Blood

by Fox, Stephen

  “Arghhh! My eyes!” Both men ripped the night goggles off their faces and massaged their eyes to relieve the burning. Several minutes went by before either man could see anything again. As their eyes adjusted to the dark again, the first thing that came into view was Trudy in all her glory. They went back to enjoying the view, without the goggles.

  As Don regained consciousness, his first vision was of the dark figure bending over him. “Hey, man. What’s happening?” A moment of panic hit him as he remembered leaving his girl friend. “Hey, where’s Barbara? Is she all right?” As the boy became more aware, he tried to sit up and realized that he couldn’t. Looking around he discovered that he had been tied to a long wooden table, spread-eagled with each arm and leg fastened to a table leg. He tested the tautness of the ropes; he had a couple of inches of play with each limb. Enough slack to keep him from being in pain, but not enough to even think of freedom. Trying to reach one wrist with the other hand proved impossible. He couldn’t get his hand within a foot of the other. “What’s this? Hey! What are you doing? Let me up!”

  “Patience, my young friend. We will begin soon enough, but there are preparations to be made.”

  “Preparations? What are you talking about? I want to get up now. My old man is a lawyer. Let me go or you’re in big trouble!”

  The voice had come from behind, but he wasn’t able to move his head far enough to see. A rustling sound began and moved toward the table. The boy briefly wondered what the man was doing, but suddenly realized that maybe he didn’t really want to know after all. A tall man came into view holding a plastic dropcloth. He unfolded the end and started sliding it under the boy’s body.

  “What’re ya doin? Look man, I just wanna get out of here. Let me up, please mister.” Powerless to prevent it, Johnny watched the middle-aged man pull the plastic sheet under him and over the entire table. The way the guy made no attempt to hide his face made Don even more aware of his helplessness. The shadowy man finished with the sheet and stepped back to make sure the drop cloth covered the entire bench. Taking a pair of scissors, he began to cut away the boy’s clothing.

  “Wait a minute. What’re ya doing now? I’m gonna tell my old man, then you’ll be sorry.”

  As each piece of clothing was cut off the man pulled it out from under the boy and threw it into a pile in the corner. Then he walked out of sight above the table again. Now clinks and clanks, sounding like silverware hitting together, came from the same direction.

  By now the boy was near tears. “Please, mister! Just let me go! I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I need to go home.”

  Suddenly a new clanking began, and a kitchen cart rolled into view. The boy was able to raise his head just enough to see that the cart contained knives of every size and description. The man rolled the cart next to the bed and picked up a small carving knife and tested the edge. His taunting voice cut through the terror. “I think we’ll start with this one.”

  The impromptu show ended. Trudy finally pulled the blinds and disappeared from view. The detectives emerged from their trance and turned their attention back to the house in question. Coleman donned the goggles again and scanned the house, “Oh, crap!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Just look at that.” Beard put his glasses on and looked at the sliver of light coming from the back basement window. Even without the night goggles, the light shining through the glass was visible. “I guess somebody’s home.”

  Captain Jim Underwood cringed when the phone rang. Oh well, last night he got a whole night’s peace, and two nights in a row was more than he could ask for. “Underwood here.”

  “Captain, this is Lieutenant Morris. I have the duty tonight. Detectives Coleman and Beard are on stakeout near the Patrick house, the suspect who disappeared last week. They report that there are lights on in the house. They want to know if they should investigate further.”

  Underwood came to attention. An arrest here would lead to some answers and hopefully restore the reputation of his officers. “Tell them to watch the house, but not to approach. Also tell them to keep in touch if the situation changes.”

  By now his finger circling had accelerated. His hand had automatically found the groove he had worn in the end table over the years. “I want to go by the book on this one, so there will be no hint of a cover-up. Call Judge Adler and ask him to sign a warrant. When you get the warrant, round up the SWAT team. By the time I get there, everything should be ready. I’ll call the commissioner, too. He probably will want to be in on this. We’ll wait until everything and everyone is in place. After all, there’s no great need for speed.”

