Sam was glad that he had left his family behind for their own safety, but found that he wasn't able to simply forget about them. His parents were an integral part of his life after all, or rather they had been a central part of his old life and had to be spared from harm as he still loved them dearly. Whereas the poor alley cat that he had gotten his hands on in desperation hadn't been so lucky. Sam had left the cat’s remains behind a pile of trash bags, its body cold and lifeless. The death of the small, defenseless animal made him feel terrible no matter how much he tried to defend his actions. His own survival was still high on his list of priorities, but he now started to feel the burden of remorse.
The feral feline had tasted foul and disease ridden, but some of the rush of feeding was still present as Sam bit in through the matted fur and drank deeply. It would take days for him to pluck the hairs out from between his bloody teeth, but at least this way he wasn't as likely to harm another human being. So far, he had been fortunate enough to avoid killing anyone, even when he lost control and attacked the people living in his old house. However that streak of luck would not last forever. There would come a time where he wouldn't be able to stop himself and no-one would be around to stop him either. It was a disaster waiting to happen and it was bound to happen sooner than later.
Struggling to keep moving, Sam stumbled around around the corner of a little bodega, trying to find some respite from the sun. He was suffering now, his body wracked with the pain of the pox as his flesh started to burn. His body felt like it was on fire and there was little he could do to relieve it. Cowering in the first spot of shade that he could find, he rested against the whitewashed wall of the alleyway. It wasn't much, but the temporary shelter would give him a moment to rest.
The shop owner had tried to cover up some recent graffiti, but the faint lines of black paint could still be seen beneath. Attempting to focus his mind, Sam tried to read it, but the words didn't seem to make much sense. Something about the Locos, whoever they were. Thinking nothing of it, he pushed himself along the wall, trying to get further into the shadows of the narrow alley and away from the bright open area of the main street. It hadn't occurred to him that he was wandering away from one danger and heading right into the next.
“You lost, man?” The heavily accented voice instantly betrayed the Cuban origin of the man who stepped out from a doorway behind him. And from the sound of it he wasn't alone.
“He looks lost, don't he.” Sam couldn't find the energy to turn and face them, instead resting his head against his hand as he used it to hold him upright against the wall. From the heavy footsteps, he could tell that the second man was much larger, yet his voice made him sound as though he was a similar age to the first. Both of them were likely in their mid to late twenties and they seemed as though they were ready for trouble. The reek of cigarette smoke stung Sam’s nostrils, causing them to twitch as the men came closer.
“Too good to talk to us, eh?” The smaller man spat, now near enough to rest his own hand near Sam’s head as he leaned in a little too close for comfort. His breath stank like he had been drinking cheap booze, and there was something else in the air. The smell of knock off aftershave and bargain deodorant. He clearly wasn't wealthy, but the gold rings that encircled each finger tried to say otherwise. “You okay, bro? Looks like you had a rough day.”
Sam still felt weak and tried to formulate a response, not getting much further than a single word. “No…”
The man slapped his hand against the wall’s surface a little closer to Sam's face than before. “No, what?”
All Sam could manage was the same word again. “No…”
The second man was right behind him now, cracking his knuckles as he spoke with a threatening tone. “You stupid or something, man? This is Loco turf.”
Sam sighed loudly. He tried his best to push away from the wall, but his muscles failed him.
The first man leaned in closer, his black goatee and nicotine stained teeth now visible. “Let's see what you got.”
It took few seconds, but Sam managed another word. “...What?”
The man shoved Sam a little with his other hand. “Give us your money!”
Taking a brief moment to concentrate, Sam still struggled to form a sentence. “I… don't... have... anything.”
Enraged by his answer, the bearded man grabbed Sam by the shoulder and shook him violently. “Give us your fucking money!”
It wasn't quite adrenaline pumping, but Sam began to feel his blood boil. He began to gain strength in response to the threat, as if his own body was fighting to protect him. “I really don't have any.” His voice wavered. “Look at me… I'm a mess and don't even have any cash to look after myself.”
