Bleodsian

by Robert Oliver

  Part 3: This Cup Runneth Over

  News of the girl’s disappearance flooded the school and surrounding community. Police crawled across the campus in spider-like fashion, searching and probing for any clue as to the whereabouts of the jogger. There were some faulty statements and eyewitness reports given, but nothing credible surfaced. The surrounding areas and school were put on tighter security, but no suspects were located. I was safe, had run the gauntlet and made it through to the other side.

  I spent my free time jogging, hiking and enjoying the outside world in a new fashion. Long walks would entertain my evening hours, and when not encompassed by my desire to utilize my new energy, I became engrossed in books with a new, sharp sense of intellect. I felt reborn, refreshed and reenergized. It was a wonderful feeling like nothing I had ever experienced. Every night I would indulge my palate; the blood was difficult to swallow at first, but after so many days, and the effects it had upon me, I grew to delight in the beverage. It was empowering, invigorating even, this substance I kept stored in the basement. Finer wines in all the markets could not replicate my vintage.

  Everyone, or at least those who spoke to me, noticed the difference in my demeanor and behavior; I was jollier, stronger and appeared more youthful. My work was accomplished in nearly half the amount of time it took me previously. Like some young athlete I worked diligently and quickly, moving at a pace I had long forgotten.

  For the first time in many years, life was good. I enjoyed the minute details of every day existence and took pleasure in the faintest of episodes. Each day was a new adventure filled with excitement and joy. My health was making rapid improvements and I was growing stronger daily. I kept at this pace for about a month, when, to my horror, my supply ran low. I had watched it decrease daily, but thought little of it until I opened the last bottle. I had only four glasses left, and no means of replenishing the supply.

  I knew this moment would surely come, and now that it was upon me I was entirely surprised by its arrival. I sat and pondered the situation for some hours, turning and twisting the predicament in my mind. Could I kill again? Should I do it? Would the effects of a month’s exposure to the liquid be sufficient to last me many months or years?

  Nightly I would pace rapidly, feeling the old fears creeping back into place. I had to act, but did not believe I could muster another attack; however, I obtained such pleasure from life once I partook of the beverage that I knew I had to have it once more. I could not return to my old existence of drudgery and pain, ill health and pending death. I would not, I assured myself, but knew of no other means of procurement than the sacrifice of another life. With much reservation and some trepidation, I began to plan the next harvest.

  I looked over my last endeavor and saw mistakes I had made, and the points I had gotten right; there was room for improvement, but the initial plan was solid. I even considered returning to the same locale, as it proved to be so efficient for my needs. The police activity had finally succumbed to the rising popularity of other crimes, and the campus was left in a lonely state of mourning. Only subtle hints were thrown out by the back page columns of the papers. It was time to strike again, whether I wanted to or not.

  I began scouting and soon fell upon a young male athlete. I recognized him from the papers and from campus as one of the rising stars on the soccer team. He was healthy, robust and looked the very picture of wellness, with strong muscles pushing his slender frame across the cement. He jogged regularly, although the campus had been instructed to practice caution when doing so, and to my good fortune, he ran the same route as the girl, or at least as far as my position of concealment was concerned.

  I watched him for days, again taking notes on his behavior and dress. I studied him relentlessly, knowing that I needed as much information on him as possible in order to make a good kill. In my spot I would sit, watching him run past every other night. I would attend practice, watch him around campus and take note of his eating habits when in the dining hall. I knew I had made the right choice for my next venture, as everything he did was for the sustenance of his rather mechanical body. He treated his frame like some Grecian temple, and he was its most ardent worshiper. His blood would sustain me for weeks, months even!

  When I thought I knew enough of him, I set the trap. Monday nights were always jogging nights, and on that particular night I was in my place, ready to act. Like before, the area was dark and desolate, void of all activity. The sky was clear with no clouds, but many stars were beginning to twinkle overhead. My legs were falling asleep when I finally saw him coming around the turn. He was approaching quickly, and I had my rope and gag ready; I decided to use these new instruments to hasten the process.

  The wind was blowing softly, like one of those evening breezes that have neither end nor beginning. I watched him through the glow of the distant lamps, feeling every fiber of my body reacting to the adrenaline which was pumping crazily. He drew nearer, and I rose slightly, tightening the rope in my hands. The bushes, still concealing me, were a bastion of safety and a hedge of secrecy. Physically, I was prepared for the attack. I was still feeling the joyous effects of the last of the liquid, although the substance was gone a few days prior, and was ready to use what was left in me to procure more. Mentally, however, I was lacking in vigor; I still wrestled with this concept and could not, despite the constant prodding from the Voice, see these people as mere cattle. Life was still unique, special and something that should be revered. It was not mine for the taking, although by the life of one I was now sustained. My mind was eased when I remembered what I read of the Native Americans of old and their approach to hunting: they would kill but give thanks to the animal slaughtered, knowing that by that animal’s death they would live. Everything fed off of everything else, and at the top was the human who fed on all. In my position, now I was even above the human, although I did not exalt in my new status; I saw my feeding as means to an end, as survival.