  Carlton and Beckman had been investigating a domestic disturbance. As usual the wife had been bounced around the living room several times, but still didn’t want to press charges. They reached the patrol car. Carlton got in and closed the car door. “Hey, buddy. Now that that hassle is over, let’s head back to the restaurant and get something to eat.”

  “Suits me. I thought we’d never get out of there.” Beckman got on the radio and called in to report and told the dispatcher they’d be taking a break at the restaurant.

  The patrol car drove down Abercorne Street heading for Victory Drive. They had just passed 42nd Street when the radio came alive. “Unit Seven.”

  “Oh, crap!” Beckman grabbed the microphone. “Unit Seven. Go ahead.”

  “Unit Seven, meet the captain at Two Fourteen Spring Street, unknown situation.”

  Carlton thought for a moment. “Hey, isn’t Two Fourteen Spring the address of that blood bank guy?”

  “Sounds like it. Ready to roll?”

  The portly officer sighed deeply. “I guess we need to. But I swear, if I find out you’re in a conspiracy with my wife to force me to diet, you’re gonna be in big trouble. Let’s go.”

  No matter how much the boy squirmed and twisted, he couldn’t loosen the ropes binding him to the table. “Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Mister, don’t do this to me! Ohmygod!”

  The tall man bent over the writhing figure and paused. “Now I would like to say that this will not hurt much.” His mouth twisted into a childish grin. “But we both know I would be lying, now, would we not?”

  “Ohmygod! OH MY GOOOOOOOOOD!”

  Commissioner Williams looked over at Captain Underwood. Units Seven and Twelve were in place at the back of the house, while Unit Five continued to cover the front. The SWAT team deployed to cover both sides of the house. Everyone wore bulletproof vests and helmets. The street looked like a war zone. Captain Williams had the signed warrant in one hand and the microphone in the other, ready to give the signal to begin the operation. Underwood looked at his watch. All of this put together in slightly less than an hour and a half. And half of that time had been spent tracking down the judge, who had picked tonight to forget his beeper. Fortunately the judge had returned to his car, where his cellular phone was clamoring for its owner at the top of its lungs.

  The Commissioner gave a nod to Underwood and the Captain spoke quietly into the mike, “All units, go.” Officers clad in black uniforms with the words SAVANNAH POLICE stenciled on the back rushed to both sides of the door. The squad leader knocked on the door and yelled, “Police! Open up!” When ten seconds went by without an answer, a pair of officers grabbed the battering ram and, with one mighty blow, smashed the lock slamming the door open. Six officers in teams of two rushed in, covering each other, checking every room on the ground floor. Finding no one, the officers followed the strategy mapped out before the raid began, with one pair checking the upper story, one officer at each of the front and back doors, and the final pair taking the first floor. It didn’t take long to ascertain that the downstairs was unoccupied. It took only a minute more to discover the door to the basement. By then more officers were entering the house. Two officers took positions on each side of the door. The SWAT leader reached out and open the door quickly, then both officers took positions to return fire through the door if the need arose. When no fire came, the offic
ers peeped in the door to find a set of stairs. At the bottom of the steps, the officers found a small narrow hallway lined with shelves. A collection of the usual household hardware covered the shelves; paint cans, brushes, cleaning supplies and various bug sprays. Nothing seemed out of place or out of the ordinary.

  Further down the hall the first officers confronted a thick soundproof metal door, definitely out of place in a residential home. Positioning themselves cautiously on both sides of the door, the SWAT leader tried the knob. It turned and the door swung open as the policemen, two upright and two kneeling, trained their weapons into the room.

  The tall man turned slowly toward the officers and raised his hands in submission, a look of mild surprise on his face. He did not seem worried by the intrusion, only mildly annoyed that his work had been interrupted. The SWAT members, accustomed as they were to violence and bloodshed, had trouble believing the scene before them. On the bed in front of them was what used to be a young boy, but now was a mangled mess, slashed across every square inch of the body. The tall figure standing with his hands raised high, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world, had taken nearly every drop of blood from the crimson mess on the bed and smeared it over his nude body.

