Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (28 page)

            “Fine,” Orlen
eventually relented her verbal attack, “We need to get back to Mephisto.  Come
Harold.”

            He watched
himself from an oddly detached point of view as he started following Orlen
around the room like a mechanized man doll.  The tension in his muscles back in
full force, the strange sense of peace soothing his mind.  John lagged behind,
nudging Rufus’ prone form with his over-inflated foot.  A long stream of
viscous drool oozing from his open, brackish mouth. 

            Orlen noticed and
yelled at the ogre and again her grip on Harold loosened, but not enough. 

            “Fine bring it,
but I don’t want you eating in the van,” Orlen said to placate the hungry
creature.  He smiled and picked up the wolf man, tucking him under one long
arm.  John also grabbed his now dead compatriot by the arm with a free hand and
dragged the body along behind. 

            They made a
strange trio marching through the empty Phenochem building and upstairs Harold
saw it was night outside, which explained the absence of people to be
frightened off by the sight of them dragging two bodies through the lobby.  If
it had been just him, with his luck, some night security guard probably would
have popped up by now with a large gun and a chip on his shoulder about
vampires.  

            Orlen directed
them to a black van, much like the one his missing friends, the feds, preferred
using.  Most likely, Orlen chose it out of necessity, to hold the large
creatures traveling with her.  The ogre climbed into the back with the body and
Rufus, still asleep.  Orlen drove and he sat passively in the passenger side
seat.  It didn’t take long to get to the glittering haven of Mephisto’s.  

            They parked
around back by the loading docks.  Orlen made a brief phone call to someone in
the building to make sure it was all clear before they got out and headed in
through the darkened cargo entrance. 

            They had quite
the operation in the casino loading area.  Zombies moved packages to and fro,
containing everything from money to blood to human food for the front end of
the casino.  Harold could smell all of it.  His disconnected state also seemed
to disconnect him from his growling belly, because the blood didn’t bother him
at all as they were wandering through the facility.  The ogre dropped off his
compatriot along the way in the capable, but rotting hands of a pair of
zombies.  John didn’t give up Rufus though, and continued cradling the limp
werewolf in his arm.  The ogre had more assiduous plans for the wolf later on. 

            They moved into
the more reputable white washed hallways between the two halves of the casino. 
It bustled with activity.  Frightened normies who’d lost their shirts were
being escorted along the halls by well-preserved zombies in makeup and wigs, no
doubt being taken to rooms where they would pay their dues in blood.  How many
pints of blood for a hundred dollars? How many for a thousand?

            Harold didn’t
really care.  He lazed in Orlen’s blissful haze, following her quiet commands. 

            Eventually they
wound their way up the stairs and into the opulent hallways before Mephisto’s
office, where Orlen briefly tried ordering the ogre to leave its intended meal
outside the door, but the monster put up such a fit that she relented.  One
must know after all, when to pick one’s battles. 

             She knocked three
times and entered at Mephisto’s command, followed by Harold and then the ogre. 

            Harold’s nose
picked up the rich scent of warm blood, but his body felt no urge for it.  In a
way it was kind of a relief from his natural tendencies.  Mephisto draped in a
robe of the finest velour and fur trim, turned to them with open swept arms
from where he stood at the window. 

            “Ah Harold, so
good of you to join us,” Mephisto came over to pump Harold’s arm
enthusiastically, but couldn’t pry it up from its rigid position at his side. 
He frowned at Harold’s blank look and general disarray.  “Not having a good
day, Harry?”

            Mephisto turned
to Orlen, “My dear, please,” he said, gesturing at Harold’s hypnotized state. 
Orlen giggled a little for the vampire and released Harold from his bondage
with a word. 

            It all came back
in a rush; reality, emotions, hunger, blazing hunger in his body for food.  He
found himself intensely willing to clamp down on any of the several warm bodies
in the room, especially with the delicious odor of blood in the air.  He looked
around and saw the cart of blood by Mephisto’s ornate desk.  He’d been enjoying
another meal when they came in.  Harold flew at the cart and sank his teeth
into the first pint he came across, sucking it dry with slurping efficiency. 
This quickly followed by a second and third and several more pints in a bloody
haze before he slowed enough to realize he was on the floor.  The cart knocked
over.  Plastic containers littering the area around him.  He was also very uncomfortably
full, but in a good way.  Already he felt stronger with the blood in his
belly.  He groaned and fell back on the floor, a half smile on his face. 
Muttering to no one in particular, that was the best meal he’d enjoyed in a
long time. 

