Blood Crimes: Book One (2 page)

      She was too furious to talk at first. Sputtering, she forced out, “How about I just throw a brick through their front window!”

      “Babe…”

      “Or better yet, how about you slaughtering all those fucking assholes in there! While you’re doing that I could cook myself something on their grill, and we could both be eating together.”

      “Babe…”

      “Why not?”

      “Come on. Be serious. I’m not going to do that.”

      She was steaming, her dark eyes hot and angry. “That fat cow bitch. She’d deserve to have you rip her throat out. She probably thinks you have AIDS. The bitch.”

      
Jim
smiled thinly. “
M
aybe she thinks I have the bubonic plague. It doesn’t matter. You go back in there and get yourself something to eat. I’ll wait.”

      “Fuck them. We’ll find another place.”

      She stumbled, dizzy, her eyes losing focus. This time
Jim
helped her steady herself. Hesitantly, she brought a hand up to her temple.

      
Jim
gave her a patient smile. “Any place we go is going to be the same. You need to eat. I’ll be fine.”

      Carol looked like she wanted to argue, but she also looked hungry and very pale. She suffered from hypoglycemia and her stumbling and dizziness were a clear sign she needed food badly.
Jim
thought he could hear her heart palpitating. She didn’t have time to start searching for another place to eat—there was no arguing that, so she relented, first walking him back to the car to make sure he made it okay, then heading back to the diner.
Jim
closed his eyes. Lowering his forehead into his hands, he felt the cold clamminess of his skin. Even though it seemed to him like he was burning up, his skin was so damn cold to the touch—like he was a month-old corpse. His skin always felt that way. He wondered how Carol stood it.

      God he hurt.

      God he was hungry.

      To focus his thoughts away from the pain, he tried to hold Carol’s image in his mind. She was so damn beautiful. Long black hair that fell past her shoulders, her small heart-shaped face dominated by the most expressive dark brown eyes he’d ever seen. Those eyes could fill up so intensely with emotion, and when she’d look at him a certain way he’d get weak enough in the knees that they would start to buckle.

      God she was beautiful…

      She was only nineteen when they met. Three years later she looked so much older than she should’ve. World weary. That was the thought that came to mind. There was a tragic quality to her beauty now; her face more gaunt than it should be, thin strands of white occasionally showing up in her dark black hair. She’d pull them out when she’d see them—not out of vanity, but simply trying to keep him from noticing; afraid that if he knew how much he was aging her he might leave her. He couldn’t leave her, though. As much as he needed human blood to survive, he needed her presence even more. She was more addictive than any drug. He needed his daily fix of her—he needed to feel her small warm body against his at night, the side of her face resting against his shoulder and her thin legs draped over his body. The virus had left him with a highly acute sense of hearing and he needed to hear the soft pattering of her heart. He didn’t think he could stay sane without it. For her sake, he would risk it except he knew that she held the same addiction to him; that it would be just as soul crushing for her if they separated. For better or worse, they were each other’s soul mates, and as much as he wanted a better life for her he couldn’t inflict that kind of pain on her by leaving, not unless he thought she could survive and be okay some day. Somehow he knew she wouldn’t. That turned out to be the most damning curse of his infection.

      His thoughts drifted to when they met. It was right after all that bizarre shit with Serena. He had somehow gotten out of New York in one piece and was trolling the mean streets of Newark half-crazed from hunger when he heard Carol screaming for help. She was two blocks away and had been dragged beneath an underpass bridge by a leather and chain jacketed, tattoo-encrusted street thug. The thug was more than twice Carol’s size and held a dirty rag against her face which mostly muffled her screams. Still, she fought like hell while he tried to bend her over and rip off her panties, her skirt already having been thrown to the ground. In a few heartbeats
Jim
was there, pulling the thug away from Carol, and at the same time yelling at her to get away from them. She collected her torn skirt but she didn’t run away, and
Jim
understood why she stayed there and watched. Even in the crazed, wild state he was in, he felt the connection with her when their eyes met. He had the same im
media
te longing for her as she did for him.

      But he needed to feed.

      The thug looked confused that someone as thin as
Jim
could lift him with one hand so effortlessly off the ground, especially since he outweighed
Jim
by a good sixty pounds. Up close the thug was ugly as sin; pockmarked, bald—and for a short moment before he had edged his switchblade out of his pants pocket—as scared-looking as any little kid had ever been.

      Once the blade was open and the moonlight reflected off of it that changed and the thug transformed back to the brutish animal he was.
Jim
was grateful for that. It made it easier for him to do what he had to. He didn’t give him a chance to use the knife; instead he crushed every bone in the thug’s hand and sent the blade falling harmlessly to the ground—not that the thug would’ve been able to do much with it anyway. After that the skull was next.

      While the thug lay as a lump of dead meat on the ground,
Jim
ripped open his throat and drank until the buzzing in his mind died down. He was ashamed doing this in front of this beautiful dark-haired girl but he couldn’t help it. He desperately needed to feed. So while she stood and watched, he submerged himself in gore. When he was done feeding he remained squatting over the dead body, frozen, wanting to run away but unable to move. He felt Carol standing behind him, could feel a moist heat coming off her body. They were like that for minutes until she touched him on the shoulder. When he turned and looked into her eyes he knew he was lost—he knew they both were… 

      A dog’s high-pitched whining knocked him out of his thoughts. A pickup truck had pulled up next to him and a Rottweiler inside the cab was going nuts, its paws scraping against the passenger-side window in a frantic attempt to break itself free. The owner, a big beefy guy with a buzz cut and goatee, looked like he had his hands full trying to subdue his dog. He yelled out orders for the animal to heel, all of which the Rottweiler ignored. After some struggling he got the dog on a leash. When he opened the passenger door, the dog shot out as if from a cannon and nearly dragged the owner onto the pavement. Cursing, he righted himself and, as his eyes met
Jim
’s, he shot
Jim
a pissed-off look as if he were blaming
Jim
for his dog’s bad behavior.
Sonofabitch
, the guy was perceptive, because it wasn’t as irrational as one would think.
Jim
knew that the dog’s reaction had nothing to do with fear but an odor that fell within the spectrum a dog could pick up but humans couldn’t. As best he could figure out, the virus caused a change in his body chemistry that resulted in the emission of an odor that affected dogs, along with a host of other animals and insects, the same way that mustard gas affected humans. They couldn’t help themselves with the way they reacted to it—they’d do anything to try and escape it.

      
Jim
watched as the Rottweiler strained on its leash and pulled the owner away. The man looked like he wanted to tie his dog up outside the diner, but after some more struggling he gave up and let the dog go inside with him. Before the door closed behind him, the man turned and shot
Jim
one last enraged look.

      The incident made him think of his old dog, Buster, a beautiful almost pure white Bull Terrier with only a few black smudges on his ears and some pink on the tip of his nose. That breed is so damn loyal, and as long as they have physical contact with you they’re content. Before joining the army he gave the dog to his sister, April. He often thought about Buster, wondering if he could still be alive, and if he were, whether he’d recognize him. In his mind’s eye he could imagine Buster whining in agony but still crawling over to him so that he could lay against his feet. Thinking about Buster reminded him of his previous life. It seemed so long ago now. A different lifetime ago. To think at one time he had been a human being…

      The noise of a door slamming shut distracted him. Carol had left the diner, her face a hard white, a bag clutched tightly in her fist. She tried to smile when she saw
Jim
, but it didn’t stick. She stormed her way to their car and banged the door open, then slid into the driver’s seat.

      “Those assholes. It’s okay for them to let some flea-bitten mutt walk in there without any argument, but you they treat worse than a dog. I want to find a payphone. I’m going to call the Department of Health and see those assholes shut down!”

      “Babe, it’s not worth it.”

      “You should’ve seen the way that dog was wheezing and drooling at the mouth. That’s okay with them. But with you, a little sweat… Goddamn it! I really want to report them! You know what that bitch cashier had the fucking nerve to tell me? That it’s customary to leave a tip for takeout food. I wanted to shove the change down her throat!”

      “Babe…”

      “I’m so angry right now.”

      
M
assive understatement…

      Her lips curled up and nearly disappeared as she smiled a bare-fanged smile. Straight but slightly yellowed teeth showed through it. Shaking her head, she pulled a cheeseburger from the paper bag, unwrapped it and took an angry bite out of the burger.

      “You’re not going to enjoy your food if you eat angry like this.”

      “I’m not going to enjoy this greasy shit no matter how I eat it.” She took a hesitant look at
Jim
and apologized. “I’m sorry. God, I know with the way you’re feeling you don’t need me to act this way. I just can’t help it. I hate that they think they can treat you like this.”

      “I know.”

      She turned to give the diner one last angry stare. “Fuck them. Let’s just get away from this dump. The quicker we find a motel, the quicker you can lie down.”

      She handed
Jim
the rest of her food to hold, then with the cheeseburger in one hand and gripping the steering wheel in the other, she put the car in reverse, hit the gas, and nearly spun out backing out. Sending up a cloud of dust, she shoved the car in drive, spun the wheels some more and, with her foot heavy on the gas, sped out of the parking lot and back onto 90 East nearly sideswiping a minivan. Fortunately the driver was too startled to honk or give her the finger.

      “Are you okay?”
Jim
asked.

      “Yeah, I just need a minute.” She hesitated for a moment, then asked how he was feeling.

      “Better.”

      She accepted the lie, but gave him a long uneasy glance as she took a bite of her burger.

      “We’ll find a motel soon,” she said.

      
Jim
nodded. He dug out of the paper bag a container of French Fries so she could eat them while wolfing down the burger. He knew she liked ketchup on her fries. He took a couple of packets, struggled for a bit, but got them open, and spread the ketchup on the fries. When she was done with the food, he handed her a chocolate shake. At least she’d have to take her time drinking that.
M
aybe she’d even end up tasting it.
Jim
turned the radio back on and found a hip hop station. She started to argue that he should find a classic rock and roll station for himself, but he told her this was what he wanted to listen to. She didn’t put up too much of a fight. She needed something to take the edge off her anger and listening to her music usually did the trick. He closed his eyes and tried to keep her from seeing how much he was hurting.

      It was an hour later that she drove past the airport and then a row of strip clubs before pulling into the parking lot of a cheap motor lodge inside the Brook Park area of Cleveland. A sign out front advertised king-sized waterbeds, but other than that the motor lodge seemed typical for where they’d been staying since going on the run. Two stories, and mostly a grim dirty-looking concrete eyesore. The type of place that usually had shag carpeting from the seventies and a few mass-produced uninspired water colors hung on the walls. It was also the type of place where the furniture was bolted down, and more likely than not, had a bedspread growing more germ cultures on it than a lab full of Petri dishes—and if you were smart you didn’t lie down on it; if you were even smarter you’d cover your hand with something when you removed it from the bed. Also you’d keep your shoes on at night so you wouldn’t step on any needles left behind by one of the previous occupants. Carol sighed as she looked at the building. She gave
Jim
’s hand a quick squeeze, then left the car so she could rent them a room. When she got to the front office door, she turned to give him a wistful smile before disappearing inside. Five minutes later she came out of the office with key in hand.