  “This is an interview with a suspect named James Patrick on February seventeenth, 1998 at 8:35 a.m.” Lieutenant Cappazoli spoke slowly and distinctly for the recorder whirring in the corner of the conference room on a small typewriter table. That and a large, bare conference table with low back wooden chairs around it were the only furnishings. The room was not designed for comfort. Patrick sat at the table facing the door, while Cappazoli and another uniformed officer stood over him. “Lieutenant Anthony Cappazoli and Sergeant Frederick West in attendance. Mr. Patrick, we have informed you of your rights and you have voluntarily waived all of those rights. Is that correct?”

  “That is correct.” Patrick looked cool and calm, even amused by the proceedings. His aura of charm impressed the onlookers in spite of themselves. If not for the orange jumpsuit Patrick wore it would have been hard to tell which one was the suspect.

  “You are aware, are you not, that this interview is being recorded, and anything you say can be used against you in a court of law?”

  A nod from Patrick. “I understand and agree to these recordings.”

  “You haven’t been coerced or threatened in any way to waive your rights, and you are doing so of your own free will?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Mr. Patrick, you were taken into custody at your residence at 214 Spring Street on the night of February sixteenth at approximately 11:40 p.m.”

  “I believe that is an accurate statement.”

  “When you were arrested, you were standing over the body of a young man named Johnny Parker.”

  Patrick leaned back in his chair, a relaxed look on his face. “I will have to take your word for the young man’s name. We were never properly introduced. I was, you understand, rather busy at the time.”

  Cappazoli was filled with disgust at the casual way the suspect referred to his deeds of that night. “Ah, yeah, of course. Well, Mr. Patrick, did you kill the boy?”

  A snort of derision. “Of course. That is the reason we are all here, is it not?”

  “You freely admit you caused the boy’s death.” Sergeant West seemed at a loss to explain the suspect’s cheerfulness at the admission.

  “Certainly. And you can rest assured that I killed the girl at the other park last night, as well. I won’t lie to you.”

  “Of course not, Mr. Patrick.” Cappazoli continued. “Would you like to explain why you felt you had to murder these two people?”

  The suspect turned his hand over in an unruffled shrug. “Why of course, my dear fellow. I’m a vampire!”

  CHAPTER 4

  A stunned silence fell. Cappazoli’s chin dropped and his mouth gaped opened as he looked over at West. West shrugged. He’d heard stranger stories. Not often however.

  “A vampire?” Sergeant West broke the lull with his question.

  The suspect raised his hands, palms upward. “Well, not really a vampire. We don’t have big fangs and drink the blood of our victims. But we do have to kill. It’s a craving, an instinct that grows stronger each day until we can’t control it anymore.”

  West and Cappazoli looked at each other. Cappazoli spoke first. “You say ‘we’. So there are more like you?”

  “Oh certainly. There are tens of thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands of us worldwide. We call ourselves ‘The Chosen’.

  “And you like to kill people. Is this some kind of cult?”

  Patrick laughed. “Heavens, no. We don’t like to kill. We have to kill. We can’t help ourselves.” He paused for a moment in thought, and continued. “Well, some enjoy the act of killing, but most of us abhor it. We truly can’t help ourselves. That’s why I got caught. I was trying to find an alternative. If using blood from the blood bank had worked, I could have spread the word and saved many innocent people from being slaughtered. But it didn’t work. Apparently the blood must be fresh to act as a catalyst. Because I waited too long to make the kill, I wasn’t in control enough. So I got caught.”

  West scoffed. “So you sleep all day in a coffin and only come out at night. Do you wear capes and change into bats too?”

  Patrick turned to face the Sergeant. “You mock me, sir. But I assure you, every word I speak tonight is the truth. We are not like Count Dracula and the late-night vampires you’re accustomed to seeing on television. But my ‘kinsmen’ so to speak, are the roots of the vampire legends. Witnesses to our attacks have spread the tales.” He drew himself up and turned his head to look each man in the eye. “Imagine yourself an ignorant sixteenth century peasant coming upon a brutally murdered person from your village, or even your family. Then imagine seeing a figure covered with blood fleeing the scene. A scene much like this created the myth as the peasant embroidered his account with exaggerations of his bravery. Over the years there were enough sightings to keep the myth alive, and growing bigger and more frightening with each telling. Big fangs, capes, sleeping in graveyard blood and most of the other parts of the legends were added through the years, or invented by people like Bram Stoker to sell books.”

