Ninety-Nine Years

An unusually slow night. The ambulance is parked at an anonymous suburban strip mall. Wes naps. Alastair prowls.

***

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

A round casino bar invites visitors to enjoy a drink before squandering their money on the gaming floor. The place is filled with the usual mix of honeymooners, conventioneers and college kids looking for a good time. Alastair sits in a booth with a commanding view, a low table separates him from a man and woman who are making out frantically.

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

The injured groom sits in a corner of the honeymoon suite’s bathroom, at least a dozen wounds mangle his flesh. He shows no signs of distress despite the streams of blood trickling down his body. Alastair and Wes get no reaction as they prepare to tend his injuries.

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

At first glance, it’s just another windowless space in an anonymous industrial park.  Within these four ordinary walls a fragile illusion of normalcy hides an oasis, a crypt, a bunker, a home.

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