I look down at the girl. I think, for a moment, about all the people who said I was a monster because I could look refugee children in the eye and tell them their limbs would never grow back. About the family that disowned me because I sold high yield explosives to Bach separatists knowing four thousand would die in the planned attack. About the friends that left me because I helped the Serbians murder two hundred thousand through arms shipments and PMC deployments.
About everyone who ever said I was less than human.
I'll show them one of the damned.
I take a nail across my wrist. Across the street. I press the wound against the girls mouth. Almost on instinct she starts to drink. She wraps a bloody hand across my arm and forces my wrist closer, gulping at the flow of blood.
She doesn't stop until the wound closes. Pull my hand away, glancing at the rapidly fading scar. She whimpers and starts to stir.
"What... who... who are you? Ohhh... what... what did you do? What..." She takes in a breath, it sounds almost relieved. "...what did you do to me?"
I hope she's not in any kind of mental state to be making rational judgments.
"I'm a nurse, I just gave you a painkiller. The doctor will be here soon, he'll patch you up. You're going to be fine."
She shakes her head weakly.
"No... it's not... it still hurts... but I can feel... I can feel something inside me, it's... fixing me... not..."
"Hallucinations are a common side effect, especially with the mental trauma you've endured. Just lie down and try to relax, the doctor's going to be here as soon as he can."
"You... I feel like I know you... like you've always..."
"I'm just a nurse, honey. Now get some rest, you're going to be okay."
"Who..."
"Shh..."
She slips back down, her eyes closing. Her breathing's steady. I can already see the massive tear in her stomach sealing itself. I back out of the room, shut the door as quietly as I can.
And just like that, a young girl lives.
I feel... something I can't describe. Something good. Something deep down. Something that made me happy.
Whatever it is, I know it's a feeling I don't want to lose.
I take a left down the hallway, feeling a little more urgent about getting Mercurio something for the pain.
I crack open the first door I see.
Nothing. Literally, nothing. What the hell is the room even for?
I keep moving until I come to a door at the end of the hall.
Probably doesn't have what I need directly, but there might be a layout of the hospital, or a database of medical storage. Something that'll tell me where I need to go. I pull the handle and frown. Locked. I think for a moment before pulling a hairpin from its nest and crouching next to the door. It worked in the movies, why not here?
I can hear clicking. I just need to get all the tumblers to-
The pin snaps against the metal of the lock. Shit. I've got one pin left and there's no way my fingers are nimble enough for this crap.
Hmm.
I pull the last pin from my hair, letting it drop to my shoulders. I can fix it later. I concentrate on the lock, focus everything I have. I can feel a rush of blood run through me, and for a moment I feel like I've reached nirvana. Stronger, faster, smarter. I seize the moment and drive the pin into the lock, working it like a woman possessed.
Hahahaha!
Just as quickly, the effect dissipates. I feel something churning inside of me. Like my stomach but... emptier. More like a void. A hole.
A Hunger.
I push the door open.
It doesn't matter. I need to find out where they hide their narcotic strength painkillers before I even think about-
Jesus fuck, what is wrong with this hospital?
I grab the bottles and a book from patient belongings. "Computers for Grandma." There's a hole cut in the pages. I don't know what it was for, but it's big enough for me to slip the bottles in. I walk out and wave at the receptionist.
I hurry down the street and into Mercurio's building. He's still on his sofa, looking barely alive. I pop open the book and hand him one of the bottles.
"Aw, Jesus Christ I needed that. Thanks... thanks a million. You get those thugs yet?"
"I'm working on it."
I leave and strike out for my lovely home away from home.
I feel the churning again.
Fuck, I'm hungry. I think even starving. I can almost empathize with those kids in Sally's commercials.
I hope to god LaCroix had them put something in the fridge. I don't care how frozen or deep fried it is.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
I take a pack of blood from the fridge and close the door. I hold the icy thing in both hands and stare at it. I've never been put off by blood, but... I've never had to drink any before, either. Something feels wrong with my mouth. I run my tongue along my teeth. I can feel my canines growing longer. I guess... it's the vampiric equivalent of drooling. Well. Sink or swim, I've always thought. I take a breath I don't need and bite down into the plastic.
