Bored hands nervously shuffle poker chips. The constant clicking of chips blends with the hum of voices speaking softly, a low, masculine buzz punctuated by the occasional feminine voice. This white noise is broken by the grunts of a man on the floor with a broken jaw.

Alastair and Wes lean over the man, assessing the damage. He’s most likely in his thirties but a baby face hides his true age, blood trickles from a small wound on his chin, sopped up by his black hoodie. The remains of his sunglasses dangle from one ear.

Alastair asks, “Can anyone tell me what happened?”

Jeanette steps out of the crowd. A simple t-shirt and jeans cling to her curves. Long, dark hair surrounds a beautiful but emotionless face. “You know what they say, don’t tap the aquarium.”

Wes doesn’t get it, “Could you translate that into English.”

She responds, “Mister opinionated annoyed the wrong novice player. Who’d of guessed he has a glass jaw. It’s a shame, this is usually a friendly game. I guarantee neither of them will be invited back.”

Jeanette watches carefully as they get their patient loaded onto a stretcher.

Alastair asks, “Is this your place?”

Jeanette blushes with bride, she’s the queen of this particular hive. “All mine.”

Alastair continues, “This is quite a setup, aren’t you worried the cops will shut you down?”

She responds, “When I do something, I go all the way. Besides, some of my best friends and regular players are cops, they know I run a clean game so they don’t bother me.”

The sea of players parts as Wes and Alastair carry their patient out of the home. Jeanette follows closely.

Just as they reach the door, Jeanette decides to raise the bet. She looks Alastair in the eyes, “Did you have a father or uncle who worked at the hospital in the mid eighties, you look like someone my pops knew.”

Alastair nervously shakes his head, “no.” He doesn’t engage her as he guides his patient through the doorway.

One of the poker players slides up to Jeanette, “Can we start the clock, the natives are getting restless.” He notices her focus, still on Alastair, “What’s up?”

She says, “I’m pretty good at spotting a bluff, what’s he got to hide?”

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce

***

The bright lights of a mini mart, the only store open for blocks, attracts the sleepless and desperate. A poor little rich boy leaves, loaded down with a two cases of imported beer. His clothes say he’s in his twenties, but the circles around his eyes suggest he’s seen a decade more than he’d care to admit.

Poor little rich boy’s car is in the same shape he is. Once a luxury vehicle worthy of envy, the vehicle now shows all the bumps and scratches of hard living. The rich boy gets in, dumping his beer casually on the passenger seat.

He tries to get the car started, it grinds and sputters but won’t turn over. He pauses, in case he flooded the engine. Click, click, click… still no ignition on the second attempt. The rich boy pounds the steering wheel in frustration. Time to take the edge off, he breaks open a case and pulls out a beer.

Suddenly Alastair, who was hiding in the back, pounces. The poor rich boy fights ineptly.

***

A random hotel room. The poor rich boy drinks and watches porn on TV.

Someplace overseas, drinking and watching the nightly “striptease news,” where world events meet T. & A.

In a sports bar, he drinks and watches a scantily clad waitress. A friend taunts him.

Hangover recovery, Bloody Mary in hand, watching the workout channel as a female fitness guru does pelvic thrusts.

Another hotel room. An unsatisfied woman puts on her dress and politely waves goodbye.

The brightly colored images from a dull life fade.

***

Alastair disengages, slashing his sharp teeth across the rich boy’s throat. It looks more like an animal bite than something a human-based being could create.

Physically but not mentally satisfied, Alastair throws his “empty container” onto the seats with contempt. Alastair flinches in pain as the poor little rich boy’s alcohol-laden blood hits his brain. A moment of intoxication followed by the gnawing of withdrawal as the booze speeds unnaturally through Alastair’s system.

***

Alastair slams the passenger door, waking Wes up, he’s still queasy from his “meal.”

Wes notices the change in his partner, “Lay off the junk food.”

Alastair responds, “I wish I could. Sometimes I don’t have a choice.”

Wes starts the engine, “There’s always a choice, it’s just that most people are scared shitless, so they keep doing the same thing over and over again. Life’s too short.”

Alastair thinks, “Even if you could live forever, life’s still too short.”

Wes looks at Alastair, rolls his eyes.

***

Although lacking the razzle dazzle of Freemont Street, this downtown road could also be labelled an “experience.” Local homeless scatter, trying to find shelter from careless drunk tourists.

The ambulance pulls up behind a single police cruiser, Nathan observes a homeless man slumped against a building. He nods a greeting to Wes and Alastair as they approach, “He’s all yours.”

