Unlike the tactics of the gang members which was to use their weapons and smash anything moving, Finger and Hand used only their fists or palms. However, they knew how to hit, and more precisely, where. Paul felt that every organ inside him was being slowly crushed and wondered why help wasn’t coming. It would do no good to wonder. He was on his own and maybe it was better this way…
“That’s enough,” a voice said.
Immediately, the beating stopped. Paul lifted his head. Simpson stood in front of him like an obscene Buddha, licking an ice cream cone. In the middle of winter, he had to eat ice cream. He also seemed to enjoy it, as rumbles of contentment emanated from his enormous belly. A second later, a loud belch resounded through the warehouse.
The sight was so ludicrous that Paul almost laughed, but it hurt to breathe. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the homeless family steal into the night and felt a sense of relief. At least they’d made it out alive. The relief vanished when Simpson ingested the last of the cone, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and began to speak.
“You’re going to talk, sooner or later,” he said.
A few crumbs still clung to the sides of his fleshy mouth and his breath smelled foul. Paul wanted to recoil, but the underlings had taken hold of his arms and there was no way to get out of their grasp. “What do you want?” he asked. “I didn’t do anything.”
“No, but you are going to do something for us,” Simpson began. “You’re going to tell us where your friends are.”
“We’ve been asking him the same question, sir,” Hand interjected. His face resembled an angry axe, ready to carve something up. “He doesn’t want to give us the information.”
“Looks like he ain’t going to answer,” one of the Bangers called out, chortling with delight.
Simpson waved his hand for silence and didn’t deign to look at the gang members. “We asked you to do a job for us and you’ve done it,” he called out in a tone which dared anyone to contradict him. “Stay where you are and wait until we need your assistance.”
The amateur hit crew looked disappointed, but they stood still like good and obedient droids, eyes bright and mouths hung open like expectant puppies. They were expecting blood and soon there would be blood.
Simpson turned his gaze around, and Paul felt the man’s beady eyes bore into him like an insect into a tree. Green was usually a friendly color. In the dimness of the building, he saw only emptiness. “I…” he coughed as a spasm of pain hit his stomach like a knife, “I got nothing.”
An almost benevolent smile appeared on the fleshy man’s face. “Is that really all you can say? This is your chance to do your country a favor. Tell us where at least one of them is hiding and we may let you live.”
Determination overrode fear. “No,” Paul said. He knew then and there his time had run out, but no way in the world would he let on where his friends’ whereabouts were. He owed them that much.
Simpson sighed. “You honestly think they’re people? Open your eyes, son. They’re product. They’re demo models and we want them back. Look at it this way. You’re young. What? Maybe eighteen? You have a full life ahead of you, but you won’t see your next birthday if this keeps up. In fact, you won’t see tomorrow, so tell me where they are.”
A familiar and welcome voice called out, “One of them is here.”
Paul twisted his neck just in time to see Angela stride over with a look of fury on her face. She grabbed Finger and Hand by their necks and effortlessly lifted them off the ground. In a swift move, she tossed them away. Simpson’s jowls began to quiver and he backed off.
“Get her!” he yelled to the gang members.
With a shout they ran over, their weapons held high. Curses poured from their mouths as they mounted their attack. Like savages, they swung wildly and stabbed their weapons at her, but she took everything they offered and in reply, hammered them to the floor. Once they were down, she swayed and panted out, “You got anything else?” she asked as she swiveled to face the fat man. “If you do, then bring it.”
Simpson reached into this pocket and brought out a Taser. “I’ve got this,” he said, and in shocking burst of speed, ran over and jammed it into her stomach.
Unlike the cop’s Taser, this model was larger and seemed to emit a more potent charge, as a blue crackle of electricity leapt out to cover her body. She screamed and her body twitched in a spasm of agony.
“Like that?” he asked with a sadistic grin. “I’ve got more.”