            Mephisto’s
chuckle garnered his attention.  While he’d been feasting the man had been
conversing with Orlen (the hissing bitch who had the fucking gall to put him
back into another one of those goddamned trances) and she’d filled him in on
finding Harold at Donald’s lab. 

            “So, I’m to
assume this Donald is up to no good?”  Mephisto questioned. 

            “It’s him,” Orlen
muttered.  Her delectable voice carried a ton of meaning.

            The vampire
looked at her.  “The hunter?”

            Orlen nodded. 

            “Well, it’s a
good thing I sent you after Harold then.  Otherwise, our friend would be
nothing more than a pile of ashes now.”

            Orlen’s raised
eyebrow told Harold, she’d be perfectly alright with that.  He pushed up off
the floor, giving Orlen as good as he got in dueling eyebrows.  Though, his
legs quivered, threatening to give out under his weight.

            “We’ll have to
hurry if we’re going to catch up with the hunter,” Mephisto said, throwing off
his cloak to reveal a garish, dark blue suit edged in sequins.  He strode to
the desk and pressed a hidden button underneath.  He then moved to an intercom
and called to an underling, asking for reinforcements to assemble in the
loading docks. 

            “My dear, is he
out of range?”  Mephisto asked of Orlen, “Can you find him?”

            Not knowing what
the hell he meant, Harold looked at Orlen.  She’d gone stiff as a board.  Her
wide, open eyes stared past them, unseeing, yet seeing, perhaps seeing more
than he or Mephisto could ever acknowledge.  Bright lights flared into life
around her, orbiting in slow motion then seeming to freeze and burst outwards
in all directions and were gone, poof, but Orlen remained locked in her
self-induced trance. 

            Harold stepped
around her, waving his hand in front of her face and getting no response.  If
it weren’t for Mephisto and John gumming on the wolfman’s head while he stood
by the door, he could kill her with little effort.

            “What is she?” 
He asked the elder vampire.

            “A tracker,”
Mephisto said, “we’ll have to wait while she looks for him.  It should only
take a few minutes.” 

            Harold shook his
head at Mephisto indicating his confusion.

            “Ahh, you don’t
know,” the older vampire said, “Trackers are from a group of those descended
from the infected. As we now know, the disease alters our DNA. Well, two people
with Abeos get together and have little ones with Abeos and so on. The virus
continues to alter the DNA in each generation, creating new more, interesting
abilities.”

            “Huh.”

            Harold
reluctantly turned from Orlen.  He would have to wait on his agenda, leave it
in order to save his own skin. 

            “The longer you
live Harold, the more you’ll change too.” Mephisto stared at him from the desk,
suddenly very, very old to Harold.

            “Look,” he
started, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t think I can stay to help out
with this.” 

            Harold walked to
the glass window overlooking the seedier side of the casino.  It was nearly
devoid of people.  Zombies running, or more aptly, stumbling around with boxes
in hand, disassembling tables, slot machines and the wrestling mat. 

            “You’ve obviously
got a lot going on right now,” Harold gestured at the scene below, “and it’s
not like I don’t appreciate the help getting out of Phenochem.”

            Mephisto came
over and clapped a hand on Harold’s shoulder.  Another unwelcome touch, he was
getting to be too popular for his own good.

            “This,” Mephisto
indicated the cleanup crew below, “is nothing.  We got a tip about a government
raid and need to make everything kosher.  No need to worry.”

            Harold groaned
inwardly, together they watched the zombie ants scurry around.  “Well, fine and
all.”  He pulled away from Mephisto. 

            “I’ve had a very
bad couple of days, hell, couple of months actually.  I did what you wanted,
found out what Donald was up to in group and now I’d like as much blood as I
can carry and maybe some cash.  We’ll call it even.”

            Mephisto’s brows
furrowed.  “I am sorry, but we are going to need your help for a little while
longer.  This is the hunter.”

            “I don’t know who
the hunter is and I don’t care,” Harold interrupted.

            Mephisto wasn’t fazed,
“Fine, fine, but,” Mephisto clapped his palm against Harold’s cheek, “we do and
you have been around him.  You will come in handy.”

            Mephisto’s eyes
went bright red.  His open mouth revealed two very long, needle-sharp fangs. 
“Besides I do not think you have the strength to fight your way out of here.”  