  The man, coming along at a rapid pace, had just passed me when I sprang upon him. I was initially successful in getting the rope around his neck, but in my calculation I did not consider him so strong. The athlete spun madly and threw me to the ground, in the process tumbling himself as well. I regained my footing quickly and was upon him again. He tried to scream but I was successful in muffling the attempt. We wrestled, but his jogging must have tired him greatly, for in a few minutes the contest was over and I was safe behind the bush again. I did not realize it at the moment, but I had committed this act in the open.

  Frozen with terror, I searched through the limbs for any sign of activity in the yard. I heard no voices, saw no people, and most importantly, heard no distant sirens approaching. For twenty minutes I deemed it prudent to remain where I was, crouching silently over my prize. The air, thick with the vapor of death, hung heavily upon me, sickening me and causing me to nearly vomit. I dared not move for fear of the night and the people who might have heard the scuffle. It was foolish to attempt so strong a person, sheer foolishness on my part. I chided myself vigorously until I felt my mental flesh was raw from the beating.

  The silence that still occupied the area finally convinced me it was safe to move once more. I slowly gathered the body in a heap, and with some effort moved the mass to my vehicle. He was heavy, and I carried him with some pain. I was growing tired, heavily fatigued by the exertions of the evening. I looked at the body, then took one last deep breath and heaved the corpse into my trunk. His landing was loud, but fortunately, no one was near. I drove home.

  So anxious was I to drink that I had not turned on any of the basement lights, and only the dim lights from the kitchen threw their rays down the staircase. I frantically attached the body to the table, switched on a single bulb, and began the work. I elevated the table, made the necessary cuts and placed the pans in their respective places. All was progressing nicely. Soon, the life-saving liquid was ready to be filtered into my bott
le collection. I was so anxious of the first taste that I did not bother to allow the initial bottle to be filled before I took a cup.

  The drink was warm, but refreshing to my tired limbs. I could feel that sensation pouring over me once again. All my energy, all my strength which had been tapped in this latest adventure, was restored by that first glass. I was tired, but more than content sitting in the basement with my bottles. I filled each carefully and racked them on the shelves. The weak glow of the solitary bulb swung lazily overhead, casting a dim ray upon the ghastly scene. I stretched my legs before me and finished my glass. I paid little attention to the time, but my chest, especially the right side, from all the exertion and the epic battle we fought, was bruised and sore. I brushed aside the pain and reveled in my victory.

  I allowed the contents to work their magic upon me once more, then I slowly stood and began the long clean-up process. I detested the removal of the body and the mess it left behind, but such entities were the vestiges of the ultimate plan, the by-products of success. With meticulous care did I clean the basement, scrubbing all the tools and items. The last hours before dawn saw me loading the body back into the vehicle. The basement of the art building awaited us.

  I had reached the building easily and brought the body as far as the furnace and had it beside the door, ready to be placed inside when I heard footsteps moving overhead. I froze, my tired limbs barely sustaining me. Several steps were heard moving in one direction, then in another, as if the person were gathering supplies in the art studio on the first floor. I dared not move for fear I would make a noise and alert them to my intrusion in an otherwise sealed off part of the building.

  Only the most necessary lights were illuminated in my quarter, so I did not so much fear them seeing or hearing me. I took one step quietly, then another towards the door to the staircase, hoping to listen to their activity. They moved lightly across the floor in a pattern that gave no definite clue to their intentions. The person must have been some late night artist finishing a project. They would move, then stop, then move again. I listened for several minutes, then, growing more confident, I slowly began to lift the body towards the furnace.

  I had just placed the body within when, to my horror, I heard steps on the stairs leading to the basement. I quickly shut the iron door as a figure appeared on the threshold. She was a young girl, perhaps a sophomore, with a pair of paint-spotted black jeans and a tight tee shirt. Her hair was tied back with a long ribbon which hung over the shoulder. In one hand she held a jar, and the other, three brushes. She did not see me at first, but as she stepped in, I became noticeable to her through the maze of pillars and potting tables. As unfortunate luck would have it, one of the few bulbs lit shown directly upon my face.

  “What do I do?” I asked myself.

  The Voice, sensing my predicament, came to my aid. “Be calm for now. Wait.”

  The girl stared at me, her surprise showing on her soft features. I had startled her, and dumbfounded, she simply stared at me momentarily. The basement was normally off limits at night, so both our situations were mysterious, and no doubt that thought was surely coursing through her mind. Finally, the girl spoke.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. I was never known for quick speech and rapid thinking, but on this occasion I managed to secure a good enough reply.

  “I was about to ask you the same, my dear. You know that basement is off limits after 10 p.m. Now, should you be down here?” She was taken back by my response.

  With an attitude now, she replied, “I have special instructional privileges from the department, and keys. Who are you to question me?”

  “I am a public safety officer, young lady.”