To prove it, he reached into his other pocket and took out a switchblade. Depressing the trigger, a five-inch blade sprang out and he shoved it into her left shoulder up to the hilt. Blood poured out and she continued to shriek as he twisted the blade. The force of his thrust caused her to fall to the ground, her limbs jerking around wildly.
“Where are the other three?” Simpson shouted.
“Leave her alone!” Paul yelled. In a surge of courage even he didn’t know he possessed, he ran over to Simpson and kicked the Taser out of his hands. Angela closed her hands around the switchblade’s haft and pulled it out, emitting a cry of agony as she did so. More blood spilled and its heavy scent filled the air.
“You little fool,” Simpson spat. “You have no idea of who you’re messing with.”
“A fat loser,” answered Paul as he threw a punch at the fat man’s jaw. It connected, but it was like hitting a brick wall. Lard or not, there was an awful lot of muscle on this guy.
Since punching didn’t work, he tried kicking him—right in the nutsack. This brought an immediate result as Simpson bellowed with rage and covered up his bruised equipment. Paul yelled, “Did you feel that?”
The two henchmen ran over to pull him back. “You’re going to feel this, kid,” Hand said, and kneed him in the stomach.
The air left Paul’s lungs immediately. Body wracked with agony, he wished he had the strength to stop them…
A second later, half the wall caved in. CF stood there, his monstrous hands curled into even more monstrous fists. Behind him, a group of homeless people stood waving and pointing. “Zombies, man. We got zombies!” one of them screamed.
With a look of fear in his eyes, Simpson backed away at CF’s entrance. He motioned to his men as well as the Bangers. “Get him!” he cried in a voice thick with dread. “You morons, what are you waiting for?”
Neither side moved until Paul yelled out, “Get them!”
Simpson’s men moved first and came at the zombie full speed. Something clicked in CF’s head as he lumbered forward and smashed all the men to the ground. Hand and Finger tried using their Tasers then their guns, but although they managed to connect, nothing much happened. CF took the shots and the electricity and swatted everyone aside with an angry roar.
“Move out!” Simpson ordered and waved his hand at the door. “Everyone, we’re leaving now!”
For a fat man, he moved quickly, and his bulk disappeared through the entrance, following by his two underlings. Only the Bangers remained in a semi-conscious heap, and they stared blindly at the massive zombie who stood surveying the room. “What…what are you gonna do?” Louis whispered in fear.
Angela was moving very slowly, her limps still twitching from the electrical shock she’d received. Blood covered her torso and her eyes were shut. Louis then switched his gaze to CF.
“Are you gonna kill us?” he asked.
The zombie ignored the question. A second later, he began to slowly and carefully pile all the undamaged crates on top of each other. That job done, he picked up some garbage from the floor and went over to deposit it in the pile. “You don’t have a bag, do you?”
Paul’s eyes bugged out. “You’re doing that now?” he asked, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Forget the garbage! We have to move. Get her out of here.”
CF nodded. “I can clean up later.” With a slight squishing sound, his right pinky finger dropped off and he bent over to pick it up. Depositing it in his pocket, he went over to Angela, lifted
her in his meaty hands, and walked out of the building, past the ever-increasing band of onlookers, and deposited her inside the van.
A man who looked to be in his fifties, dreadlocked and toothless and wearing a torn pink jacket, put his hands up to the side of his head.
“Oh man,” he breathed as he rocked his head from side to side, “is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke,” Paul managed to spit out as he staggered past him and threw himself on the floor of the van. “Happy Halloween,” he yelled at the crowd.
With a yank, he pulled the door shut and smacked the wall. “Go!” he cried.
Ooze took off at high speed. This time, his driving seemed a bit surer. “No one seems to be following us,” he called out. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s still bleeding,” Paul said as he looked at Angela. He put his hands on her wound and tried to stem the flow of blood, but it just kept coming and the air in the van quickly grew thick with the smell. A moan came from her and he felt a stab of fear. She’d always seemed so indestructible and now…
“She needs her shot,” Ooze yelled while driving well above the speed limit. “I don’t know how long she can last.”