As if on cue, the homeless man clutches is chest, “My heart.”

***

The homeless man lies in a hospital bed, he’s hooked up to a monitor showing a strong, steady heart rate. Dianna leaves his bedside, closing the partition curtain as she leaves.

Alastair smiles awkwardly, “Sorry.”

Dianna’s nonplussed, “He knows the system, claiming chest pain means he stays for observation.”

Alastair’s frustrated, “I hate being a taxi.”

She softens, “It’s better than leaving someone sick by the side of the road.”

He appreciates her kindness. “Any new research projects?”

Dianna’s eyes sparkle, “Mozart. There are dozens of possible causes of death, and of course it would be difficult to exhume the body for an autopsy, because there are probably four or five other people in the same plot, they’d have to figure out who’s who before they got to cause of death.”

Alastair remembers, “Only the rich and royalty got the honor of being buried separately.”

She studies him, “How do you know things like that?”

“I just do.” Alastair watches, enjoying her curiosity. In a fit of boldness a question crosses his lips, “Would you like to go out sometime?”

She runs through her customary excuses, “I swore I’d never date anyone I work with.”

He offers a helpful excuse, “The ambulance company and hospital are two different employers, so technically we don’t work together.”

Dianna comes up with a better reason, “Then again I never thought I’d meet someone who cared about my hobby.”

He presses for a decision “So, will you?”

“I don’t know.”

He tries another approach, “We can always meet in a casino. The eye in the sky sees all.”

She frowns, “I hate those places.”

“Me too.” His excuses are gone, all that’s left is a sincere plea, “I haven’t dated in a while. It’s a lot of complication and stress and half the time it isn’t worth it… but I just have a feeling that you and I could share something special.”

Dianna smiles. “I’m off Sunday and Monday.”

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce

Chuck walks in, still looking like there’s shit under his nose, and takes a spot next to Alastair at the table. Chuck’s longer shift means more paperwork, a stack double the size of Alastair’s, he immediately spreads his papers all around, taking over the table.

Alastair asks, “What’s wrong with you?”

Chuck looks Alastair in the eyes, “I don’t believe you.”

“About what?”

Chuck doesn’t even try to hide his disgust, “You come in with this sob story about some tragic illness and they have to hire you because that’s the law. All I see is a guy who can’t pull his weight.”

Alastair stands up to him, “Maybe I can’t work the same hours, but I guarantee I’m ten times better as a medic than you’ll ever be.”

Alastair finishes his work, slamming his papers in the appropriate in-boxes then leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Chuck gets up from the table, grabs a note pad, and pulls all of Alastair’s paperwork. He carefully takes notes as he spies.

***

Alastair rushes home, just ahead of the dawn. He’s one of many arrivals as the industrial complex gets ready for a new work day.

A red Chevy Suburban is parked three doors down from Alastair’s space. Magnetic signs read: Timothy Kent, Fire Investigator (702) 555-1969.

Timothy uses a makeshift ladder to climb down from the roof, he descends with ease as firm muscles flex underneath sun-beaten skin. His worn face is framed by a regulation crew cut. Halfway down he pauses, coughs violently for a moment but never loses his grip. Once he gets his feet on the ground, he opens the tailgate of his truck, sits and has a smoke.

Alastair can’t avoid Timothy as he heads for home.

“Hey!”

Alastair turns and stares at his neighbor, “Can I help you?”

Timothy examines this new arrival, “What happened to Jerry?”

Alastair tries this best to be nonchalant, “He… disappeared.”

“He always was a punk. Made great cabinets though.” Timothy’s need to know isn’t satisfied, “What’s your story, did your wife kick you out or something.”

Alastair sweats as the sunlight gets stronger, “How I got here is a long story for another time.”

Timothy watches, taking a drag on his cigarette, as Alastair backs away. Alastair fumbles with his keys, dropping them on the ground. Next to glimmering metal there’s a tiny splotch of dark red liquid, Alastair carefully rubs a drop of the liquid on his finger. It’s fresh blood.

There’s no time to dwell on it, he grabs his keys and forces his way inside. Out of the sun, Alastair carefully examines his home, nothing seems out of the ordinary.

He slumps against a wall and stares at the blood on his fingers.

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce

As Wes drives, Alastair gazes out the window, dwelling on the redhead and her stepfather, “You realize we’re just going around in circles.”

“I know you’re not talking about my driving.” Wes immediately regrets his sharpness. “What?”

Alastair hopes talking about it will somehow make it better, “Someone gets hurt, they grow up to hurt someone else, on and on it goes.”