  “No, you are not! You don’t even have a uniform.” And pulling out her cell phone, she stated loudly, “You stay right there. I’m calling the police.” I became frantic at the mention of the police. I could not be found out; I could not allow her to surrender me to the authorities. If they came here, they would find my deed. If I escaped, she still had my likeness to give to them. A plan, though rather hastily formed, came together in my mind. I slowly started approaching her.

  She was too busy with her phone to notice my approach, or the baton-like instrument I had procured from a nearby table, and when she raised her eyes, I was nearly upon her. She screamed as I lunged for her, but unlike a person of intelligence, she bolted away from the stairs instead of ascending them. I swung once, but missed my target as she dodged and moved into a shadow. Raging with fear and desperation, I swung again and followed her.

  Her voice resounded off the block walls of the basement as she maneuvered left, then right. The tables made a maze for me to work through. I was furious and could hardly see without the anger welling in my eyes. I managed to gain a closer position to her, but as I was about to swing, she leapt up and slid across the table, thus evading me. As she landed on the other side, she also took up a rod liken to mine.

  “Come on, bitch!” she shouted, then proceeded to thrust at my ears all norms of vulgarity. I was labeled so many names by the girl, who now stood to defend herself. She was resilient, a tough one with an attitude that would not admit defeat.

  I slowly moved towards her and around the table. The lights dripped from above in a drizzle that barely coated the surroundings. I crept, as if my silent behavior would allow me an advantage. As I approached, she swung once, but missed miserably; with that, I grew more confident. I could feel the energy rushing, like storm surges against a battered coast. She may have reasoned that she was battling a tired old man: little did she realize I was as youthful and energetic as she.

  The girl took one step, and I closed in, facing her from only a few paces’ distance. She shouted constantly for me to stay where I was and that the police would arrive shortly. I did not heed her words, knowing that in moments she would be like the others. I came in to hit her, but to my surprise she planted her weapon right across my right side. I flew to the back in agony, hitting a table and shaking it wildly. She quickly started to run away, but I rebounded and, although staggering, managed to reach her before she neared the stairs.

  “Stay back!” she demanded.

  “Get back here,” I shouted. I was mad with rage by now and was not thinking like any rational being. Engulfed as I was, I wanted only to finish this work and escape, but this girl was standing in my way and would not succumb to my plans.

  She launched towards the exit, and when her back was momentarily turned, I struck her with the rod. The girl flew forward and hit the wall. She dropped her stick and lay crumbled on the floor. I was wild, a mad specimen of lunacy by this moment; my side was bruised badly and I was frayed mentally. She lay before me, and I could only think of the end. I struck her twice more.

  She muttered some plea, but I did not hear. I looked at her, at her teary face and bruised body, and although still racing with maddening emotions, I began to soften. I knew what had to be done, but I also felt in my heart that this girl was in no way keeping me alive, as the others had, and thus did not deserve their same fate.

  “What?” cried a Voice. I looked around, thinking someone else had entered the scene. The room was as the two combatants had left it. I realized then it was my old companion.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You want to leave her? Are you insane? She is a witness!”

  “I understand that. But I only want to take that which will sustain me. She will do nothing for me.”

  “You can’t leave her! You simply can’t.”

  “But she doesn’t have to die. Not here, not now! Death is not the only answer.”

  “And what else would you propose? Shall we take her with us; make her an accomplice? Will she cook and clean for you? She has to die now! Kill her and let’s go!”

  The Voice was right; I had no answer left save that of death. I could not allow this one to live, as she now knew my face. Ot
hers would surely find the body, and she could lead them to me. I had the foresight to wear gloves, so my fingerprints and any other incriminating evidence would disappear with her. Knowing this, I raised my weapon and finished her off, allowing her life source to spill freely onto the cement flooring.

  I was debating what I should do with the remains when the flashing of lights outside brought me to a hasty conclusion. I grabbed her body and quickly placed it in the furnace. I had wanted to at least use her death to my advantage and procure a larger supply of the liquid, but I did not have such a luxury now. Taking an alternate door and fumbling through the dark building, I managed to evade the security guards and make my way to the outside shadows. From a safe distance, and hidden in the dark, I watched as the police descended upon the art building.

  It would only be a matter of time before they would find the remains, only a small amount of time before they would realize that two bodies, three now, were located in the furnace. It saddened me immensely to see all those people trampling my cemetery; I used that place as a means of eradicating the evidence and as a burial mound for those who were used for my sustenance. Now they were probably looking, searching and photographing the scene and the blood that was wasted so foolishly on the floor.

  Back at home, I sat pondering the young girl and the waste of life I had enacted. Among the worse parts of the matter was that I could not even harvest her liquid. She died pointlessly, a death that had no real aim save for rescuing me from the clutches of the authorities. I also realized that, although feeling exceptionally well, I still retained a bit of my old nature in me when fighting the girl; I moved with a bit of sluggishness that had not been present a few days prior.

  I finally brushed all the sentiments off my mind and reclined in my chair. The night was waning and I needed rest. I looked out the window to see the full moon sinking from the night sky. I had to retire. Tomorrow, I knew, would bring a whole new host of issues for me to deal with, as the police would be hard at work uncovering the mystery they recently stumbled upon.