Angela stirred and lifted her arm briefly before letting it drop. “Sorry…” she whispered. “No strength…the electricity makes me…weak. I didn’t help…too weak…”
“You’ll be fine,” Paul said while trying to control his fear. No, she wouldn’t be fine, and his fear segued into panic. Her eyes began to flutter. Death was a real possibility here. She needed to drink…
Thinking fast, he took off his jacket. “Here, bite me,” he said. “We’re the same blood type, remember?”
“I…” She looked at him, eyes pleading for help, but her voice came out determined. “I can’t. You might die.”
Seconds counted. “You’ll die if you don’t drink.” After rolling up his sleeve, he offered his arm. “Hurry,” he said, steeling himself for the pain.
With a look of need in her eyes, Angela’s fangs came out and she grabbed his arm. When the actual point of contact between enamel and flesh came, it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. He’d already been trashed by the opposition, so what was one more scar—or ten?
Her fangs sunk into his wrist and a feeling of coldness began to spread from his arm throughout his body. Was this how it was? The coldness kept spreading, but then it changed to one of warmth and it felt as if someone was kissing him. Talk about a connection… He was literally into her and she into him.
It was impossible, but the emotion of being connected to her—and in her—could not be denied. He heard the sound of his blood being sucked out. Now the warmth vanished and fatigue flowed through every muscle fiber of his being. Paul slumped to the floor, his face inches away from hers. “Take… You can take as much as you want,” he sighed.
“We’re heading onto the highway!” Ooze cried and hung a sharp left.
Paul felt as if he was floating. As his consciousness began to fade. His eyesight did as well and the world turned white.
In the farthest recesses of his mind, he wondered if sex was this good. It would be great to try it one day, but right now, this was different and better than he’d ever imagined it would be. “Keep…going,” he managed to get out as his consciousness began to fade.
A second later, she pulled away and retracted her fangs. Her eyes closed, but a smile was on her bloody lips. Paul’s eyes began to close as well. If he had to die, then this was the way to go.
Chapter Eight
The Awful Truth
Dreams were never about the real thing. They were only what you wished them to be. That was something Paul had read in a book long ago.
Reality decided to intrude and the events of his life rushed back in a series of kaleidoscopic images. The first days of St. Joe’s, listening to the drone of the teachers and enduring a rain of spitballs from the other jerks in the classroom. The teachers who’d ignored his pleas for a little fairness, they were there, too.
Of course, there had been the rotten food, barely edible. He’d learned to wolf it down and nod his head as if it were the most nourishing swill ever. He hadn’t been able to wait to leave the lunch table in order to toss it up.
Finally, there had been the punch-ups before or after class. Usually bloody one-sided affairs, the teachers—with the exception of Max—had never seemed to notice Paul’s bruises and cuts. No one had professed to having seen a thing. What happened in St. Joe’s had stayed there. As far as Paul was concerned, if there was a hell, he had a list of prime candidates on the A-train going straight down.
“Fight me,” one of the kids had said during recess. Twelve at the time, this kid, large, fat and redheaded, had been taunting him from day one. Paul had already gotten beaten up more times than he could count and of course, no one had ever stood by him. Why should they, when the entertainment was free and on a daily basis?
Laughing and hooting, the other kids had crowded around and formed a circle. The kid who’d made the challenge was a lot bigger and tougher. Once again, Paul had known he was out of his league. All he’d wanted to do was to read his book and not be bothered, but it seemed that life wasn’t going to go his way—again.
The redheaded kid had smacked him in the face. Paul had leapt up, taken out the bar of soap from his pants that he’d hidden in a sock and had whipped it around in a sharp, snapping motion. It’d caught the kid on his jaw and put him down. “Leave me alone. Why don’t you leave me alone?” Paul had cried, and jumped on the other kid, pummeling him.