Wes vents, “I don’t buy that hopeless cycle bullshit. There’s always a choice.”

Alastair shows his age, “Yeah and most of the time people make the wrong one.”

“I just try to stay out of other people’s drama as much as I can.”

Alastair sighs, “I try, believe me, as much as my nature allows.”

As the ambulance pulls to the curb, Alastair watches Wes curiously.

A fire truck follows the ambulance. They pull up to an elegant, well tended ranch-style house. Vintage charm mixes with swanky luxury.

A firefighter helps Wes and Alastair with their gear as they walk up the front walkway. Wes walks slowly, taking his time to admire his surroundings, “I think I found my dream home. Just need to work for the next hundred years to get enough coin to buy it.”

Alastair sighs, “I’d need two hundred years, I’m not good with money.”

They reach the main door and hunt for a doorbell, but there isn’t one. Instead, there’s a large, circular brass knocker featuring a dragon and phoenix chasing each other around.

Anne answers. She’s waifish, with dark blond hair and skin that hasn’t seen the sun in ages, her delicate features are twisted by worry. Saying nothing, she props the door open and motions for the medics to follow. Wes lights up the moment he sees her.

As Alastair and Wes enter the living room they’re startled by the unique decor. Tasteful contemporary furniture is upstaged by crucifixes, Native American totems, laughing Buddhas; anything and everything religious decorates this room. The room is crowded from floor to ceiling with items collected over many years. It’s the kind of collection that would make a museum curator drool. Alastair moves through the room confidently, unafraid and unaffected by the display. He runs his fingers along a large golden crucifix displayed on an end table.

Anne’s voice echoes off the high ceilings, “My grandmother’s having a hard time breathing.”

Wes’s concern shows, “For how long.”

Anne struggles to separate the days, “A week, maybe a little bit more.”

They take a left turn down the hall, into a bedroom. Monastic simplicity, basic clean furniture, punctuated by an oil painting of Lucifer’s fall from heaven and a statue of the ever changing, though destructive, Hindu goddess Kali.

Helen sits in a reading chair next to her bed breathing uncomfortably. Her long silver hair is neatly arranged in a bun, framing the face of a lady who has seen it all. She wears an elegant blouse with a collar that covers most of her neck with khaki pants fit for an explorer.

Helen eyes the medics and firefighter warily as they enter. She reprimands Anne, “I told you I don’t need help.”

The firefighter, bored of medical calls, sets his gear down and heads for the door, “I’ll be on the truck.”

Alastair’s the last to walk into the room, as he gets closer Helen’s discomfort grows. Her change alarms the medics, they break into their gear.

Wes tries to keep it professional, “We need to monitor her heart rate.”

“On it.” Alastair starts to loosen Helen’s blouse but she’s uncomfortable.

Anne steps in, “They’re here to help.”

Alastair watches as Anne helps her grandmother loosen her blouse. She backs away, giving Alastair room to move. As Alastair attaches the electrodes for the heart monitor, as he works he notices something odd… Two small wounds on Helen’s neck, open yet somehow bloodless. Alastair instantly recognizes the handiwork of another of his kind.

Wes breaks Alastair’s concentration, gently pushing him away to fit an oxygen tube to Helen’s nostrils. The heart monitor activates with a familiar beep, monitoring her rapid but steady beat.

Stunned, Alastair backs away from Helen. As he does, Helen’s rhythm gets stronger and slows to normal.

Wes looks to Anne. “We should get her in the hospital. You want to ride along or follow in your car?”

Helen steels herself, looking at Alastair with anger and fear, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Anne pleads, “You need help. Better to play it safe.”

The old lady is unrelenting “I’m not safe anywhere.”

Wes sees Anne’s concern, guides her into the hallway for a privacy.

“She can’t refuse help.” Anne asks desperately, “Can she?”

Wes tries to get his facts straight, “She’s still considered mentally competent, right?”

Anne sees where this is going. “She’s not senile.”

“Then it’s her right to refuse transport.” Wes brushes his hand along her shoulder, she responds to his comforting touch.

***

In Helen’s room, Alastair keeps a polite distance between himself and his charge. Her vitals have stabilized. She examines him with a wary curiosity.

Alastair whispers, “You shouldn’t take your life for granted.”

“Do you even remember what it is to be alive?”

Alastair looks out the bedroom door, Wes and Anne are out of earshot. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

Helen’s fear is overwhelmed by curiosity, “How long since you were changed?”

He recites the answer, “Ninety-nine years.”

