
his sunglasses.  Harold did a double take.  The man’s eyes were solid black
voids, all iris.  The agent revealed his teeth.  “You think only normies can be
agents?  You should take us up on this,” He leaned forward to whisper, “It’s
not so bad on this side of the table.”

            “What…you?” 
Harold stuttered, glancing at the man’s partner and wondering whether he too
harbored a secret under his dark sunglasses.

            “I’m an agent
with the government,” Bergstrom said.  “We’re having a little trouble with
Donald.  He doesn’t want to reveal the locations of former group members. 
Claims it interferes with their right to privacy.”

            The man put his
glasses back on and his completely non-descript but slightly odd look
returned.  “We can’t make him disappear right now.  Donald’s starting to get
quite a bit of attention for his program.  He’s going on the talk show circuit
soon with the ’Get Normal’ routine.” 

            The agent
gestured again with pale, bone-thin fingers towards the photos.  “During the
course of our standard surveillance of the FEBS self-help group we’ve noticed
several discrepancies.”