“Holy crap,” one of the onlookers had whispered.
Soon, a cheer had started, and perhaps the home team would actually have gotten a victory for once. Unfortunately, the shouts had brought the teachers out. They’d broken up the fight, and he’d gotten sent to detention.
Bad luck sucked. Even when he’d won, he’d lost, and two days later, retribution had come from the fat kid’s friends who’d proceeded to trap Paul in a locker room and had beat him black and blue. He’d known better than to complain. No one would have listened to the king outcast of all the orphans.
When they’d gotten done, he’d staggered out of the room and made his way back to his room, blood streaming from a torn lip and numerous cuts to his face. Justice, he’d thought, was a notion reserved for strong people and comic book heroes, and he’d wondered why no one would ever take his side…
Then he was fourteen. Sitting in the administrative office, he’d spoken to a prospective adoptive family. He’d done this dance four times before, and each time he’d been turned down for various reasons. They didn’t like his attitude. He’d been too old. He hadn’t been old enough. He wasn’t what they were looking for.
After hearing the last excuse, he’d wondered what adoptive parents wanted. This place wasn’t a pet store. You couldn’t get the perfect breed all the time. Why couldn’t people accept him for who he was?
Mr. and Mrs. Wilson had seemed nice enough. They’d spoken to him in soft voices and asked him a few questions. After twenty minutes, they’d asked to speak to Brother Jonas, another administrator, alone. Paul had sat outside on the hard wooden bench, twiddled his thumbs and had listened as the three individuals discussed his fate.
Another kid had wandered over and nodded in the direction of the door. “They’re talking about you?”
“Yeah,” Paul had answered. What else could he say?
The kid, short, blond, and extremely rotund, had offered a shrug. “Hope you make it. This place stinks.”
He’d waddled off, and in all the time since he’d been there, no one had ever bothered offering a decent word outside of the staff. Brother Jonas had stuck his head outside and asked Paul to go to his room. “We’ll talk later,” he’d said.
‘We’ll talk later’ meant that Brother Jonas had made an appearance an hour after the Wilson’s had left the building. “They”—he’d hesitated—“decided to go with another child. I’m sorry, but these things happen. Y
ou’ll always have a place here.”
Alone in his room afterward, Paul had gone to the window to look out on the grayness of the city and had wished that someone—anyone, as long as they were decent—would take him in. Risk came with adoption and he’d known that foster homes sucked in general. He’d been through them.
However, had this orphanage been so wonderful? He’d gotten his education, his three lousy meals a day and his ass kicked on a weekly basis. The only difference between this place and a potential family had been that there was more food here. Outside of that, they’d both stunk, but he’d told no one his feelings. “Like they’re going to care,” he’d muttered, but continued to stare out of the window.
Three days later, the same fat blond kid who’d spoken to him and offered a ray of hope left St. Joe’s with the Wilson’s. Paul had watched from his window as the couple ushered the boy into the back seat and drove off, perhaps to a nice house somewhere in the suburbs and a room of his own and kids who wouldn’t beat him up every day because they felt like it.
After the car had driven out of sight, the hope of ever being adopted had died. Paul had sat on the edge of his bed and tried not to cry. Not long after, he’d gotten the idea of going through the telephone book in order to find his father. Going through the list of names, he’d found one that matched, but when he’d called, a man with a thick European accent answered. “No, he not here. He move. I rent house from him.”
“Can you tell me where he moved to?” Paul had asked, licking his lips and feeling that he’d hit pay dirt. At least he’d found out where his father lived—sort of.
“He don’t tell me. Who are you?”
The question had made Paul freeze up as he’d realized his father had been living in the same city all this time and had never bothered coming around. None of this had made any sense. The man had repeated the question.
Without answering, Paul had hung up. Filing away the address, he’d promised himself he’d call again, but never had. However, the feeling of abandonment and the concept of being isolated against his will had never left.
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