The man almost growled at him through clenched teeth. “Yo, you giving me lip?”
Sam closed his eyes for a moment, the act of talking becoming a little easier now. “What? No, I…”
He was quickly interrupted by the confirmation of the larger man. “He’s giving you lip, bro.”
There was a metallic click and then Sam could see the reflection of something silver as it was moved into his field of view. It was a pocket knife, its sharp blade glinting in the low light of the alley. Tattooed knuckles gripped the handle tightly, holding it close to his throat. “You wanna get cut?”
Sam shook his head slowly, eyeing up the knife as a feeling of fear rose in him. “No. I just want to be left alone…”
That wasn't the answer the men were looking for. The larger of the pair rested his hands on Sam’s arms, squeezing tightly as he yanked him away from the wall. He held him in his vice like grip, not relenting for even a second. “Stick him, Luca!”
Sam could see the first man properly now, the one called Luca, his eyes glaring in anger. His smooth, shaved head contrasted with the dark hair of his beard, giving him a menacing look. An oversized basketball jersey hung loosely from his skinny torso, with shorts, white sneakers and knee length socks beneath. He was holding his tattooed forearms out in front of him in a fighting stance as he brandished his weapon wildly. “Listen, you wanna die here?”
There was only one obvious answer. “No. I just want to leave.” Sam tried to wrestle with his captor in an attempt to break free, but he found that he was still too weak to overpower him.
“You messed up, man. Tell Santa Muerte the Locos sent you.” Still feeling sluggish, Sam barely had time to react as the cold steel of the blade found its way into his gut. It could have just been the shock, but for some reason it didn't hurt quite as much as he would have expected. There was a sharp pain of course, but it wasn't staggering. The effect of the sun’s rays had been far worse.
The fact that Sam didn't fall to his knees, or even react much at all for that matter, left his attacker looking surprised. Luca hesitated for a brief moment before pulling the knife out and then jabbing it back in to Sam’s stomach. The second stab was even less painful than the first, as if his body had adapted now he knew it was coming. A smile began to emerge on Sam’s face as he stared the man down.
“What the…?” The man stabbed again and again, driving the knife in and out of Sam’s chest this time.
“Luca? What you waiting for, man?” The curious brute holding Sam couldn’t see what was happening and was still waiting for his friend to carry out the murder.
Luca’s face was overrun with confusion as he kept on thrusting with the blade again and again. It must have been over a dozen times now, but Sam didn’t falter. The realisation that the knife wasn’t causing any real harm, other than flesh wounds that his victim didn’t seem to suffer from, caused the man to drop the weapon as a look of abject fear washed over him. “El Diablo!” Luca yelled, with terror in his voice as he stepped back, with Sam’s blood dripping from his hands. He turned to run out of the alley, so fast that he almost tripped over his own feet.
“Luca?!? What the hell man!” Came the concerned voice of the man who had now let go of Sam and was following his friend at a hurried pace. Sam could
see him now, a large man who clearly liked food more than he liked exercise. He was trailing behind, holding his jeans up to stop them falling due to his lack of belt. The back of his white t-shirt had a trail of sweat leading from the buzzed haircut on his head, down to the top of his exposed boxer shorts.
Sam tried to laugh at the sight before him as both men ran around the corner and out of sight, however the sound of laughter was instead replaced with a splattering of thick, red liquid that he coughed up in to his hands. Examining the fluid on his fingers, he recognised it for what it was. Blood. He was leaking from more places than he could count and the rush of the moment had gone, leaving him in a state of fragility that he hadn’t felt before.
Trying to reach the wall again to steady himself, Sam staggered and lost his balance, crashing into a row of trash cans and knocking them over. He fell hard, landing in a pile of waste as plastic bags were dumped out, torn and their contents were spilled all over. The sudden aroma of rotting food smelled so bad that his sinuses burned with over stimulation while his mind tried to process a multitude of different stenches.
