Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set (32 page)

He did not see the fist.  The downward blow struck him on the side of the head.  The force of the impact instantly disoriented him and an explosion went off inside his head.  His brain shook inside his skull like snowflakes in a snow dome.  He fell forward onto his hands and a lightning bolt of pain shot up his right arm.  He had stuck his hand into the jagged glass.  It sliced open his palm and blood poured from the gash.  The blood mixed with the spilt wine, making an unpalatable cocktail for most beings.  He was hoisted into the air and slammed against the side of the dumpster, which rang out like Big Ben striking the hour.

“Take my wallet but don’t hurt me!”

“I don’t want your money!  I want something more valuable than money.”

Pinned down, the air squeezed from his lungs, the Whistler’s face came into view.  His eyes were ablaze; it looked as if every blood vessel had exploded at once.  The irises were encircled in a ring of red.  His lips were drawn back in a vicious snarl that exposed a deadly array of teeth that were misshapen and far too big for his head.  The incisors and canines were stained yellow and brown like those of a three-pack-a-day smoker.  His cruel smile looked as destructive as the broken glass that had torn through his hand.

The hungry mouth bit down on Thompson’s neck.  The distorted teeth tore through his flesh, penetrating tissue, bursting veins and rupturing arteries.  Thompson’s body hemorrhaged; blood gushed forth and the Whistler drank from the massive laceration.

The pain from the wound was intense, overruling the injury to his hand and the concussion.  Mercifully, Thompson’s injuries were swiftly anesthetized by the bite and he became disconnected from his body.  He felt his neck twitch where the blood pumped from the severed arteries.  He sensed the Whistler licking the wound, sucking at his throat and swallowing his spilt blood.  The gash in his hand ceased to bleed; there was not much blood left to bleed.

A heavy weight hung over him.  The weight was an inexorable desire to sleep.  Not just his mind but his whole body wanted to sleep.  It took too much effort to lie there against the dumpster—it was be easier to succumb to his longing.  He felt himself sink into warm waters that soaked his body and his being.  He gradually sank to the bottom of the waters, and the deeper he went the darker it became.  He was no longer aware of the alley, the Whistler, his wounds, or his suffering.  He was aware of nothing.

The Whistler wiped his hand across his mouth and licked his lips.  He breathed heavily from his exertion and excitement.  He had sated his lust and his need for human blood, for now anyway.  He stood up putting his hand inside his three-quarter-length coat and removed a packet of lemon-scented wet wipes.  He took one out and wiped it over his face and neck.  He liked to be clean and this was a dirty business so it paid dividends to be prepared.  After all, he had been a Boy Scout once, a long time ago.

He looked down at the crumpled heap of man and admired his handiwork.  He smiled and exposed a neat array of well-tended teeth that any dentist would have been proud of.  The perfect smile was only tarnished by the small amounts of blood that clogged the gaps between his teeth.

It was time to go.  He bent down to the vanquished man and checked his pockets.  He removed Thompson’s wallet and looked for cash.  He was not a thief but it was always a bonus if there was some cash to be had.  It is not as if a vampire has a nine-to-five job.  There were only 15 dollars and a lot of plastic, various gold and platinum charge cards.

“Christ!  Another one who doesn’t believe in cash.”

Disappointed by the small booty, he took the cash and hoped for better luck tomorrow.  He stuffed the wallet down the front of the man’s shirt.

He picked up the body easily as if it was a bag of groceries.  His strength always increased after a kill and the tall man was not a burden.  The Whistler tossed the body into the dumpster with the trash and slammed the lid closed.  He walked out of the alley into the street and disappeared into the night.

The following morning, a squad car spotted the abandoned Porsche in the alley on routine operations.  They ran a check on the license plate and placed a call for a tow truck to remove the car.  The tow truck driver found the abandoned car between the two derelict buildings and cursed the scumbag winos that had left the broken bottles in the alley.  He picked up the broken glass and tossed it into the nearby dumpster.  The driver did not see the car owner who lay on a bed of filth inside.  He just got on with his task.  He loaded the sports car onto the truck and drove it to the city impound lot.

The day came to an end and a new night began.  Paul Thompson awoke from his slumber in his rancid coffin.  A shudder ran through his body, ending in a scream.  Enveloped in blackness, he remembered the attack.  Frightened, he burst from the dumpster like a jack-in-the-box and sent a couple of rats scurrying for cover.

He clambered out of his place of rest and stumbled away, falling to the ground on the other side of the alley.  His hand clutched at his throat for the mortal wound but found a healing scar.  He looked at his lacerated hand and saw a jagged line carved into his palm.  He realized he stunk like a shithouse mop and probably looked one like as well.  His clothes were dirty, stained with wine, blood, and filth.  The smell was of stale sweat, alcohol and garbage.  He saw his car was gone, probably stolen by his attacker.

He was hungry like he had never been before.  He was so hungry that his stomach felt knotted.  He wanted to get cleaned up but he needed something to eat, so he went into a McDonalds.  The people looked at him and wrinkled their noses at the sight and smell that greeted them.  The muffled sounds of discontent reached the night manager who came from behind the service counter.