It takes half a second for me to jerk my head back and drop the blood pack onto the dirt covered floor. I clutch at my sides, shaking, and drop to my knees, letting out something halfway between a groan and a scream.
Imagine a slug. Imagine a parasite. Imagine a parasitic slug that's cold, and slimy and covered in mucus and that can stretch and bend and branch every which way, with all his ends twisting and probing.
Now imagine that slug inside
you. Not just in your stomach or even in your throat, but
inside you sliding through your veins and twisting around your bones like the hand of death raping your very core.
I sit on my knees for what seems like hours with that horrible
thing sliding around inside of me. When it finally seems to disappear, I reach out and pick up the half empty pack. Most of it went on the floor and not in me, thank god. There's no way this can be right, vampires would starve if it was supposed to be like this. I've got to have screwed up somehow, but what...
I think for a second before standing up and throwing the bleeding pouch into the microwave and hitting five oh.
It beeps but I'm in no mood to try again.
Four or five men in a beach house, probably angry and probably armed. At the very least, I'd need something to defend myself with if things went sour and Jack had taken back his revolver. I'd need to find an arms dealer. I didn't have any contacts in Santa Monica and even if I did, I obviously couldn't use them now. I'll have to pound the pavement.
Just like the good old days.
The first floor of the apartments is a make shift pawn shop. Even if they don't have any guns, I'd probably at least be able to pick up a knife. Or a bat.
Or a chainsaw.
Trip himself greets me inside with a slow, stoner drawl.
"Hey. Welcome to Santa Monica."
"Is it that obvious I'm new?"
"Not that hard to figure out. If you're in town, chances are you're new."
"Not many people?"
"Nah. Well... we used to get a lot of tourists coming through, but now... I dunno man. It's more like drifters."
"Why do you think that is?"
"Beats me. I don't know why anyone would want to come. Santa Monica is dead, man."
I glance around rows of discarded odds and ends while I talk to him.
"I need something that packs more of a punch. Home defense type stuff."
"Well... um... we don't really... have that sort of thing."
I stop and smile at him in a coy, knowing way.
"You're not very convincing."
"Heh. Well... you really don't look like the criminal type."
I think I can feel the stirrings of destiny.
I sell off what's left of the morphine raid and the half torn out book to get enough for the gun and an ugly, over sized purse ten generations out of style to carry a healthy stash of ammunition.
I thank trip and say goodbye as I head out the door. Down the street, around the corner, past the parking garage and towards the beach. As I pass a sealed gate to the boardwalk, I over hear some people talking.
"I've seen a lot of shit in my day but that pier... that's the sort of thing that makes you lose your faith in humanity."
"Yeah. Probably the second worst homicide I've seen."
"Second worst? That poor fucker was torn into six parts and nailed to a funhouse sign. What the fuck did you see that was worse than that?"
"A few years ago, when I was a junior detective. There was a little girl who went missing near the rockies..."
I keep moving. At my worst I might be a heartless cunt but I'm not morbid. I head down the stairs of the parking garage and follow a tunnel that leads out onto the beach. As I step onto the sand a woman runs up to me and points towards a cliff. Her accent is thick. Maybe Russian.
"Over there. Through that chain link gate and up those stairs."
"...What? I don't-"
"Those men you are looking for."
"How did you-"
"Nevermind. You wouldn't understand."
She leaves, walking away and returning to the fire she'd been standing by.
For reasons I can't quite place, I suddenly feel very uneasy.
I open the unlocked gate, climb up the stairs and peer over the top of the ridge.
There's the house, with a brawny stooge standing guard. I can hear the distant rumble of thunder. He hasn't seen me. I could probably sneak in, steal the explosives...
Rain begins pounding on my head.
I could fight them, maybe. They've probably got guns, but so do I.
I... might be able to talk my way in, but I don't have any money, so that'll only go so far. I think. Even at my best I don't know if I could go into a sale with no money and come out with a product. Now I look half dead, dripping wet and I'm wearing a shredded dress in two uneven, broken heels.
This dress cost ten thousand dollars.
That seems really, really silly now.
And here's our second vote! I'll call the vote off whenever I feel like it! HA HA HA HA HA!