Sam rolled onto his side, trying his best to pick himself up but he no longer had the energy. “H… help…” His cry was far too quiet for anyone to hear. He could just about see people back on the main street walking by, but even if anyone found him there, it was unlikely that they would be a good Samaritan and lend a hand. Sam had inadvertently stumbled into gang territory and no-one would do anything to tempt their wrath, or risk calling the police who in places like this were often as bad as the gang members themselves. As usual, it was better for the locals to stay under the radar and avoid drawing any unwanted attention to themselves from either side.
It was impossible for Sam to stay conscious, no matter how much he tried to resist. The combination of being active during the day, his lack of sustenance and the heavy loss of bodily fluids through deep cuts in his abdomen was finally taking its toll. He tried to call for help again, but no words escaped his mouth. A trickle of blood left his lips and rolled down his cheek, dripping to the ground. He was surrounded now by what little vitae he had left in him, the open knife wounds no longer able to release any more.
Despite the the fact that his body was shutting down, Sam didn't feel as though he was dying. It was closer to falling into a deep sleep, his vision fading to black as he spiralled down in to the depths of his subconscious. He couldn't sense the world around him anymore. There was nothing for him to see, hear or touch. It was just him, his thoughts, his dreams and the hunger that screamed out for satisfaction. The craving for blood was now so strong that it took on a form of its own. It was a beast of sorts, snarling as it tried to claw its way out, but there was no escape for either of them. Not while the shell that they inhabited starved and withered. Sam was trapped with the beast. They were caged together somewhere inside himself, and he couldn't see a way out.
Chapter Seven: A home within the chaos.
“Are ya sure ‘e’s not dead? 'E bloody looks it.” The man's accent was thick and definitely foreign. From the sound of it, the voice belonged to someone who had spent most of their life growing up in the north of England and so they probably hadn't been in the United States for long.
Sam could hear everything, but found that he was unable to move a muscle or respond. He was trapped in his body and had no way of letting anyone know that he was conscious. He had no idea where he was, how he had gotten there or how long he had been out.
The woman who replied was a little more local and much easier to understand. “No. He’s about as dead as I am.” She enunciated her words, remaining clear and concise.
The Englishman raised his voice in frustration. “Oh fer fuck sake… You brought another one back 'ere? Don’t ya remember what 'appened last time?”
Whoever she was, the woman seemed to be hurt by his words, as if she was full of regret. “Of course I remember… How can I forget if you keep bringing it up? I was more careful this time though. No-one saw me, I swear.”
A second man raised his concerns, his Southern twang not as apparent as it had likely once been. “Right… If he's a vamper, then why ain’t he healin’? He's got holes all over.”
The woman snapped at him. “I don't know, do I? Something about him smells… different. Try giving him some blood.”
A snicker from the Englishman signalled his disbelief. “No bloody way, ya daft bitch.”
His loud opinion was closely mirrored by that of the other man, a little calmer than the first. “Don’t look at me, En. You may be the lead, but you're not my damn boss.”
A fourth voice, also male, signalled his own disapproval. His accent was Hispanic in origin, but relatively plain and easy to grasp. “No way, chica. Go look somewhere else, eh?”
The woman sighed loudly. “Fine… Some help you guys are. I'll do it myself. It’ll be my own little pet project!”
The sound of footsteps walking away on a hardwood floor let Sam know that someone was leaving. The Englishman’s vocalised exasperation was now being projected from the other side of the room. “Go play with yer blood doll then, yeah. Just fuckin’ leave us outta it, alright?”
The woman called back to him, clearly unimpressed. “You're just jealous, Jack!”
He cackled in response. “You wish, mate! Come on, fellas... Let's leave 'er to it an’ get set up.” It sounded as though the other two men were following his lead, as more footsteps could be heard walking off in the same direction.