She knows the deal, “That explains why you’re still running around like a mortal. You can’t face immortality, and can’t give your powers away.”

Alastair’s stunned by her knowledge. He quietly stares at Helen trying to put the thoughts racing though his mind into words but before he can ask anything more of Helen, Wes and Anne return.

***

The fire truck pulls away, leaving Wes and Alastair to struggle with an overload of supplies as they make their way back to the ambulance.

Wes takes a look back, “I hope they’re all right.”

Alastair keeps his mind on business, “I’m sure we’ll get a call if things change.”

Wes responds eagerly, “I’m keeping a copy of her book in the ambulance from now on.”

“Her book?”

“Don’t you know who she is” Wes rolls his eyes, “Helen Nolan, ‘The Zen of Monstrosity.’ It’s kinda like Jung but more fun to read. Helped me to understand my dark side.”

Alastair smiles as he considers what Wes’s deep dark secrets might be.

Wes squirms, suddenly uncomfortable, “What?”

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce

Alastair’s day off clothes, a black button down shirt and jeans. A woman in a micro mini, tank top and a bridal veil passes with two girlfriends. The women give Alastair the once-over, appreciating the goods, but aren’t inspired to stop. He doesn’t need a watch to tell him what time it is, the patrons tell him everything he needs to know, it’s currently “slightly buzzed and drowsy from a heavy dinner.”

A rock song with primitive drums plays. As he taps his foot to the beat, Alastair’s mind drifts. The beat pounds into his soul, past the memories he’s gathered in his ninety-nine years, unlocking the knowledge of his predecessors.

***

Drums announce the arrival of a group of early human settlers walking in a blissful, green savanna carrying the corpse of an animal freshly killed by stone spears. A boy following the hunting party stops, calls out to his elders and points to the horizon. The tribe watches helplessly as a wave of darkness slowly washes over the lush countryside.

Enveloped by darkness, an elder holds out her hands collecting ash as it drops from the sky.

Later, darkness continues to rule the skies, a distant campfire dims burnt down to its last embers. Nine adult members of the tribe surround a young boy as the child struggles for life. Both the young and old are gaunt from starvation. A tear falls down the cheek of one of the elders as she runs a razor-edged basalt rock along the boy’s skin releasing a stream of blood. The woman leans down, tastes the boy’s blood then backs away. The other eight members of the tribe follow, ritualistically repeating her actions.

***

The song changes, startling Alastair back to reality of the hotel bar. Ancient hunger gnaws at him as he scans the crowd.

The bartenders and servers stop what they’re doing, climb on the bar and various platforms and begin a dance designed to lure more customers in for a drink. Alastair watches the four women and one man as they dance. They’re sexy enough to be on display but lacking that extra “something” that might get them into the cast of one of the big production shows. He watches the crowd hungrily searching for the weak in the herd.

Alastair’s drawn to a redheaded dancer working the platform closest to him. Her henna-dyed hair is faded from too many washings. Although her body moves well, her face is dead.

As the song ends the redheaded dancer returns to work taking drink orders. At the next booth over a group of frat boys flirt with her, admiring her slender body. She takes their drink orders quickly, efficiently, ignoring their attention.

The redhead approaches Alastair, carefully avoiding looking him in the eyes, “You need anything.”

He smiles, “I’m all right. How about you?”

“Same as always.” She slips away.

***

Later, Alastair has relocated to a slot machine with a view of the round bar. He patiently plays the machine, allowing a web of thirty pay lines to devour his quarters.

Finally, new waitresses and bartenders come in to help with the after-show rush. The redhead dancer leaves, Alastair follows. Excitement races through her body as she heads for the exit.

***

Burnt out street lights help Alastair as he carefully approaches a two level apartment building. Overgrown hedges keep visitors from noticing the paint peeling from the wooden siding. As he approaches one of the front doors, Alastair slides on a pair of exam gloves. He touches the doorknob, discovering that it isn’t locked.

Fast food wrappers, empty gallons of ice cream and other food debris litters the beige-on-beige-on-beige interiors. Alastair walks, careful not to shift any of the litter. He grabs a steak knife from the kitchen counter. The sound of retching leads Alastair to the bathroom.

Another open door, as the redhead dancer hugs the toilet a wooden spoon falls from her fingers. Alastair stands directly behind her, patiently waiting for her to finish puking her guts out.

Empty, she crawls backwards, pulling away from the toilet bowl. She breathes heavily, sweat drips from her forehead. Wiping the tears from her eyes, her vision clears, allowing her to take a look at the doom standing just inches away from her.