He confronted Thompson and refused him the right to food because of his condition.  The architect turned to his fellow diners for support but they looked away or at their food.  Others called for him to be thrown out.  The manager who wanted no further disruption to his restaurant took a burger from a rack and thrust into Thompson’s hand.

“It’s on me,” the manager said bitterly.

Thompson wanted to pay.  He felt guilty for causing so much commotion and did not want to take charity.  The manager did not care and pushed him out onto the street and sent him on his way with a “fuck off.”

Thompson walked away from the fast food joint with the food he needed and the meat he had to have.  He made large, untidy bites into the sandwich and had made two swallows before he had an idea of the food’s flavor. 
This is revolting
, he thought.  It was not that the food was spoiled but that it was repellent to his palate.  It was as if what he was eating was rancid and everything tasted that way—the meat, bun, the cheese, and the ketchup.  He dropped the half-eaten burger onto the sidewalk.

He looked down at the half-eaten sandwich. 
Peasant food
, he thought.  He felt that this crap was inferior to his hunger.  This was not the type of food that he desired.  Arrogance filled his empty belly; he was worthy of better.  He went to grind the burger into the concrete with his heel.

He doubled up in pain as his stomach rejected the food.  He vomited over the discarded burger.  His stomach had not digested the food so it pretty much came back out as it went in.  Mucus-coated chunks of chewed food splatted hard against the sidewalk.  He was disgusted with his lack of control.  His arrogance got a slap across the face and was put back in its place.  He left his mess where it lay.

He went in search of a cab to get him out of the city.  He wanted to get out of this place to seek solace in the comfort of his own home.  After many cab drivers refused him, he eventually convinced a cab driver with the story that he had been mugged but that he had money.  He paid the cabby with the money he had in the house.

He bathed, removing the grime of the street and the memory of his misadventure.  He decided not to call the police in, he had not been hurt badly and they never found these people anyway.  He listened to his messages.  He had one from the office that wanted him to call in to make sure he was okay.  The other was from the police who had his car impounded. 
At least that mystery’s solved
, he thought.  He would deal with those problems tomorrow, right now it was time to raise the drawbridge and post the guards.  He drew the curtains, locked the doors and went to bed.

He awoke to a world that was already in full swing.  He lay in his bed listening to it, reassured by its existence.  The waves crashed onto the beach and were sucked back into the sea with a tinkling wheeze.  People walked along the beach, spoke about their lives and the beautiful day, and played with their pets.  Surfers completely oblivious to the ways of the conventional world spoke of the cool waves they had caught.  Children played imaginatively in the sand and surf.

Partially dressed, he left his bed for the living room.  The drapes did their best to cloak the room in darkness but failed to hide the daylight entirely and shadows stretched across the room.  A shard of unhindered light only helped to make the model look all that more impressive.

Stopped in his tracks, his breath was taken away by its beauty.  His latest project sparkled on the living room table.  An overwhelming sense of pride filled him.
I created that
, he thought.  He crossed the room to be close to his creation.

He held out an affectionate hand to touch the warmth of the sun on his model.  His hand dipped into the pool of light; he cursed and retracted it at great speed.  His arm shook with pain and he held it to him and stared at his injury.  The light had burnt his hand as cruelly as if it was a branding iron.  His flesh sizzled like meat on a grill. 
What is happening to me
, he thought,
how could the light burn me?
  His beloved pet had bitten him.  He ran for the bathroom.

He removed the first aid kit.  He looked at the mess that was his trembling hand.  The puckered skin was a barbecued red and an odor like charred pork rose from it. His world had turned itself on its head and he did not know when it would right itself. 
What else could happen to me
? he asked himself.  He hoped that he had reached the final rinse and spin of the cycle and that his bad luck was over.  He bathed and bandaged his hand as best as possible.

He went back into the living room and put his hand on the cord to the drapes to open them.  It struck him like a blow to head, like the blow he took last night. 
Christ, this will burn me
! He thought.  Suddenly it all started to make sense.  A conclusion dawned on him like a rising sun.  His hand snapped away from the cord like it was a venomous snake.

He crashed onto the couch in shock.  He recounted the series of events that occurred since leaving Grapevine’s—the Whistler, the attack, a hunger for an unknown food, and his burnt hand.

It can’t be true
, he thought,
am I a vampire?
   The evidence led him to a conclusion that he could not accept.  He felt his world was a house of cards and he had just removed the wrong one.  Craving a drink, he went to the refrigerator.

He surveyed the items in the refrigerator—milk, orange juice, mineral water, wine, but nothing appealed to his thirst.  He gently fingered the steak under the plastic skin before he dug his fingers into the artificial membrane and scraped his nails across the meat.  He removed the steak and threw it into the sink where it splatted against the stainless steel surface.  He gulped down the watery blood in the base of the packaging.  It was bitter like unripe fruit but it was enough to go somewhat towards satisfying his hunger.

He collapsed to the floor with tears running down his face. 
It’s true
, he thought,
I am
.  His life was over, as he knew it.  The penny dropped and he understood the bad joke; he was dead and he was last to know.

Why couldn’t I have just died
, he thought.  He knew that his life had the prospect of being the Whistler’s, a killer’s life, having to exist off the living during the night.  In this new world, he would have to use the power of darkness to succeed.

He moved to the living room and saw the muted light breaking through the curtains.  “You bastard,” he screamed at the light.