  Still in a state of shock, Cappazoli jumped in. “You expect us to believe that? Is this part of a psychodrama to lay the foundation for an insanity plea?”

  “ I assure you that it is not. Every word is the unvarnished truth. I’m not pleading insanity. I’m not saying I’m innocent. I’m merely explaining my need to kill. It gives me no joy to kill. With me it’s a necessity.”

  West’s lip curled with disdain. “Oh, yeah? If you hate killing so much, how come you tortured that young man? Why not just cut an artery and make the kill quick and easy?

  The suspect raised a hand, palm upward. “It works better when the blood is liquid. If it flows too fast the blood dries too quickly, and makes it hard to spread. I really hate stretching out the bleeding, but it’s necessary.”

  Cappazoli had a thought. “Maybe that’s so, but why not knock the kid out? Why do it when he’s conscious?”

  West nodded. “Yeah, if it bothers you so much, why leave him awake and screaming? He must have been screaming at the top of his lungs. Or at least gag him?” He shook his head. “It sounds like you get off on your victim’s misery and pain.”

  Patrick squirmed in his chair. For once he had nothing to say.

  West left the room and came back with coffee for each of them. Patrick accepted his with a quiet thanks. He took a sip and grimaced. The station’s coffee was legendary around the city. Underwood swore they got most of their confessions after the suspect was subjected to the bitter brew.

  The suspect set his cup on the table. “Next question, gentlemen.”

  . West was the first to ask, “Why the blood? What does this bathing in blood do for you?”

  “Haven’t you guessed? Look at me! I’m already ten years younger than I was yes
terday, and I’m getting younger by the minute. This ‘blood bath’, as you choose to call it, is the legendary Fountain of Youth.”

  Underwood, watched through the observation glass. His finger rubbed circles on the sill. A worn spot where the paint had been rubbed away spoke of the many times he had observed from that room. His thoughts revolved faster than his finger. Did the suspect really believe this stuff? He did appear younger this morning, but the light of day and a good night’s sleep could account for that.

  The interrogation continued. “So you can stay young forever?”

  “Well, not young, but we can theoretically live forever. After our, do I dare call it, ‘treatment,’ we age normally. But as we approach old age, something changes. Apparently something in our blood. I don’t know what causes it. I’m not a doctor. But we feel a change. Perhaps it’s our version of menopause. Whatever it is and whatever causes it, we begin to get a craving. Most of us fight it for a time, but it grows stronger each day, until we have to satisfy it.”

  “By feeding on human blood.”

  Patrick folded his arms to his chest. “Hardly. I told you we are not the vampires of folklore. They could only sustain themselves by drinking blood, and had to kill often. The Chosen are human except for a few minor improvements. Many of us are even vegetarians. We don’t have to satisfy our blood thirst as often as those fictitious monsters, and we don’t drink blood the way the legends claimed. But we do have to spread human blood over our body to cause the renewing process to begin. No one knows why. Somehow fresh, human blood is needed as a catalyst for the change to take place. Many of the Chosen are studying the problem, but no one has found any answers yet.

  Cappazoli jumped in. “You say you can live forever. Does that mean that if you get the death penalty we have to drive a stake through your heart?”

  An annoyed look came over Patrick’s face. “Let’s not be silly. That’s merely one of hundreds of myths about my people. In truth, it would work, although I cannot envision your Supreme Court allowing that particular form of punishment. Our bodies work like yours, aside from a few improvements. A car wreck or other calamity can kill one of the Chosen. But if it doesn’t kill him outright, his body has tremendous powers of recuperation. From wounds that would be fatal to humans, the Chosen can usually recuperate within days. Broken bones are repaired in hours; deep cuts in minutes. I even saw one of my companions with his skull split open with an ax. We removed the ax and watched the wound repair itself. Within hours the wound was healed externally. The man regained consciousness by the next morning. It took several days for all the synapses to fully restore themselves, but a week later you would never know he had been injured.”