Alastair scratches her forearm with the knife blade. Five short, shallow cuts along her arm punctuate her old, self-inflicted wounds carefully covered in makeup. He drinks.

***

A younger version of the redhead dancer sits on her bed crying.

Feminine hands paint an address on a mailbox.

A steel-haired man walks into a bedroom, locks the door and drops his trousers.

***

Alastair drags the redhead dancer’s lifeless body into the hallway, laying her to rest in a graceful pose.

Urgency fills Alastair as he backs away. Grabbing a pen from his pocket and a fast food napkin, he forces himself to focus. The address painted by the young redhead dancer onto her mailbox manifests itself on the paper.

***

The hand-painted mailbox is the only sign of individuality in a twenty year old development filled with identical houses. Trash bins line the street, it must be pickup day.

Alastair’s car is parked a discreet distance from he house he’s casing. There are no garbage cans in front or other signs of life. Alastair sits in his car, keeping his focus on the mailbox as he nervously taps his fingers on the steering wheel. The first rays of dawn trace their way across distant hills.

Just as Alastair’s fingers drift to his car’s ignition key, the front porch light of his targeted house flips on. The steel-haired man shuffles out his front door, tying the belt on a thick bathrobe in a useless attempt to ward off the early morning chill.

As the steel-haired man moves to the side of his house, Alastair steps out of his car. A supernatural burst of speed eliminates the gap between predator and prey. Running at full speed, Alastair hits the steel-haired man, sending trash bins to the ground before they slam into the side of the home.

Alastair scowls, “You know a redheaded young woman, who is she?”

The steel-haired man’s in shock, “My stepdaughter?”

Alastair pounces, smashing the head of his prey on a bit of exposed cement foundation.

***

Seen from the assailant’s eyes, the young redheaded girl backs away from the door as her stepfather locks it.

Suddenly the image shifts, the stepfather’s mind reveals a moment from his childhood as a sun-beaten construction worker walks into a boy’s bedroom, secures the door and drops his jeans.

***

“Shit.”

Alastair drops the stepfather’s body. He quickly backs away, fleeing both the rising sun and one family’s cycle of pain.

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce

Alastair dutifully keeps his mind on his work, rushing to apply gauze to a deep bite on the groom’s upper arm. As Alastair applies pressure to stop the bleeding, Wes takes care of the scratch marks on his chest, irrigating them with sterile fluid before bandaging.

The groom’s voice trembles, “Where is she?”

Wes replies, “You’re okay, the police took her into custody.”

The groom bolts into action, crawling on the floor. “They’re dangerous, I have to save her.”

The gauze Alastair applied falls from the groom’s biceps exposing the wicked punctures that his beloved’s dainty teeth inflicted. The medics have no choice but to let the groom squirm, Alastair blocks the doorway, preventing any escape. Pain and weakness mount quickly until the groom has no choice except to relent to medical attention.

Alastair tries to reassure the groom, “You have to save yourself before you can help anyone else. Okay?”

Suddenly, the groom returns to his catatonic state, allowing the medics to work.

***

Alastair and Wes roll the bandaged groom past the curtained emergency room beds to a set of doors separating the operating rooms from the rest of the hospital. Nathan follows closely, keeping track of anything and everything the groom says. At the doors, the medics pass their patient off to a waiting surgical team.

Wes vents, “That was beyond messed up. He doesn’t even want to press charges.”

Nathan replies “The district attorney’s office might have a thing or to say about that.”

As they walk through the primary ER area they pass Dianna. She works on a medical records computer adding patient data to several files. Finished, she stretches and walks away from the terminal.

Alastair responds knowingly, “If there’s one constant to the human condition, it’s that love makes people do stupid things.”

Dianna passes the three guys as they walk down the hallway. Alastair’s eyes follow her hungrily.

Alastair turns on the spot. “Excuse me.”

Nathan and Wes keep heading to the exit.

Nathan’s confused. “What’s he doing.”

Wes laughs to himself. “Proving his own point.”

***

Alastair follows Dianna to a break room. A tiny space with lockers, a pair of cots and a desk.

Dianna pulls an illustrated urology text and a book on the Roman Empire from her locker. She spreads out her work, sees Alastair, smiles.

“The medical mystery returns.” She teases. “I still don’t get how your skin is so cold even when your heart is racing.”

“Me neither.” His curiosity turns to her work. “What are you researching?”

She responds with off-kilter enthusiasm. “Fournier’s gangrene. It’s an infection that necrotizes urinary tract tissue. They say it killed King Herod.”