            The door opened
and a few zombies armed to the teeth, what few were left firmly in their
sockets anyway, with guns, ammo and knives entered, including Orlen’s zombie
lover, friend, special friend, whatever.  It was a regular night of the living
mercenary army.  Mephisto met them with open arms, relinquishing a few zombies
of their weapons and blades for his own use.  Feeling frustrated with his lot,
Harold decided to relinquish Mephisto of the few remaining blood bags on the
floor.  By stuffing them into the hidden pockets of his trench coat Harold
created a comfortable padding of warm blood around his torso.  All he needed
now was an exit.

            Mephisto and his
mini zombie army conversed in long grunts, groans and vowel sounds.  The ogre
continued to quietly gum at a snoring Rufus.  Harold considered doing something
about it, but really, what could he do?  Last time he’d tangled with Mephisto’s
bodyguards they turned him into a piece of tenderized meat.  At least the
monster hadn’t started crunching on the werewolf yet. 

            Orlen came out of
her trance with an ear piercing shriek.  Harold and Mephisto both grabbed their
sensitive ears.  The zombies didn’t react, except for lover boy of course, who
walked over to Orlen to support her by the elbow.  He helped her to a seat and
hovered over her. 

            “Did you find
him?”  Mephisto asked.

            Orlen nodded,
rubbing her shining brow with a pained look.  Harold hoped it really hurt her,
whatever she just experienced. 

            “He’s gone back
to the halfway house,” Orlen whispered, “We’ll have to hurry.”

            Mephisto
grinned.  He rushed to the mantle above the fireplace and pulled down a long,
sharp knife displayed above it.  He unsheathed it to reveal a glinting blade
much like the one Donald used back in the lab.  The look on his face, could
only be described as mania, a kind of gleeful mania. 

            “To war then,” he
said, catching Harold’s eye.  This was a man prepared to go to all ends in
pursuit of his white whale, and dragging Harold along with him.  Harold
swallowed nervously.

Chapter Seventeen

            They swept along
the midnight dark streets of the city in gleaming black vans and landrovers, a
convoy of creatures heading to battle with one lone man.  To Harold it appeared
overkill, but it wasn’t his party so he didn’t speak up.  In fact, he was just
looking for the nearest exit, so maybe he could get out of this whole mess with
his skin intact. 

            He wondered where
Maria was, whether she was worrying about him.  He hadn’t called since the
terrible morning after this all started.  A big part of him hoped she was
worried or at least angry with him for disappearing.  It would mean she cared
and all of this hanging around wasn’t for nothing. 

            The city lights
blinked by, barely filtering through the darkened windows of the van he rode in
with Mephisto, the vampire looking decidedly black ops in his gear.  He’d
insisted on changing before they headed out.  Orlen sat at the wheel and the
same damn ogre sat behind her, hugging and drooling on an unconscious Rufus. 
Talk about playing with your food.  The wolf man twitched and jerked in his
sleep, as if subconsciously realizing his fate and desperately trying to wake
up.  Harold kind of hoped the wolf man never woke up, because it would be a
terrible way to die.  A hypocritical thought and Harold knew it, but he didn’t
care.

            They formed a
semi-circle of parked cars in front of the halfway house.  Lights were on in
the recreation room and Harold remembered it was Baywatch night.  Everyone
except the zombies probably sat drooling in front of the television.  Maybe
they’d miss most of the fun.  The hoard, totaling maybe twenty in all plus his
group, piled out of the vehicles.  They milled about in front of the house,
looking uneasy and unattended. 

            Harold glanced
behind him, relieved to see his car parked where he left it, sporting a couple
parking tickets on the front window, but otherwise unharmed.  He considered
edging towards the back of the group in hopes of slipping away unseen, but a
heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder.  It seemed John was there to keep him in
line. 

            Beyond the sweaty
scent of ogre, something familiar pricked his nostrils.  Harold stuck his nose
straight into the air to try and get above the smell of those around him.  He
couldn’t place the scent, but it was familiar and held unpleasant connotations
and it wasn’t Donald, though the man never had much of a smell to him. 

            The ogre grunted,
escorting Harold to Orlen and Mephisto.  Orlen’s special zombie friend joined
the group too, giving Harold a look and placing himself between the them.  The
zombie could have her.

            Mephisto asked
Orlen about Donald.  She turned, pulling lights out of the nothing around her
and stared at the house.  It wasn’t quite the trance state she’d put herself
into before, but close enough to make Harold’s skin crawl with the remembered
itch of those tiny red insects. 

