Mario Acevedo: Jailbait Zombie

Buttercup howled, rabid with rage, eager to rip me to pieces. Shame that vampire hypnosis didn’t work on dogs, especially this volcanic bitch.

I guided the minivan into an alley behind a liquor store, tucked a pair of twenties into the mom’s hand, and got out.

How to get home? I didn’t want to risk stealing a car. Taxi? A cabbie could recall me. Not too many fares look like they’ve rolled down a mountain.

I limped two blocks and waited for the bus. Compared with the other people at the bus stop in their eclectic urban attire-chrome army helmet; a cape made of feathers; plastic shopping bags for shoes; the middle-aged man in a denim miniskirt-I appeared normal and easily forgotten.

I took a seat at the rear of the bus and isolated myself behind a moat of pain. My arm hurt too much for me to care about anything but self-medicating and not missing the transfer.

After I got to my apartment, I cleaned up and smothered the pain with aspirin and a whisky sour. I checked voice mail from my landline.

There was a message from Olivia, a favorite chalice: a human who willingly donated her blood. Part of the attraction for chalices was belonging to our supernatural subculture. But once part of our extended family, chalices kept coming-so to speak-for the orgasmic rapture experienced from the fanging. For us vampires, chalices provided convenient nourishment without the stalking of innocents and the risk that brought.

There’s a catch. A chalice was bound to silence about the existence of the supernatural world. Any transgression warranted an immediate and agonizing death. Failure to punish any such chalice meant the vampire master also deserved the final blow from undead to permanent dead.

Olivia’s cheery voice sang from the phone. “How’s it hanging, Felix? Long and thick, I hope. If you’re hungry, call me, baby.”

Damn right I was hungry. Plump, horny, and succulent Olivia. Comfort food for a vampire.

I flexed the fingers of my injured hand. My wrist ached. My back ached. Everything ached. Olivia would help me feel much better.

I set the phone aside.

Then, like a curtain falling before me, everything blanked out. An instant later the little girl appeared.

The voice returned, repeating my name.

Just as abruptly, the hallucination disappeared. The voice faded, the echo so faint it was like I had never heard it at all.

I put my hand on the desk to stop the dizziness.

One second I was in my normal world, then flash came the little girl, and flash again, back to normal.

My kundalini noir shrank around a cold ball of fear. My hands trembled from the chill.

I pulled up a chair and sat.

The war was years behind me.

Was I going insane?

I bought a new cell phone.My first call was to Mel and I told him about the visit from the crow.

“What about the bike?” he asked.

“What about me?” I replied. “The damn bird nearly killed me.”

“But it didn’t. Meanwhile the bike is still fucked up.”

“More than that. It’s a wreck.”

“Man, I don’t want to hear that,” Mel said. “Where’s the bike?”

“Up Coal Creek Canyon. Right where I crashed it.”

“I got a friend who owns a wrecking yard. He’ll retrieve the bike and part it out. Give you a hundred for it.”

“Deal.” Sucker, I would’ve given him the title for free.

“What have you learned about the zombie?” Mel asked.

“Nothing yet. Gimme a break, will you? I’m still limping from the wreck.”

“That’s your problem,” Mel said. “Tell you what, I’ll send what I got on zombies. Modus operandi. Past history.”

“As opposed to future history?”

“Fuck you. You want my help or not?”

“Sure,” I said. “Anything would be appreciated.”

“It’s in the mail.” He hung up.

I had better do my homework on Barrett Chambers, aka the now permanently deceased zombie. I keep a hacker on retainer. Every month I mail a few hundred bucks to a P.O. box in Kalamazoo, Michigan. In return I get snapshots into almost every database wired to the Internet. I sent an e-mail to my hacker with info I had on Chambers and a list of my questions.

My next phone call was to Olivia. My wrist hurt more than it should’ve. I needed her fresh blood to help me heal.

She told me her folks were visiting-I made it a rule not to host at my place-so we met in a hotel. A suite, as I liked plenty of space for our games.

When I fang, I can administer a variety of enzymes. One accelerates healing of the victim’s wounds, in this case, the fang punctures. Another promotes amnesia and keeps the victim from remembering my presence. Yet another enzyme gives pleasure. Without it, fanging would burn like being force-fed napalm.

My kundalini noir twitched with hunger pangs. Try recuperating after somersaulting from a motorcycle and rolling down a mountain, and see what kind of appetite you’d have.

I gave Olivia plenty of the pleasure enzymes while I guzzled from her throat. As she floated in sexual euphoria, I peeled the metal splint from my wrist and rubbed the torn flesh against the blood seeping from her neck. The warm blood felt as refreshing as a salve. The blood I’d swallowed was enough to help me heal, but I enjoyed adding this ritual to my rehabilitation. Slowly but visibly, the ragged cuts on my arm closed to faint scars.

I made a manhattan and got comfortable in a leather cigar chair. Olivia curled like a Persian cat across the love seat by the bed. I studied her with an artistic eye. She was a work in progress and I thought about what strokes I’d need to finish her off for the evening. When I got down to nothing but ice cubes in my glass, I flexed my wrist and felt it strong enough to put weight on it.

I coaxed Olivia back to consciousness. She offered her neck but I kissed her mouth instead. After a good bout of foreplay and sloppy oral sex (the best kind), I used supernatural strength to hold her in a variety of acrobatic positions while I spanked her chunky bottom with my pelvis. She liked visuals in the mirror, but since I am a vampire, all Olivia got was her image hovering in the air as her breasts and limbs flounced about.

At two in the morning, we ended the festivities with a shower. After we toweled each other off, Olivia blow-dried her long brunette hair. She dressed and fastened a scarf around her neck to hide the healing fang marks.

“I can’t spend the night.” She pecked my cheek. “My mom insists that I act like a good Catholic girl.”

“There’s no need to act.” I adjusted the crucifix resting at the top of her cleavage. “I can vouch that you are Catholic and very good.”

I walked Olivia to her car, then drove home. I climbed into my coffin: tired, satiated, but still sore from yesterday’s crash.

The chime from my cell phone awoke me. The ringtone-AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap”-told me that I had a message forwarded from my work number. I sat up, feeling refreshed, and realized that the Iraqi girl had not visited my dreams. Hopefully that nonsense was over.

I’d answer the call when I got to my office. There’s always time for work. I headed into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. In the ancient days, long before I was around, when a vampire got hungry, he would go to the dungeon and sort through the menu. I stared with regret at the stacks of 450-milliliter bags of chilled human blood. This was progress?

I grabbed a type B-negative and heated the bag in the microwave. Maybe I ought to convert the garage into a dungeon and keep a chalice. Then I’d have to keep another chalice to clean the cage and the litter box. The arrangement would get too complicated.