Ninety-Nine years free of disease allows him to return her curiosity. “Also the Roman Emperor Galerius. It makes flesh eating bacteria look like the chicken pox.”

She’s stunned.

He asks, “Are you studying forensic pathology?”

“I wish. Can you loan me the money to survive med school and five years of residency?” She squirms, “It’s just a hobby, learning how historical figures died.”

She watches, waiting for his reaction. This is usually the part of the conversation where others call her “odd.”

He responds gently, “You have a rare and wonderful sense of curiosity.”

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce

Alastair and Wes follow a hotel security guard off the elevator. The trio is loaded down with as much medical gear as they can carry.

Female screams echo from an open door. Cries of fear fade, quickly replaced by shrieks of anger.

Nathan and two other cops emerge from the room struggling to keep a furious woman under control. A veil of long, blonde hair hides the woman’s face. As she twists, the bed sheet covering her body falls away, revealing the thin veneer of blood and sweat that coats her skin. She’s handcuffed, but fights with every muscle in her 120 pound body.

Alastair, Wes and the guard hug the walls as the woman and her captors pass. She kicks, attempting to lash out at Alastair. Nathan takes the hit, stumbling.

The Guard takes his station at the door while Alastair and Wes enter a honeymoon suite equipped with a Jacuzzi, massive bed, and mirrors on the ceiling. A shredded wedding gown covers an overturned wicker chair. Three empty champagne bottles roll around on the floor. Alastair steps carefully, narrowly avoiding the bloody shards of broken wine glasses.

A space-themed wedding cake sits untouched on a table. The conventional tuxedoed groom cake topper is joined by an action figure, the monstrous queen from the movie “Aliens.”

Following a trail of blood from the bed to the bathroom, Alastair and Wes brace themselves for the worst.

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce

They’re quickly joined by Dianna Smythe, the nurse coordinating emergency admissions.  Even in the middle of a long shift she’s still immaculately put together.  She’s a striking beauty with youthful skin and indigo eyes.  Her regulation scrubs don’t do her toned, graceful body justice.

Dianna asks, “The last one from the accident?”

“As far as I know.”  Alastair sighs wearily.

She turns to Alastair, gives him the once-over, “You’re new here.”

Dianna, Wes, Alastair and the orderly each take a corner and carefully transfer the accident victim to the bed.  Alastair glances covertly at Dianna as they work, mesmerized by her confidence.  Dianna nods, dismissing the orderly.

Alastair answers, “Just relocated from Chicago.”

Wes notices the spark between Alastair and Dianna, “I’ll go get ready for another run.”  He turns his back on his partner, closing the curtain on his way out.

Dianna looks to her patient, “ID?”

He responds with a note of frustration. “The firefighters didn’t find any.”

Her nonchalant reply, “She’s now Jane Doe number four.”

“Busy night?”  He asks, driven by genuine curiosity.

She takes another look at the new guy.  “It’s always a busy night.”

Neither of them can think of more small talk, she decides to move on before things get awkward.  As she turns to squeeze out of the area skin brushes against skin, a chill runs down her spine.

Reflexively, she reaches out to him feeling his forearm.  “You’re so cold.  Maybe someone should check you out.”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”  Alastair’s defenses are up.

She moves to check his pulse.  He tries to slip out of her reach but she hangs on.  She tries to joke with him, “Don’t tell me you have white jacket phobia?”

Alastair responds, “It’s easier being on the listening end of the stethoscope.”

She nods in understanding.  He finally relents to her touch.  They’re quiet as she feels his pulse; she focuses on the second hand of her watch.

Dianna looks at him with concern, “Your pulse is 98.  Rapid, borderline tachycardia.”

His defenses are up, “It’s normal for me.”

“You must have ice water running in those veins.”  There’s a surprising hint of flirtation in her voice.

He gently pulls his hand away from hers.  “Sometimes I wish that was true, my life would be a lot easier.”

He leaves her alone to wonder what the hell just happened.

***

The ambulance rests in an area away from the emergency room entrance designated for cleanup and loading.  As Alastair approaches, he notices Wes in the passenger seat, a distinct look of annoyance on his face.  Alastair quietly slips behind the wheel.

Wes gives his partner a dirty look.  “Flirt with the nurses on your own time.”  His serious look is disrupted by a spasm, and then another until he rolls into laughter.  “Just messin’ with ya.”

Before Alastair has a chance to respond the dispatch monitor lights up with another call.

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce

Employee cars line the side of the lot.  One lonely ambulance waits for its crew.

