The Phlebotomist

by Chris Panatier

  “Nuh-uh,” said Lock, clicking her tongue. “Hardware disconnect, Mr Olden. Panel’s right behind the display. Starboard side. I think you know that.” He gave a respectful nod and smirked, opened a small door and unplugged the wire harness inside.

  “Kill the circuit,” she said.

  He ripped a small unit from its mooring and tossed it on the floor, then smashed it with an oxblood wingtip.

  “That’ll do,” said Lock, taking a seat. She eased the butt of the rifle onto the top of a combat boot while keeping the business end trained on Olden’s head. “That’s nice,” she said, pointing out his Patriot lapel pin. “May I borrow it? Forever?”

  “So,” he said, loosening the pin and tossing it over, “what now?”

  Willa pointed to the screen. “Show us where the blood goes.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EXSANGUINATION

  The action or process of draining a person, animal, or organ of blood.

  “Very well,” he said. “Llydia?”

  Destination, Mr Olden? came the drone’s epicurean voice.

  “The Crest.”

  Right away, sir.

  Willa stayed quiet but knew Lock was thinking the same thing. Capillarian Crest was a real place, but for the denizens of AB Plus and the like, it held the status of myth: a large neighborhood, what would have been considered a wealthy suburb in the distant past, with beautiful mansions, rolling manicured gardens, and affluent residents unbound by the blood trade. That the rich could buy their way out of their obligation wasn’t surprising – it was expected, understood. But now, sitting within feet of the monster who had recently given the go-ahead for her death, the truth insinuated itself into Willa’s mind. The residents of Capillarian Crest didn’t have to buy their way out of anything.

  The drone jumped lightly into the sky, far more nimble and powerful than any taxi, and banked to the northwest.

  “It will be eight minutes or thereabouts,” announced Olden.

  Eight minutes to destination, repeated Llydia. Olden gave a smug grin. Despite being inches from a sniper’s rifle, this was not a man who feared for his life.

  Eight minutes was an eternity in drone flying-time as the good ones had a cruising speed of close to two hundred miles per hour. Willa guessed Llydia was even quicker, meaning that Capillarian Crest was between twenty and thirty miles away, isolated from the rest of the city. On the screen, an expanse of green forest stretched to the horizon. No highways, no roads, not so much as a walking path to break the wilderness. The land rose and the trees seemed to gain height as well, until the woods gave way to an expanse of emerald grass and warmly glowing homes, spread out at first, but more closely situated further in. There were occasions in Willa’s youth when she’d seen such homes in passing, from a distance. But now, decades later, they were alien. Nobody lived like this anymore. The arrangement of the homes struck Willa as they passed overhead and it wasn’t until they began to descend that she understood why. There were no streets. They didn’t need them.

  “Llydia,” said Olden, “go ahead and take me home, please.”

  “Home? Sorry, no. Cancel that Llydia,” said Lock. “We’re not going to your house. Do not land, Llydia!”

  Olden frowned theatrically, now sensing he had the upper hand. “You say you want to know where the blood goes, yes?”

  Willa’s mind raced. Olden was playing a fast-paced game of chicken, upping the stakes and taking them out of their comfort zone to see who would be first to flinch. The drone set down on one of the sprawling lawns directly in front of a large, white house. And just like that, they were in the lion’s den.

  “Willa,” said Lock, “I vote we just kill him now and take this nice drone.”

  Willa knew what Olden was, that he had given Scallien permission to murder her, that he’d landed at SCS distribution with every intent to finish the job. But he had a human face and she wasn’t a killer. She tried to choke out a response as the door slid open.

  “Willa?” urged Lock, her knuckles white around the rifle’s receiver.

  Olden smiled and winked. “You wouldn’t do that in front of my family, now would you?”

  Behind him, the glass doors to the home had come open and an exquisite woman with chest length blonde hair, strode down a path in the lush grass. Tall. Behind her, a girl, perhaps thirteen years old, followed. Olden pranced out to meet them. Willa and Locke exchanged nervous looks. If they didn’t follow, they’d lose any leverage. Of course, standing in the middle of Capillarian Crest, they’d likely lost it already, and the drone was tied to Olden, preventing their escape. Willa quietly berated herself. They’d engaged the enemy without knowing how the game was laid out.

  Willa followed onto the lawn with Lock close behind. The woman stopped and shifted so the girl was shielded behind her. Olden waved them off, smoothly as ever. “Nothing to trifle over, my loves. Some friends here for our evening meal. Quick now, run back inside.”

  As his family turned for the house, Willa and Lock sped their advance to keep up. With night falling, floodlights on the outside of the large, designer home sprang on as they entered.

  They found themselves inside a magnificent foyer, glassed in on three sides and illuminated by an enormous crystal chandelier. The Oldens moved across the open floorplan and into the kitchen. Upon reaching an island at the center of it, the woman spun to face Willa and Lock. “No guns in the house, I’m sorry. Friends or no.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Lock opened the chamber and flashed it. “It’s fully loaded.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes in disgust before Olden swept in between them. “Darling, these are my friends Willa Mae Wallace and this person here, with the large gun, is… well, I’m afraid I’m familiar only with her stage name, ‘The Locksmith’.”

  “Lock’s fine.”

  “Lovely,” said Olden. “And Willa, Lock, this is my wife, Venya, and my daughter, Ellen.” Ellen had moved beyond the kitchen proper, to the distant side of the room where she stood at a table in the breakfast nook.

  “Hello, dear,” Lock said, hefting the rifle. “Don’t be afraid, now. This is just for show.” The girl didn’t react.

  “Why are they here, Jesper?” asked Venya.

  “They insist upon getting answers to some questions they have about the blood trade.”

  Venya’s angular lips twisted and she pulled a tiny crease from her pencil skirt. “The blood trade? Jesper, are these Patriot employees?”

  “Ex,” said Willa. “As of yesterday.”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” said Lock. “Been told I’m unemployable.”

  Olden skirted the white marble island across from an immense refrigerator. “So, it was my thought that we could calmly discuss any issues that Willa and Lock have, here in our home.” His eyes flitted to a particularly large chef’s knife as he made his way.

  “You reach for that steel, you’re gonna have an issue with my MK, ’mkay?”

  “Haha,” he said, steering away. “Let’s find some common ground. Perhaps we should all sit down at the family dining table and go from there.”

  Venya pivoted on her heels with a sneer. Ellen took the seat by the window, between her parents. Willa trailed them to the table and settled opposite Ellen. Lock propped herself against a stool by the island, rifle at the ready.

  Olden pulled his chair snug and clasped Ellen’s hand on the table’s gleaming cocobolo surface. “We are an open book. What all would you like to know?”

  Willa saw the gambit. Ellen was the trump card. Olden had wagered her presence would prevent any violence. At the same time, she knew Patriot, and she certainly knew Olden. There was no way he would let them leave the house alive.

  “Where does the blood go?” she asked. Although she had basically figured it out, they needed to stall while she tried to figure out a plan for their escape.

  “Well that question has already been answered, hasn’t it?” he said. “I’ve taken you right to it.”

 
; “Capillarian Crest?” Lock exclaimed.

  “The name has a fitting ring, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “So, it comes here?” Willa continued. “For everyone that lives here?”

  “Yes,” he said, “we may export surplus, but what this city produces comes here. Patriot is a proximate producer. Buy local.”

  “We’re foodies,” said Venya.

  “Tell me if I begin to bore you, but there is such a lovely symmetry to the system,” he said, fanning his hands. “Donation precincts in every city, enough to drain the population in proportion to the number of – ahem – us.”

  “Bloodsucking vampires, you mean,” spat Lock.

  Venya stood, hissed, “How dare you!”

  “Whoa now,” said Lock, tapping the rifle. “No reason to get excited. Sticks and stones and all that.”

  Venya scowled and approached a mirror. She spoke into it while maintaining eye contact with Lock. “I exist. I am Apex, not some trashy horror movie creature.”

  “Ahem,” said Olden to Lock. “Apologies, but we don’t use the V word. On that subject we’re a sensitive bunch.”

  Lock swept the rifle back to Venya. “Start existing back in your chair,” she ordered, keeping the muzzle trained as the woman returned to the table.

  “How much are you stealing from the Gray Zones?” asked Willa. “How much are you taking from the victims?”

  “What Gray Zones?” asked Olden innocently.

  “What do you mean what Gray Zones?” Willa asked. “The Gray Zones. Stop messing around.”

  Olden sighed. “Willa, you are not listening. There are no Gray Zones. Well – not anymore, at least. It began that way of course, and… evolved, I suppose. It’s a truly amazing machine, what we’ve created.” He waggled a finger toward the adjoining room. “You see the mantle, there, above the fireplace?”

  Willa located the mantle, a heavy stone plinth with a roughhewn front edge, over which hung a comically short ornamental sword. Resting on the mantle below the sword was a large, red book with gold lettering and filigree.

  “Our annotated history,” he said. “You are welcome to study it for as long as you like.”

  Willa felt the brick and mortar walls of her beliefs, of her very identity, beginning to shake and crumble. She’d assumed that these people, these creatures who ate blood, were merely piggybacking on the system. Skimming off the top to quench their thirst. But the truth went far deeper. They weren’t stealing from others. They were producing for themselves. Her head reeled. Had she really worked her entire life, taking blood from those who couldn’t spare it, allowing them to cash in their vital essence to make ends meet, not for the greater good, but for these things to devour? The words fell out of her like tears. “We’re all just livestock.”

  “And what a noble place in the hierarchy you occupy… sustenance for the elite,” said Olden, fanning his hands as if his words were on a marquee. “Conveniently, we exist in roughly the same proportions as you do in terms of blood type. I am A-negative, so that is what I eat, or O-negative, of course, universal donor and so forth. Venya, my heart and soul, is actually AB-positive, universal recipient, which is convenient as anybody’s blood will do for her.” He looked at both Willa and Lock, raised his eyebrows, and added, “Which means you all have some common ground. How nice is that?”

  “Y’all fuckers literally eat our blood,” blurted Lock.

  “Language,” Olden admonished with a careless snort and head-check to Ellen. “So. This… is where the blood goes. This place, and thousands of others like it, in thousands of other cities,” said Olden, shifting in his chair. “Check the kitchen vault if you care to verify.”

  Lock started to back towards it, but Willa stopped her in her tracks.

  “Let me,” said Willa. “You stay put.”

  “Yeah, smart,” said Lock. “Hey Ellen, what blood type do you eat?”

  The girl was stoic.

  “A-negative, just like her father,” Olden volunteered.

  Willa went to the vault, swung the door open. The inside was filled with regular food: vegetables and fruit, milk, yogurt pods, lunchmeats, juices, sauces and condiments. “So, what exactly am I looking at? Where’s the blood?”

  “Appearances, Ms Wallace, in the rare case of visitors outside the species,” said Olden, adding, “There will be a small switch, there, just inside the crisper.”

  Willa leaned over and looked through the window of the drawer.

  “Feel free to squash the produce,” Olden said helpfully. “We don’t eat it.”

  The drawer opened smoothly, and nudging some leafy greens aside, Willa introduced her arm up to the wrist. “I can’t feel it.”

  Olden began to stand. “If I can just–”

  “No, you cannot just,” said Lock. “Sit.”

  Olden obeyed, hands up in mock surrender, and leaned slightly forward.

  Willa pressed her palm to the cold interior of the drawer and pushed it farther inside.

  “That’s it,” said Jesper. “You’re a natural. A bright future in Refrigerator: Maintenance.”

  Suddenly the door to the crisper closed, trapping Willa’s wrist. “Hey!”

  “Oh no!” Jesper whined sarcastically. “What’s happening?”

  The entire interior of the upper compartment of the vault, including the crisper and all of the shelves, began descending into the base as a single unit, pulling Willa’s arm down with it.

  “Make it stop, right now!” Lock said, aiming her gun at Olden.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” he said.

  Willa began screaming as her arm was wrenched downward.

  Lock pressed the barrel into Olden’s cheek. “Stop it! Now!”

  “You asked to see where the blood goes. I’m showing you!”

  Lock shouted orders at the vault.

  “I’m afraid it only responds to family members,” Olden added.

  “What kind of locksmith gets stumped by a refrigerator?” said Venya, chuckling.

  Ellen stayed frozen, struck motionless by the chaos around her.

  Willa was on her knees, pinned against the front of the vault. Her arm felt like it was being slowly pulled from the shoulder.

  Lock re-chambered her round and backed toward Willa.

  Willa cried as the inner compartment settled heavily into the space where a lower freezer drawer might have been in a normal refrigerator. Her arm was wedged between the appliance’s outer shell and the interior unit that had descended into it. Tears bled from the corners of her eyes.

  “That is a lot of weight on that arm,” Olden stated observantly. “I can’t envision how long it will remain attached, though I am sure your tendons and ligaments will hold for a good while if they are any bit as stubborn as you are. But fret not. I have not forgotten that I promised you an answer to your question – Refrigerator?” he called musically. “Open the food drawer, please.”

  Amid all the pain, a soft mechanical noise brought Willa’s eyes up the empty space that had been vacated by the shelved portion that now had her pinned. The back panel, where the refrigerator sat flush to the wall, dropped slowly down. Once clear, ten horizontal racks extended from a void, strung with Patriot-issue bags swollen full. Labels etched onto each by a needle-scanner from a donation stall just like hers delineated collection date, blood type and expiration. Almost all O-negative, with A-negative and other phenotypes scattered throughout.

  “What is it?” called Lock, her eyes and gun still jumping back and forth between the gleaming Ichorwulves.

  “Blood,” Willa winced. “A lot of it. O-neg, A-neg… some AB-pos.”

  Lock moved closer to Willa and tried to budge the mechanism that had her trapped. At the sight of all the bags, Lock’s voice came softly, as if the last touch of innocence within her had finally been snuffed. “People think they’re giving their blood to help… but you people… you’re just… stealing it from them.”

  “You would rather we pillage the townships and keeps for stra
y peasants as our ancestors did? Using a person for only a day before discarding them? You would rather be hunted? You would prefer mass murder?”

  “At least people would know the truth,” said Lock. “You’ve made everybody slaves.”

  “Oh, tsk, tsk. Please. Slavery carries such negative connotations.”

  The pain in Willa’s arm radiated in pulses that gave the alternating sensations of severance and burning. She struggled to stay conscious and gasped for breath as her heart thrummed. Her head drooped low to where she could only see the three sets of shoes under the kitchen table.

  Noting her incapacity, Olden smiled up at Lock. “Oops, look at that,” he said. “Three against one.”

  “I’ll shoot all three of you,” said Lock.

  “We’re too fast for that,” said Olden.

  Lock sniffed, wiped her nose. “Fine,” she said, swinging the gun to Ellen. “Come at me, I shoot the pre-teen.”

  Meanwhile, Willa’s eyes blurred as thick tears dribbled from the tip of her nose. Through the salty film, a distorted scene met her sight, and she saw the slightest of movements beneath the kitchen table. It unfolded so slowly that she didn’t know if it was actually happening or just an image refracting poorly through her straining eyes. She worked hard to focus, blinked away what tears she could, and watched the shadows. The gleam of a pointy red shoe tip, gently nudging down the heel of its opposite. A graceful foot with garnet toes pulling free of the vamp, moving lithe and dexterous to lay the stiletto on its side, then pulling the second shoe from the other foot. A hallucination? It felt that way.

  Through her delirium, the removal of shoes seemed more than just a familiar routine that one might do when relaxing at home. The movement, somehow, was imbued with a significance that struck Willa as vaguely reminiscent. Déjà vu. From deep within, underneath the smoking remains of all she had believed and all she had worked for, came a vision. The small woman in the scalloped collar. The platinum ponytail pulled tight. The tiny murderess whose own demotion to bare feet had presaged her violence.

  The second stiletto was placed to the side and Venya’s feet settled together, her smooth calves tensing. Willa’s voice came weakly, “Lock.”