The Southern man replied with an air of calm as he trailed off. “Don’t be takin’ too long up here, En. Just holler if you need help.”
The three men exited through a creaky door not all that far away, letting it slam behind them. As soon as they were gone, Sam could hear the woman turn back to him. She spoke quietly so as not to be overheard by anyone outside. “We’ll show them, won't we? This won't be like the last time at all.” He felt her lips press softly against his forehead, cold as his own skin as she kissed him lightly. “You’re going to absolutely love it here.”
Sam didn't recognise the woman’s voice, but something about her reminded him of someone he once knew. Although she was trying to mask it with a positive attitude, her words sounded as though she had a heavy heart that was full of sorrow. In all honesty, she seemed as though she was lonely and just wanted some companionship, and it appeared that she had her sights set on him as someone that she could share her life with.
Sam had to admit that the thought of spending some time alone with the woman was pleasant, but he couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the last guy who she had brought home with her. Whatever had occurred, the other men were concerned about history repeating itself and the very thought of it terrified him.
**********
The concept of time seemed alien to Sam as minutes, hours or possibly even days passed by, broken up with brief interludes of consciousness. It was impossible for him to know if it was even night or day, as he constantly felt as though his body had been drained of all energy. He did feel as though he was gradually gaining strength though, but it was not the rapid recovery that he desired. Far from it in fact.
After a near eternity of sleep, Sam’s somewhat peaceful rest was disturbed by the muffled noise of loud instruments that could be heard belting out jarring tunes somewhere in the building nearby. A rhythmic drum beat and steady baseline penetrated through the poorly insulated walls, resonating through Sam’s body as he began to wake from his slumber. Wherever he had been relocated to, the cacophony of sounds shook the place like an earthquake, sending tremors across the floor. The room itself seemed to move in time with the music, each note causing it to shift in unison.
Sam bolted upright, finally conscious and fully aware of his surroundings. His eyes darted around the room, still struggling as blurry shapes slowly began to focus into view. He could just about see that the bare brick walls of the windowless room were plastered with a collage of different band posters and flyers. The entire place was cluttered wi
th cardboard boxes and the odd piece of mismatched furniture, the most prominent pieces being an old wardrobe, a powder table stacked with various makeups and beauty products, and a recliner that had been draped with several blankets and an assortment of cushions.
The final item that formed the centrepiece of the room was a well used mattress that Sam now found himself on, with plain white sheets that had been stained red with dried blood. The fabric smelled unusual, with the coppery scent of plasma combined with various different perfumes that permeated everything including the pillow cases. From the smell alone, Sam concluded that the makeshift bed likely belonged to a woman, but had since been repurposed for his own recovery.
Sam still felt weak, his head spinning as he tried to stand unsuccessfully. His arms struggled to hold him upright and his strength was failing him, but he still continued to push through with determination. It was then that he realised that he was no longer in his own clothes and was instead wrapped up in similarly blood saturated bandages that covered his chest and stomach, with nothing else but his boxer shorts to cover himself.
It took almost all his remaining might, but Sam eventually managed to push himself up by first rolling onto his knees and then placing his hands against the uneven springs of the mattress. Another moment passed before he could stand himself up straight, legs shaking under his own weight. His bare feet rested against the hard, wooden boards that made up the floor, as he swayed from side to side with nothing but sheer force of will keeping him from collapsing.
Taking some time to steady himself, Sam looked around for something to wear. He quickly realised that his best option was the wardrobe that he had spotted a little earlier and so he carefully made his way towards it. It wasn't long before he found himself stumbling over his own feet as he lost his balance. He grabbed at the handle in desperation, barely catching the metal between his fingers as he stopped himself from tumbling to the ground. Sam knew that if he had fallen he likely wouldn't have been able to pick himself up again, and one thing he hated more than most was feeling helpless.
Blood of the Forsaken Page 8