Alastair leaves the office with Wes Jeffries.  Even though a decade has passed since he was high school linebacker of the year, his caramel skin still caresses a powerfully muscular physique.  Wes’s tough game face dissolves to kindness the moment he smiles.

Wes eyes his new partner curiously, “Your name’s really Alastair?”

A wary Alastair responds, “Yes.”

Wes continues, unabated, “Your folks must’ve been old school.”

Alastair loosens up.  “You could say that.  I usually go by Al.”

Wes nods.  They reach their unit.  Wes and Al check their supplies, making sure they’re ready to roll.

Changing the subject, Alastair says, “Thanks for agreeing to a non-standard shift.”  As the words slide from this mouth, he wonders why first shift chit chat has to be so awkward.

“The medic course I need is only offered during the day.  I was afraid I’d be back on non-emergency runs.”  Wes takes another shot at a personal question.  “They say you have some kind of extreme allergy to sunlight, what’s the deal?”

They take their seats in the passenger compartment.  Wes settles in, Alastair squirms.  Before Alastair can say anything the dispatch computer lights up with a call.  Wes checks it out.

Wes reports.  “Twelve-car clusterfuck on I-15 northbound.”

They shut the doors and hit the road.

***

The ambulance rushes away from the bright lights of The Strip.  Traffic slams to a halt as they near the accident scene.  Wes pushes the ambulance hard, cutting through lanes until he reaches the shoulder.  The ambulance crawls through three miles of backed up traffic until they reach the scene.

Less damaged cars on the periphery of the accident quickly give way to a mosaic of blood, metal and fear.

A few cops work to control the scene.  The go-to guy Lieutenant Nathan Preston is surrounded by other officers looking for direction.  Nathan guides the ambulance a makeshift parking area.  The medics get out of their ride.  Looking for direction they join the group in front of Nathan.

Nathan looks at Wes and Alastair, “Finally.”

“We’re the first?”  Alastair’s genuinely surprised.

Nathan’s frustration shows, “They’re all stuck in traffic on the Strip.”

“Ready for triage?” asks Wes.

“Always.”  Alastair’s sudden confidence buoys Wes.

They return to their vehicle for med kits before splitting up.  Nathan turns his attention to directing an incoming fire truck.

Alastair approaches the remains of a boxy car designed for the youth market.  The front crumple zones have collapsed leaving the vehicle bulldog-faced.  Alastair manages to force the driver’s side door open revealing a skinny young man in his late teens.  The accident victim’s left leg is pinned in the wreckage, struggling for freedom throws him into panic.

The medic watches the young man as he flails helplessly in the driver’s seat. Alastair’s thirst turns his face into a hard, predatory mask.  The accident victim doesn’t see the danger that stands right in front of him; they never do until it’s too late.  All they ever notice is the uniform.

The siren from another fire truck jolts Alastair back to reality.

The young man speaks up, “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be.”  Alastair softens.

The accident victim races through his words, still panicked.  “My mom’s gonna kill me.  She fucking loves this car.”

Alastair smiles, “She’ll just be happy you’re alive.”

The young man renews his attempts to free his leg.  Alastair looks him in the eyes, “Stop fighting.  Relax.”

The kid obeys, surrendering to a will greater than his own.

“That’s better.”  Alastair turns all of his attention to the trapped leg.  With one hand he pulls a heavy piece of debris gently out of the way.  His other hand guides the young man’s broken leg free.

“Wow.”  The victim lets out a dazed whimper.

Alastair does his best to reassure, “Your leg will need surgery, but you’ll recover.  Do me a favor and stay as still as you can, until a medic can take you to the hospital.”  The young man stares in awe as Alastair walks away.

Returning his attention to the accident scene, another ambulance has finally arrived.  Wes is three lanes away working on a man who is rapidly bleeding through his bandages, a firefighter provides an assist.

Alastair’s next stop is a vintage luxury car near the center of the pileup.  Getting into the car isn’t a problem; the passenger side door is nowhere to be seen.  A young beauty queen and her sugar daddy take their last joyride, he’s dead, and she’s dying.   Neither of them have their seatbelts on.

Her torso is twisted lengthwise along the floor, the right side of her body shattered by the collision.  She struggles for air as she coughs up blood.  Her unmoving legs are pinned between the body of her now deceased lover and the steering wheel.

The medic examines the beauty queen; her broken body has only the slimmest chance of recovery.  As she fights for air, her dance with death seduces Alastair.  He looks over his shoulder checking to see that no other emergency crews are nearby.

Alastair whispers, “They say, your life flashes in front of your eyes before you die.  I see that, and remember.”

