by J. D. Brink
No, Paul thinks. I can feel her.
Something cold is sharing the bed with him, a void draining the heat from the room, drawing it right out of his body. He realizes that this is what woke him up, the desperate need for a blanket.
He pauses for moment, listening for breathing, hears nothing and rolls over.
She’s there next to him: petite, fragile, pale, and peacefully asleep. Blonde curls dangle in front of her face. He closes in on her, almost resting his head on the same pillow. Her lips are closed, black make-up streaked all over her mouth, nose small and still: no noise of breathing.
“Are you alive?” he whispers.
Shark’s eyes pop open as if she’d never been asleep, reflecting the feeble moonlight. Her tongue licks the air, glistening black. “I’m hungry for you, Paul.”
She rolls over and on top of him and bites into the side of his neck.
Paul yelps like a stricken dog and struggles underneath her but the girl centers her hips over his, thin legs slithering around him like constrictors. She squeezes his wrists and pins them to the bed, her skinny little frame twice as strong as he is.
Savage teeth penetrate deeper into his flesh and spread frost into his veins. He tries to scream but nothing comes out.
The girl rises slowly. Red strings of slobber bridge her face to his neck, then break and dangle from her chin.
“Oh, Paul,” she purrs. “You taste so good.”
He kicks with his whole body but she holds on, giggling.
He bucks again, shoulders, hips, legs, inching nearer to the edge of the bed.
“What’s wrong, lover?”
Her messy mouth falls toward him again.
Paul bucks one last time and they slide off the mattress together, tumbling over. He breaks free and is on top now, delivers two rapid punches to the face, crack of bone on bone with the second, his knuckles against her cheek. Black-painted talons rake his face, cutting like dull razors.
Paul jumps backward onto his feet, barely out of reach as she swipes at him again. He collides with the wall, stumbles through the dark and out of the bedroom, bumps into an empty bookshelf and almost knocks it over.
The predator follows. Two pinpricks of white fire appear in the bedroom threshold.
A loose shelf plank cracks against her face. The sound is hollow and wet, like hitting a hard melon.
Paul draws back for another swing.
She’s stunned for a second, blinks it off and turns her glare on him, bloody mouth in a bestial snarl.
He cracks her again.
And again.
She stumbles back into the bedroom with a panther-like whine.
The apartment door is right there, one step away.
He fumbles with the deadbolt, shaky hand working too fast to be accurate.
She snatches his other wrist and squeezes the blood and warmth from it. His hand goes numb in a half a second and bookshelf clatters to the floor.
But he’s got the deadbolt now.
Paul jerks the door open and shoves her back at the same time, yanking his hand free and charging outside. Carried by his momentum, he grabs the railing and vaults clean over it, landing hard on the blacktop a story below.
His left ankle splays the wrong way and his knees crumple, rolling him naked into the parking lot.
The girl above is a silhouette in front of the nightlight, arms outstretched, talons curling from her fingers.
Then the lamp on the wall flickers out, as if choked by her presence. Her thin form glows in the moonlight now like living porcelain with dark splatter on her mouth, chin, and breasts. Her eyes shine with a predatory hunger: an owl peering down on a mouse.
Paul gets to his feet, limps as fast as he can to the nearest door and pounds with all his strength.
“Wake up!” he yells. “Wake up! For God’s sake, help me!”
Then he collapses to the ground again and braces for the next attack.
But she’s not there. The stairs and landing are empty.
The door opens.
An old man stands in a tight white t-shirt and boxers, mouth hanging open, shocked at finding a naked young man bleeding on his mat.
In the emergency room, Paul lies in a bed surrounded by pea green curtains. He’s wearing a hospital gown. The oversized polo shirt and slacks his neighbor lent him are bloodstained and folded neatly on the chair beside him.
He can hear the stories of the patients on either side of him and wonders if they heard his, what they must think of him: the drunk guy bitten by a crazy bitch he picked up in an alley. He didn’t mention the cold or the bestial stuff; no need for them to think he’s insane as well as stupid.
A tall doctor and heavy-set nurse come in and out of Paul’s curtained cubicle. He’s in that bed for hours getting vials of blood taken out and a pint bag put back in, a tetanus shot, antibiotics, and stitches. Worst of all, the female nurse shoves a Q-tip into the end of his dick to check for venereal disease. The doctor tells him it’s unlikely that he needs the series of rabies shots, but it’s up to him. Paul declines.
A police detective comes in, a balding man with a thick mustache and reeking of cigarette smoke. He asks for his story twice and eyes Paul like he’s full of shit or on drugs. Lab tests say he’s not on drugs, but has a blood-alcohol of point-one-three.
“Been drinking tonight, eh?” the detective asks. He lectures Paul on picking up stray girls in alleyways while the nurse wraps a splint around his sprained ankle.
The speech isn’t helpful in any way.
“Anyway, I sent a black-and-white to check out your place,” the cop explains. “The patrolman found the door open, blood here and there, but no girl. She probably took off to find more of whatever shit she was hopped up on. And took some of your stuff to pay for it. Check your belongings when you get home, see if anything’s missing. Let us know.”
He leaves his card.
It’s mid-afternoon by the time Paul gets discharged from the hospital.
Three different doctors spend two hours debating on whether or not to keep him overnight. Finally they decide to send him home, though he’s all for staying. He’d feel much more comfortable in a big secure building full of people than he would back in his lonely little apartment.
He hangs out for a while, meandering around the cafeteria, the ER waiting room, and the hospital gift shop. Eventually the shop cashier is glaring at him and a security guard comes to stand in the corner. He can’t blame them: a weirdo with red, sleepless eyes dressed in oversized, blood-stained clothes with tape and gauze on his neck...
It’s probably time for him to go.
The cab driver almost kicks him out halfway home because he thinks Paul is cussing at him.
“No, no. I’m sorry, sir, I’m calling myself a dumb ass. I shouldn’t have been screwing around for so long. I let it get dark outside.”
The social worker at the hospital gave him a pass to pay for the cab, since he had no wallet. He and the cabby play tug of war with the ticket; Paul doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want to be left alone. But he has to.
The taxi drives off, leaving him in the quiet parking lot below his apartment.
Most of his neighbors’ lights are out.
A dog is barking down the block.
Wonder what he’s barking at? Paul thinks, then decides he’d rather not find out.
A bloody handprint is smudged on the wall outside his door. Another on the railing. Both are dry, like dark rust stains.
The door’s not locked.
Why would it be? I left in somewhat of a hurry.
The joke doesn’t ease his nerves at all.
His hands balled into fists, hoping he’s ready for anything, Paul pushes open the door...
Darkness.
He strides quickly from room to room, flicking on every light. The cracked bookshelf lies on top of blood stains in the carpet. Brown-crimson crust is dried on the wall nearby. More in the bedroom, on his sheets and pillowcase. The kitchen is undisturb
ed.
Survey completed, he shuts and locks the door. Paul plucks up the wooden plank and kisses a clean spot on its surface. “God bless this sturdy little hunk of particle board,” he says aloud.
Carrying his weapon with him, he attempts to inventory the boxes he’d never counted. None are open that weren’t open before. His TV is still here. There appears to be nothing missing.
She wasn’t after my things, he tells himself. She wanted... My blood?
“Goddamn psycho bitch,” he curses aloud. “It was the middle of the night, I was drunk and half asleep and suddenly attacked by a crazy homeless prostitute. All that other shit I thought happened, that was just my mind playing tricks on me. There ain’t no such thing as vampires!”
Some soapy water gets most of the blood off the walls and out of the carpets. Scrubbing keeps him busy for almost an hour and removes the reminders. He’ll have to wash his borrowed clothes tomorrow, at the laundromat, in the daytime.
Paul settles into his recliner, cradling the bookshelf like a baby. He watches reruns of Andy Griffith, then Jay Leno and late night infomercials, drifting in and out of sleep as they pass.
Finally he digs out a change of sheets, turns out the lights, and goes to bed.
Scratching.
At the edge of consciousness, he hears something scratching.
His eyes pop open and sleep quickly retreats from his mind.
He listens...
And there’s nothing. Silence.
He rolls over, pulls the quilt tighter against the gauze dressing on his neck.
Scratching.
Something is scratching on a hard surface. A wall? His door?
A jolt of panic catches his breath, turns his body cold: Is the door locked?
I locked it, he tells himself. I know I did.
Scratching again. By the door.
Paul leaps out of bed, grabs his plank from the floor, and rushes from the bedroom. He’s moving so fast that he slams against the front door, his hand checking the knob, the bolt.
Both are secure.
He sighs.
Draws a new breath. Puts his eye to the peephole.
Nothing outside but the railing and the flickering of the nightlight.
Then the light goes out.
The sound comes again, but it’s not outside.
It’s behind him.
Turning slowly, eyes wide, afraid to breathe.
The closet door eases open. Her laughter from within the gloom, the sound of children at play.
“I waited for you, Paul.”
His hands go numb with fear. The shelf slips away.
“I didn’t want you to get lonely.”
Her glittering eyes flash forward from the darkness. Icy teeth penetrate the other side of his neck. She’s rubbing his back and grinding against him erotically while sucking the life from this new wound, body heat drained everywhere their flesh meets.
Paul slips away, cold death embracing him. Lovingly.
Part Four
Unfeeling
Unfeeling
“Somebody needs to get a mop in there,” Shovel says, thumbing back at the men’s room. The pretty boy bartender just stares for a second. Maybe he doesn’t catch the words over the pulsing music, but he can read the meaning in Shovel’s dark, unfeeling eyes. When a brick of clay in a black suit says get a fucking mop, you better know why.
Byrd’s at the bar. He’s relatively new to the outfit and already trying to set himself a place at the big boys’ table. Shovel would rather just walk past him, but instead pauses to look Byrd in the eye.
That cocky look is there; it’s always there.
“You know why they call you ‘Shovel?’” he asks, then takes a long gulp on his vodka and cranberry. He can’t even drink like a man.
“You know why they call you ‘Byrd?’”
Skinny prick looks like a bird: tall and thin, reed-like legs, long neck, feathery blond hair.
But it’s also his name, so Byrd just smiles and laughs it off, then finishes what he was saying: “It’s ‘cause you get all the shit jobs.”
More giggles, like a little girl, like a loony bird.
“No,” Shovel says. “It’s because I generally don’t give a damn either way.” He leans in close enough to smell the expensive cologne Byrd’s wearing. “But I don’t like you.”
There’s a half-smile frozen on the loony’s face for a few seconds, trying to decide if it’s a joke or not. It isn’t, but he laughs anyway.
“Laugh it up,” Shovel grumbles, walking away.
George is still at the table with the boss, his white suit glowing under the club’s funky lights. The boss looks even whiter, his face pale and glistening.
Shovel and George share a look. They aren’t used to seeing him like this. August Alexander practically runs this town and he’s never nervous, but tonight, he’s all jangly.
It’s a semi-circular booth and George slides in for Shovel.
August about comes across the table. “Did you get it?”
There’s a desperation in his eyes that was never there before. August was known for his blue eyes, his icy stare. Hell, it’s half of what got him where he is today. And now that cold resolve has gone missing, and so has some of the respect Shovel’s always had for him.
“Of course I got it.”
The man in the john—Dim, they call him—had two things that August Alexander had decided he wanted. Now Dim’s lying in a mess of his own blood, wedged between the toilet and the divider with his pants around his ankles. And why? Because he had a little wooden doll and the attention of a particular woman. Only the Devil knows why the boss wants them, but they’re his now.
Shovel sets his meaty paw on the table and opens it.
Inside is a simple wooden carving not three inches tall, a bell-shaped head with a bell-shaped body. It looks like a woman in a dress with no arms or legs. There are two dots with eyelashes and a low V-neck, all in red paint.
Not very artistic. A fifth-grader could pull this off.
August snatches it from the thick palm, holds it up in the flashing dance floor light, then kisses the damned thing.
“Go call her,” he orders. Confidence has returned to the surface but his eyes show the same helpless desperation clawing at him underneath. “Call her and tell her I want to see her tonight. Tell her Dim’s out of the picture. She’s August’s girl now.”
Shovel and George don’t stir right away. Obviously neither of them approve, but the boss is the boss.
“Go on!” he shouts.
His boys inch out of the booth and make their way toward the bar. They look like opposites, one dressed in black, one in white, but they’re more like brothers. They talk about their love-struck father.
“I don’t get it,” Shovel shouts over the music.
“Neither do I,” George replies. “I mean, I get what’s in it for her. Gold-diggers always want to be a big man’s woman. And August don’t even mind the gold-diggers, till they start thinking they own a piece of it. Hell, I don’t even mind them telling me what to do once in a while, if they’re nice looking. But this one...”
Shovel grunts in agreement.
He’s seen this Elisa once: pushing fifty, crows feet, flat-chested, homely. The boss usually hits the town with a big-busted twenty-year-old on his arm. But August Alexander isn’t the first big man this woman has sunk her claws into. Shovel heard she was seeing a local rock star for a while and that she’d appeared in the gossip column with her arm twisted around some millionaire.
“Weird bitch must have something going for her,” Shovel says, “but damned if I know what it is.”
They reach the bar where Byrd is leaning against it all suave, talking to some girl with big hair.
George and Shovel step in on either side of Byrd, George between him and the girl, and he says loud enough for all of them, “All I can think is she must give one hell of a blow job.”
Then he turns to her, smiles, and tells her to bea
t it.
“Hey,” Byrd snaps, “I’m working here!”
Shovel places one big mitt on his shoulder and tells him to go sit with the boss.
“What, old Double-A can’t be left alone?” More jokes, more giggling. “What is he, Macaulay-Fucking-Culkin?”
“Just do it,” George says.
Then, to the bartender, “Give me a phone.”
A young kid in an apron goes by, pushing a mop bucket. He struggles to get it inside the men’s room while holding the door with one foot.
Shovel gives the club a quick glance to see if Dim’s still walking around, bloody-lipped and looking for more trouble. No sign of him.
George hangs up the phone and gives his friend a disappointed look. “Her majesty says that’ll be fine.”
They head back to the table where Byrd’s eyeing the women and August is studying the doll. He looks up when the pair sit down, forcing the new guy to slide all the way around.
“Well?”
George nods. “Yeah, boss, she says she’d be delighted to see you tonight. Her place around midnight, she says.”
“And this loser Dim?”
“She didn’t even mention him.”
“He won’t be back,” Shovel assures him. “I made sure he knew the score.”
The boss sees no further reason to hang out at the Black Cat. He wants to go home and, “You know,” he says, his hands fluttering, “freshen up. Don’t look at me like I’m some bitch on Oprah, let’s just get out of here.”
The pecking order in the car is standard: George drives, the boss rides shotgun, and Shovel and Byrd ride in the back. The valet brings the Caddie around and everyone starts to climb in, but August takes Byrd’s seat and tells him to sit in the front. There’s a moment of confusion at this sudden change in protocol, but they’re soon on their way.
Byrd runs the music too loud to talk, which is fine; the boss isn’t in the habit of explaining himself anyway and no one wants to ask.
About halfway back to the house, August grabs Shovel’s idle hand and gives it a squeeze, kind of a you’re my main man gesture. Shovel, as expressionless as ever, just gives the boss a single nod.