            She came out of
it after a few moments and nodded to Mephisto, “He’s somewhere on this
property.  I can’t pinpoint him, but it’s dark.”

            Some clue, Harold
thought, it’s nighttime outside. 

            Mephisto clapped
his hands and the sound rang loudly, getting everyone’s attention.  “Oops,” he
whispered, “forgot myself.”

            A few zombies
grumbled amongst themselves.  Harold recognized them from the group meetings,
but they didn’t live in the house.  Even the woman who cried in group and wore
wigs to cover her munched on scalp stood there armed to the teeth for a scary
shootout.  Harold didn’t know she had a grudge against Donald.

            They broke off
into several smaller groups at Mephisto’s direction and moved to surround the
house.  Harold, urged onwards by his new drooling friend, followed Mephisto and
Orlen into the alleyway beside the house.  No lights illuminated their way, but
Harold and Mephisto at least, could see easily in the dark.  Orlen kept her red
lights close by, blinking as they did, in and out of the space around her. 

            Mephisto stopped
at the side door to the house, motioning Orlen over to speak with him.  They
debated whether to head inside or not, but Orlen indicated Donald was outside,
somewhere on the property.  Not to be daunted, Mephisto had Harold unlock the
door so he could send in a couple of the zombies to look around.  They tottered
into the house, wrapped in their belts of ammo, cradling large automatic
weapons and in general, looking prepared to blend in.

            The rest of the
group continued onward down the alley in search of Donald.  It opened up into
the large backyard slash parking lot where Harold could see others tottering
round in the dark, members of Mephisto’s contingent on the lookout for their
prey.  However, they found no sight or scent of Donald.  Everyone stopped and
stared around at each other.  Guess, Orlen’s not always right, Harold thought. 

            Then he heard a
sound like a trickling faucet to his left along the back wall of the house.  
Mephisto turned his head to better catch the sound.

            They crept up on
the noise as softly and slowly as possible.  Considering his nursemaid, Harold
had no choice but to follow.  He bent low and stayed close to the outside edge
of the group. 

            The noise led
them to Donald and the very strong scent of gasoline.  He was dousing the
outside of the house with it. 

            Donald stopped
and stood up, staring right at them.  He laughed.  “I know you’re there,”
Donald said, “Finally come to face me, Nosferatu?”

            Harold almost
answered, but realized Donald was speaking to Mephisto, not him.  The older
vampire stepped forward, pulling his knife blade from its sheath.

            “More like you are
the one avoiding me hunter,” Mephisto responded, “with good reason too.  You
have been killing our kind for centuries.  No more,”  Mephisto cried, raising
his blade to battle to the death.  Donald did the same. 

            Then the patio
light flickered on and everyone froze mid act, looking up at the light as
children do when caught sneaking downstairs after bedtime, except all of these
kids had knives, guns and fangs and many rotting things. 

            Vlad stumbled out
the sliding glass door, wine glass of blood in hand, Mephisto’s zombies behind
him.  He took in Mephisto and Donald prepared to do battle, zombies and ogres
in the distance and Harold accompanied by an ogre drooling over a sleeping
werewolf, hiccupped, and nodded to Donald.

            “This is top
notch stuff,” he slurred, raising the wine glass to Donald before downing the
rest of the blood.  His resulting belch rang out across the lawn and elicited a
couple of half-hearted claps from some zombies.  He bowed lazily for them.

            “Got more of this
tap?”  He asked Donald. 

            “Yes Vlad,”
Donald said, “it’s on the table in the kitchen.  Do share with everyone.”  He
called after Vlad as the vampire disappeared back into the house, brushing past
the decidedly confused zombies Mephisto sent in earlier.

            “You drugged
them?”  Harold asked.   He couldn’t believe the balls on this guy. 

            Donald sighed and
turned to Harold with a “what-did-you-expect” look.  “I couldn’t very well have
them leaving the house after I set it on fire.”

            “You bastard,”
Mephisto screamed, “Prepare to die.”  He ran at Donald, blade up over his
head.  Donald sidestepped Mephisto’s blade and the sudden move startled John
who stumbled backwards into a pile of trash cans, raising enough ruckus to make
Harold’s ears ring with the noise. 

            Rufus, jostled by
the falling ogre, came into startled consciousness with a howling yelp.  He
struggled, still drugged though he was, in vain to get out of the eager ogre’s
grasp.  Mephisto and Donald danced around each other, trading jabs and cracked
sparks of blue as their blades clashed.  Harold, as well as the others, stared
at the fight or the ogre struggling with a now fully awake and panicked Rufus. 

