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

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