He moves in, opening his mouth. His canine teeth are a bit sharper than normal, a little long, but not so much that they’d attract undue attention.  She’s bleeding so profusely there’s no need to open a wound.  He kisses her, pulling the blood from her shattered lungs.

***

For Alastair blood is a conduit, carrying her mental energy into his body.  A chaotic, unordered, stream of thoughts flashes through Alastair’s mind as he feeds.

Moments before the accident as the car speeds along the freeway, the beauty queen reclines seductively in the passenger seat.  She lets out a naughty laugh as she kicks her shoes off and slides her legs onto the sugar daddy’s lap.  He keeps one hand on the wheel; his other hand hungrily caresses her legs.

A seven year old version of the beauty queen hides in a bathroom stall, her long legs cramped in the tight space.  Footsteps, as a group of kids shuffle in.  One of the kids taunts, “Its giraffe hunting season.”

Shopping is war at a super couture sale.  The beauty queen fights for the perfect red dress.

Wearing the dress onstage, another beautiful woman approaches carrying an enormous rhinestone crown in her arms.

Playing hooky from high school, hanging on to the back of an ancient van as it speeds down a street, the beauty queen’s hat flies off her head.  An adrenaline junkie football player hoists her on to the roof.  As she reaches the roof she spies something that looks like a cop car.

She screams, “Turn, turn, turn!”  Filled with exhilaration and fear, she wraps an arm around the football player, planting a passionate kiss on his lips.

***

The beauty queen’s struggle for breath is over.  He comes out of it running a finger along his lips, echoing the sensation of the kiss.  Pleasure fades quickly; he focuses, wiping a trace of blood from his mouth.  He’s always careful to keep his uniform clean.

Just in the nick of time.  Wes walks up behind him.  “What’s the deal?”

“They’re done.” Alastair responds.

Wes sees that something isn’t quite right, but the chaos of the scene calls him back before he can name what’s off.  “C’mon.  Keep moving.”

Wes and Alastair’s path is blocked by Chuck and Bill, another medic team.

Chuck would be handsome if he lost the expression of disgust on his face, he looks like there’s shit under his nose.  His muscular body ripples with tension.

Bill is the kind of guy who’ll laugh at any joke, as long as it’s not at his expense.

Chuck tries to dig into Wes.  “I didn’t realize the night shift was on duty.”

Wes tries to keep the conversation on business.  Alastair stands back, carefully watching the dynamic.

“We’re just finishing triage.”  Wes replies.

Chuck’s resentment is clear.  “You might even have time for a couple of transports before you’re off shift.”

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce

Overhead lighting from two fluorescent tubes barely manages to cut through the darkness.  A man in a welder’s mask works with an acetylene blowtorch.  He quickly but carefully fuses the metal garage door to its track.   Nearby, a metal pedestrian door is fitted with the best locks on the market; a row of sandbags line the bottom of both entrances.  On the shop floor, the elaborate woodworking tools left behind by an unfortunate previous occupant collect dust.  A bathroom, kitchenette and an enclosed office on the far end of the space round things out.

The only resident, Alastair, finishes his work.  He discards his mask, heavy gloves, blowtorch and other tools.  Judging by his looks, he’s in his early twenties.  Pale, impossibly smooth skin surrounds knowing eyes.  A full head of dark blond, short but shaggy hair looks dark against his fair skin.  Lean but muscular, his body is in good shape and he carries himself well.

He paces the shop floor for a moment, as if putting off something unpleasant.  Finally, he returns to the office.

In the office cheap, durable work furniture is covered with a few unusual touches.  An old, brown leather medical bag sits on a table.  Gold lettering reads “Dr. A. Tomlinson.”  A few name tags are attached to the handles including:  “Alan Tresse, RN” and “Al Tandy, Orderly.”

On another table he puts two “number candles,” the kind used for a child’s birthday, into a sophisticated dark chocolate cake.  He lights the numbers “99.”

The water welling in his eyes is a stark reminder that this is an unhappy anniversary.

Alastair whispers, “Ninety-nine supernatural years plus twenty-six real ones.”  His frustration grows as he tries to think of a wish.  Defeated, he blows the candles out.

Seconds later he lashes out, embarrassed by his own indulgence.

The cake and candles fly into a trash can, making a hollow thunk as they land.

He swaps a simple cotton tee for a uniform shirt, dons his most recent name tag, “Alastair Thomson, EMT-P.”

Alastair grabs the trash on his way out.  He kicks the sandbags clear of the door with a bit too much ease.  The door slams, locks click shut.

Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce