Thirst No. 4, Page 2
Christopher Pike
The hole feels narrow, too narrow. Of course I have no clear idea how wide it should be, yet it doesn’t seem right. Plus my dress is stained because the wound is still damp, when it should be dry.
I smell not a hint of formaldehyde. I know Seymour would not have allowed me to be embalmed, on the off chance someone might have tried to steal my blood.
There’s just something about the wound that’s unnatural.
I get the impression it’s slowly healing.
Yet the dead do not heal.
Not even dead vampires.
On impulse, I let go of the bloody hole and reach up with my other hand and open my eyes. Leaning forward on my knees, I stare down into them, and here I note a definite change. They are darker than before. The blue is closer to black, and they gaze back at me with a reflectivity that no mirror could match. However, I don’t see myself in them.
I see Krishna. I see his face, his eyes, his divine dark-blue light. The weight on my heart partially lifts and I shed my first tears for dead Sita. I finally realize I’m alive only because he wills it, and that this respite won’t last forever, or even a great many days. He has sent me back for a purpose and I have a limited amount of time to accomplish it.
TWO
Seymour volunteers to take me back to my hotel, where I share a room with Matt. Almost immediately after leaving the cemetery grounds, I begin to feel physically worse. I don’t know if my sensitivity to the daylight has suddenly increased or if it’s just because we’re driving east, in the direction of the sun, but the bright glare hurts my eyes. Pulling down the car’s visor and closing my eyes helps, but the irritation remains.
And I have a worse problem.
My guts are cramping. It is as if two maniacs have grabbed hold of opposite ends of my intestines and decided to play a game of tug-of-war. The spasms are so intense I feel they’ll cause internal damage.
I haven’t had such a sensation in a long time. Around five thousand years. Yet I recognize it immediately. I’m experiencing hunger pangs. A vampire’s hunger pangs. I need blood, Christ, I have to have it soon or I’ll go insane.
Seymour glances over at me. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. Why?”
“You’re squirming in your seat.”
“The sun’s bothering my eyes.”
“Close them.”
“I tried that. It’s still bothering me.”
“Is that all that’s bothering you?”
“You are. Shut up and drive.”
“Sita. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Another spasm strikes. I feel as if my stomach’s trying to tear itself in two.
“I’m thirsty,” I whisper.
“It’s not the Array?”
“It’s this body. It’s young, it has to be fed.”
“Oh shit.”
An uneasy silence settles between us, disturbed by the loud pounding of his heart, the pulsing of his blood through thousands of veins, millions of microscopic capillaries. It’s like the sound is promising me it will provide instantaneous relief—if I just reach over and rip open his skin.
“What are we going to do?” he asks.
“Drop me at my hotel, let me worry about it.”
He’s scared but not as scared as he should be.
“You’re going to have to tell Matt. You’re going to need his help. At least when it comes to getting blood.”
“I’ve been a vampire a long time. I can handle it,” I say.
My hotel is a Hilton. It’s rated four stars and stands on the outskirts of town. Seymour is staying at a Sheraton two miles away. He tries to walk me to my room but I convince him I’ll be okay. The sound of his blood is like the song of the Sirens in my head, calling us both to our doom. My thirst has entered the insane region where I’ll do anything to satisfy it.
I practically run from Seymour’s car.
Matt’s not in our room. He’s left a note. It says something about needing to scout the area for Telar. I hardly read it. I don’t care about Matt or the Telar. Now it’s my own pulse that pounds in my brain like a primal drum that knows only one message: FEED ME!
Perhaps if I was in my old body, and had all of my ancient power, I might have resisted the urge longer. Alas, I’ve inherited Sita’s soul, I am Sita, but for some reason I lack her strength of will.
I pick up the phone and push the button for room service. I order something, anything, it doesn’t matter what’s on the menu. It’s the person who will bring the meal that counts; they are what I’m having.
Nevertheless, waiting for the food to arrive, pacing like an addict in need of a fix, I promise myself I won’t commit murder. I just need a drink, a pint or two, to satisfy my thirst. I’m not going to hurt anyone. I suspect my mind—and therefore my new brain—retains a measure of its old power. When I finish feeding, I can always hypnotize my victim with my eyes and make him forget there’s a vampire in room 1227.
No one need know. Not even Matt.
A knock at the door. I answer in an instant. The odors of rare steak and a baked potato fill the air. Along with the sound of another pounding heart. The guy delivering my meal is six-six and weighs three hundred pounds. His muscles bulge. He belongs on a professional football team. He has sandy hair and trusting green eyes. He smiles when he sees how cute I am.
“Hi. Name’s Ken. You hungry?”
“Yes. Please come in.” He pushes the sheet-covered cart past me, and even though his head is bent low, he still towers over me. The guy doesn’t just pump iron; he looks like he eats it, in between shooting up with steroids.
Why on this of all days did Superman have to deliver my food? Ken’s size means he has more blood to spare, sure, but it also means he is going to be harder to subdue. It is high noon, the weakest time of day for a newborn vampire. At the moment I’m stronger than him but not by much. I need to use my wits as much as my raw strength to get his blood.
But I’ve lost it, totally, I’m way beyond the point of control. The second he goes past me, I kick the door shut and grab the steak knife from the cart and stab the tip in the side of his neck.
Unfortunately, the knife is for cutting steak, not for killing people. The tip isn’t as sharp as the side of the blade. I cut him, true, but his jugular remains intact. Ken whirls on me with fear in his eyes, and anger. To say I’ve lost the element of surprise would be the understatement of the year. Pressing his hand to his neck, he quickly backs up. Yet his back is not to the door, and in his haste he moves deeper into my room.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Ken shouts.
I still have the knife in my hand. I stare at it like I don’t know how it got there. It is only now, in this moment of crisis, that I realize my mind is moving as slow as my body. The old Sita would have hit him with the perfect answer in an instant.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the smell of his blood overwhelming all my senses. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m a mental patient. I just stopped taking my meds. My boyfriend’s supposed to be here. He’s taking care of me.” I pause and wipe at my eyes as if brushing aside a tear. “Did I hurt you? I truly am sorry.”
He realizes he’s not bleeding too badly. The blood is only trickling out, staining his white collar with red drops. Yet the guy is either awfully stupid or amazingly compassionate. These days, the way the world is, it’s hard to tell the difference. Maybe he’s just a sucker for a pretty face. Ken holds up both his palms and tries to calm me with his words.
“It’s okay, you’re going to be okay. But you have to put the knife down. Can you do that?”
Again, I look at the knife as if I have no idea how it came to be in my hand. “Where should I put it?” I ask innocently.
He shoves the food cart back toward me. “Put it there, next to the hot plate. You’re going to be all right. I’ll call the front desk and get you help.”
“No, please don’t,” I say as I set down the knife. “If they see what I’ve done, they’ll call the police. I could go t
o jail. I can’t do that, I can’t stand to be in enclosed places. I’m sick, you see, I need my meds.” I pause. “Can you get them for me?”
“Where are they?”
“In my suitcase, it’s there in the corner.” The suitcase belongs to Matt but that doesn’t matter. The guy is not quite as dumb as I thought. He gestures to the case.
“You get them,” he says. At the same time he reaches over and picks up the knife. “Let me read the bottle before you swallow anything.”
I stroll lazily toward the suitcase, walking past him. “Why?”
“I just want to make sure you’re taking the right amount.”
“That’s thoughtful of you. You’re a nice guy, really.”
He shrugs. “I know what it’s like to suffer from depression. I take Prozac. Been on it for five years. You should never come off all of a sudden. I tried it once and I thought I was going to lose my mind.”
“That’s exactly how I feel.” I kick up with my right foot as I speak, aiming for the knife. I still possess the knowledge of a dozen systems of martial arts, but my nervous system doesn’t recall the precise moves. I feel as if I move in slow motion. My foot manages to connect with his hand and knock the knife away. Unfortunately, as I try to scissor my kick, strike with my other leg and put him down, I stumble in midair and hit the floor.
Ken has had enough of this crazy blond bitch. He runs for the door. But he is tall, with long legs, and has trouble accelerating. I stick out my foot and trip him. He falls face-first on the floor and in a moment I leap onto his back.
“Sorry,” I say as I grab the back of his head, a handful of his sandy hair, and smash his nose into the stone tile floor. My insane hunger adds fuel to the blow. The cartilage in his nasal cavity cracks and he goes limp in my arms. “I really am sorry,” I repeat.
Blood. Ken’s blood, it is all I see, all I can think about. He spouts from his nose and only dribbles from his neck. But I sink my teeth into the latter spot because, well, that’s what vampires do. It’s risky, though—at the back of my mind I know if I drink too deep I’ll open his jugular.
Indeed, I’m only sucking on his neck a few seconds when I feel the pressure of the large vein beneath the tip of my tongue. The pounding of his heart no longer drives me insane. I am beyond that. It possesses me, as does the taste of the warm, lush fluid that fills my mouth. As I let my teeth sink deeper, I feel the jugular slowly split open. . . .
Then I am in heaven, lost on a red river of blood.
I lose the ability to plan and reason. My lust is too primal, it leaves no room for thoughts. I’m no different from an animal. All I know is the desire to feed, to keep feeding until I’m full. The room vanishes from view. Even the pounding of Ken’s heart seems to disappear. Far off, I hear someone moaning. Only later do I realize it was me, lost in the throes of pleasure.
Time goes by. I’m in no condition to count the minutes. It’s possible I pass out. When I do become aware of the hotel room again, I hear a noise. A ringing sound. Groggy, lying facedown on top of Ken’s back, I pick up the phone.
“Hello?” I mumble.
“Hi. This is Mike down in room service. We sent an order up to your room thirty minutes ago. We’d like to know if you received it.”
I sit up suddenly and feel for a pulse at Ken’s neck.
There’s nothing. No heartbeat, no Ken. He’s dead.
“No,” I say. “I ordered a steak but it never arrived.”
“Are you sure? I was here when our server left with your food.”
“I’m quite sure.”
“Is it possible you were in the shower or asleep and didn’t hear him knock?”
“I’ve been sitting here wide awake this whole time. But you know what, I’m no longer thirsty, I mean, hungry. I want to cancel my order.”
“That’s not a problem. It’s just that our server is missing and you sound like I just woke you up from a nap. I was just wondering if—”
“You know, you’re being awfully pushy. What kind of hotel is this anyway? I’ve told you I haven’t seen Ken and I meant it. Now cancel my order and quit bugging me.”
I go to hang up but hear him ask, “How did you know his name is Ken?”
Shit! How could I be so stupid? The old Sita simply did not make such mistakes. I struggle for a way to cover my error.
“You just said his name, Mike. Or did you forget already?”
Another long pause. “I suppose I must have. You have a nice day, Ms. Fraiser.”
He hangs up the phone before I can respond. It is just as well. With every remark I make, I keep burying myself deeper.
I stare down at Ken’s body and realize I’m going to have to bury him, and quick. I have to get him out of my room before Mike grows impatient enough to call the police. Hell, for all I know, he’s already dialed 911.
The one plus in all this madness is that I have left few blood stains on the floor. There’s a small puddle beneath his nose that I’m able to wipe up with a napkin. In the last fifty centuries, I’ve done this thousands of times—cleaned up after feeding on victims. Yet I’m shocked at the emotion that shakes me as I turn Ken on his back and stare down at his extraordinarily pale face.
I weep, salty tears, made of water, not blood. My vampire body is too young to shed red ones. Too young to enjoy the calm detachment I’m used to. Ken really was a nice guy. Even when I hurt him, he still wanted to help me. It kills me that I killed him.
Yet my instincts are old, they take over. The food cart, with its rubber wheels and cotton tablecloth, is an ideal tool to use to dispose of the body. There is a steel tray that blocks the center portion of the cart but I’m able to use my Swiss knife and remove it. Squeezing Ken into a ball tight enough to fit beneath the white sheet is a task but the freshly dead are extremely limber. I bend him until the bones in his back crack but I finally fit him in place.
I don’t have a car. I’m going to have to borrow one, or steal one, as the case may be. With the cart, I need the elevator, but the only one I can find in my wing, on the miniature map posted to the back of the door, makes it clear that it passes through the lobby on the way to the garage. Great. With the luck I’ve been having lately, I’ll run into Ken’s mother.
I move fast. When it comes to murder, to hesitate is to get caught. I can grieve over Ken later. Physically, I actually feel a lot better than I have at any point since my transformation. Despite the Prozac, Ken’s blood was strong.
After peering out the door and making sure the exterior hallway is empty, I push the cart outside and casually wheel it toward the elevators. From the outside, I probably look cool. But inside I’m a nervous wreck. I pray for an empty elevator.
I’m on the top floor of the hotel, in the expensive suites. I push the button and wait for the elevator to arrive. It appears quickly, and it’s empty. I push Ken inside and select the lowest button on the panel. Best to steal a car from the bottom floor of the garage, there will be less traffic.
My elevator stops on the fifth floor. A mother and father, and four rowdy kids, pile inside. The kids are between the ages of six and twelve, totally hyperactive. The family is obviously on vacation but Mom and Dad look burned out. The woman turns to me.
“Do you know where the Pepsi Center is?” she asks.
“No,” I say flatly.
“It’s the arena where the Denver Nuggets play. You must know where it is.”
“I’m not from around here,” I reply.
The woman persists. “What do you mean? You work for room service, don’t you?”
“Nope,” I say. The youngest boy tries to lift up the cart’s tablecloth. The kid is short. He might see a dead hand or finger hanging down there. I come close to slapping his hand away but change my mind at the last second and reach down and grab the kid’s hand. “Please don’t touch that,” I say.
The woman really is a pain in the ass. She pulls her kid close and scowls at me. “Why are you returning the cart if you don’t work here?”
The man smiles back and nods faintly. The woman gives us both a look to kill but I have finally shut her up. I silently wish the husband well.
They get off in the lobby. The door stays open forever, probably because it’s the main floor. I feel naked standing there with a dead body inches away. Finally, though, I’m on my way to the bottom floor.
I’ve stolen hundreds of cars in my time. I’m good at it but once again I usually rely on my strength more often than my knowledge of how ignition systems work. The last thing I want to do is set off an alarm that won’t stop. For that reason, an older car or truck would be best. Too bad I’m staying at a rich hotel and there’s a shortage of jalopies. After scanning the two lowest levels, I settle on a Camry that has been in a serious accident but had tons of body work. My eyes are sharp enough to detect the damage and repairs. I shatter the driver’s window with the back of my elbow. The blow stings but I don’t care. I’m just happy the horn hasn’t started blaring.
I’m inside in a moment and have no trouble breaking the steering column and pulling out the ignition wires. The wires spark as I rub them together and the engine turns over. Only when I have all systems working do I pop the trunk. I wrap Ken in the cart sheet before I dump him in the back. I leave the cart and its supply of utensils behind, but I put the plate carrying the steak and potato in beside the body. I slam the trunk tight. I’m fortunate I’m able to lower the broken window. A cop might have spotted it.
Denver is one of the few major cities in America I know almost nothing about. Rather than drive around aimlessly, I stop at a mall where I buy a map of the area, a shovel, a box of heavy-duty garbage bags, and two rolls of duct tape.