            Sirens and lights
blinded Harold’s senses.  He didn’t know whether to cover his eyes or ears to
protect them from the onslaught of sensation.  Even Mephisto and Donald were on
the ground covering their ears.  The zombies, some of them were affected and
clamping hands over one or both of their ears, while the more decayed members
of the group looked around in confusion, their ears or eyes too far gone to
feel the pain of the sirens and lights. 

            Men in black
rushed the backyard, grabbing those still upright and throwing them to the
ground.  Someone kicked Harold in the back and he went down.  The moist ground
reeked of gasoline.  A booted foot planted itself on one shoulder, and the
muzzle of a weapon pressed against his head.  He froze as he was ordered,
sighing in relief when the sirens cut out, giving his poor ears a respite.             

            The feds were
having problems with the ogres in the group, in particular Rufus’ ogre, who was
both outraged at the assault on his hearing and the loss of his meal.  Rufus,
looking a little more wolfish than he did earlier, sat against the house with
two feds pointing assault rifles at him, he sobbed quietly into his hands, the
hair on his head patchy from where the monster’s nibbling tore out chunks of
it. 

            Shouting from
Mephisto drew Harold’s attention and he turned to see his two not so favorite
federal agents, Bergstrom and Potts, standing between the vamp and Donald. 
Both had lost their blades, but Mephisto still raged at his prey, hissing,
kicking and biting at the air while three men held him back.  Smug satisfaction
poured off of Donald, while a man cuffed his hands behind his back, obviously
not worried. 

            “Shut up,” Agent
Bergstrom said to Mephisto, “it’s over.  We’ve got him.”           

            Mephisto slumped,
all at once pathetic and beaten.  The three men restraining him now had to hold
him up.  Mephisto muttered, but Harold with his ears still ringing from the
sirens couldn’t catch what he said.  Agent Bergstrom clapped a hand on
Mephisto’s shoulder, bending over to speak to him.  The aging vampire lifted
his head enough to look back at Agent Potts escorting Donald into the alley
beside the house and presumably to a waiting vehicle out front, Harold could
swear a glimmer of something triumphant shown in his eyes.

            Meanwhile, the
ogres were all finally taken down, each one shot full of enough tranquilizer to
put an elephant to sleep.  The ground vibrated with their resounding thumps.

            Agent Bergstrom
finished his conversation with Mephisto and let him be taken away too.  He
shouted out a few orders to agents guarding the zombies and those trying to
pull sleeping ogres round the house.  Then he surveyed the scene and caught
sight of Harold, face down, snout full of mud and gas.  It was not a proud
moment for Harold, but then again, he’d not had a lot of proud moments these
past few months. 

              Agent Bergstrom
walked over and Harold was yanked from the ground by his captor with the large
boot.  The G-man looked on with hands on hips and a gentle curl to his lip. 

            “I thought you
would be long gone by now,” the agent said, “You should have got out when you
had the chance.”

            Harold shook
himself loose from the grasp his captor had on his arm.  The sharp movement
wrenched his poorly healed back and reminded Harold of his pitiful state. 

            “Guess I’m just
not too smart,” he muttered.

            Agent Bergstrom
smiled, “We already knew.”  He turned to watch Rufus struggling with a couple
of snares around his neck.  If he had a tail at the moment it would have been
tucked between his legs.

            “Too bad we found
you in bad company tonight.  Violates your probation,” the agent said, “Unless
you have a good explanation.” 

            Rufus glanced
around and locked terrified eyes with Harold.  He felt supremely bad for the
werewolf, despite his misplaced loyalties, the creature ended up being a pretty
good guy.  Just stuck with his mistakes the same as everyone else here tonight.

            “What’s going to
happen to them?”  Harold asked.

            Agent Bergstrom
raised his eyebrows behind the ever present dark sunglasses.      

            “Awe, concerned
about your special friends?  I thought you only had eyes for the slug.”

            Harold didn’t
respond.  Rufus whimpered as agents pulled on him with the snares and he
disappeared around the corner of the house. 

            “Speaking of,”
Bergstrom interrupted Harold’s thoughts, “Have you seen that alien around
here?  We found the collar, but no slime ball in the house.”

            Harold shook his
head.  Zombies in chains tottered by in two single file rows.  He knew what the
government did to their type and didn’t envy their fiery fate.

            “You’re not
covering for the slug are you?  Believe me, Zork’s not worth it.”