No Good Deed ...

No Good Deed ...

I awoke from my slumber to the cold gray twilight seeping through the closed Venetian blinds. I peeped out and saw that snow was falling. I didn't suspect that anyone knew I was here in this condemned, boarded up tenement, but leaving without making tracks would now be impossible. I decided to wait for darkness. I have extreme sensitivity to light and to being pelted with rocks; hence my present predicament.

I took a quick look in the cracked bathroom mirror and noted the deep set, dark eyes (now blackened), the Irish nose (now scraped). Luckily, I heal quickly. Everything else was as I expected; my complexion, naturally pale (due to lack of sun), lips, bluish (these should redden slightly once I've fed), fangs, retractable. My build is tall and wiry (I am deceptively strong). Overall, in most circumstances, I can pass as human, as long as I don't attract attention.

I knew I was somewhere in the lower east side of New York, beyond that, I hadn't a clue. Soon, my ancient friend, the night, would swoop down on soft bat wings to snuff this suffering half light and put it out of its misery.

Hunger gnawed at me like a junk yard dog on a bone. I couldn't remember when I had fed last or even when I had arrived here. I lay back in my dark resting place as the last embers of the sun began to die. The cold penetrated my aching body. I hoped that when the time came to move I would have the strength and the will to carry on. Sleep overcame me and I awoke in the dark of night. I looked out to see front porch lights and streetlights illuminating the deserted, residential avenue; apart from that the city appeared asleep.

Now was the time to make my move. I stumbled like a drunk down the darkened staircase and out through the back door of the deserted house. I tried to walk straight and to appear inconspicuous, but weakness and the pounding in my head was beyond my control. A car slowed and the driver asked if I was all right. My slurred speech, and appreciation for his concern, indicated to him that I was probably a late-night reveler.

"Take care man, don't let the cops see you or they'll run you in," was his reply.

I stumbled onward and fell into a hedge. I couldn't get up; I could only crawl a few feet into the protective shadow of a bush. I lost consciousness. Some time later I awoke. With the support of a fence, I followed an alley that led me to the rear of a tavern.

Thumping, wailing blues music wafted through the open back door to the kitchen. Immediately outside the door was a pile of garbage bags leaning against an overflowing dumpster. From the shadows came a voice.

"You're in worse shape than I am, man," chuckled the voice.

I tried to focus my eyes but was partially blinded by the rear light of the tavern.

"Down here, man," guided the voice.

In the glare of light, I could see a pair of feet with legs attached. The rest was blackness. I stumbled forward and the garbage bags cushioned my fall.

"Take it easy man! There's room for both of us here. I don't need you lying on top of me."

The stench was overpowering, but I was exhausted and my mind was reeling.

"Can you walk?" asked the gruff voice. "I'm thinking they may have called the cops on me. We shouldn't hang around here too long. I'm Back Alley John. I'll give you a hand." A tall shadowy figure pulled me upright and we supported each other down the alley. Sure enough, we heard the wail of sirens in the distance.

"Let's step through here," he said as he opened the latch to a wooden gate entering a back yard. Near the tavern we heard voices. The beams of flashlights scoured the garbage and advanced up the alley. He pulled me down into a patch of rhubarb. "Cops! Quiet!" he whispered. The flashlight beams searched the yard but we were obscured from view, at least for the present.

"I think he's long gone," said a voice of authority. "He could be anywhere," said another voice. "Let's grab a coffee. This is a wild goose chase, and all for a drunken brawler." The voices continued in the direction from which they had come. A car door slammed and the roar of an engine indicated that the police had left the scene.

After what seemed like a long period of silence the prone figure beside me said, "You better come to my place to get cleaned up; otherwise you'll be spending the night in the drunk tank."

I followed John, knowing full well that, at the first opportunity, he meant to roll me, mug me, call it what you like. The ability to read another's thoughts is very beneficial in a situation like this. We trudged up the alley, turned east on what turned out to be Stanton Street then turned south on Orchard heading toward Delancey. We ducked down another alley and entered the side door of a tenement building. The smell was almost as bad as the garbage pile.

"This place is supposed to be condemned, but the owner owes me a favor, so he gave me a key." From the sounds in the building the owner owed a lot of favors. "Follow me. Just feel your way along the wall. My place is the third door on the left." I heard a door open and, shortly after, saw the faint glow of a candle.

A grizzled face appeared in the candlelight. "This used to be a crack house, but they moved on to better quarters." I heard the sound of a cupboard door opening and glasses tinkling. "Want a drink?" I felt a glass being pushed into my hand. My eyes still hadn't gotten used to the light. I smelled the liquid in the glass. It was rough and cheap, and I pretended to drink. I heard him sigh as he swilled the vile liquor. "That was a close call. By the way, what do they call you?"

I moved towards him on silent cat feet, feeling for debris on the floor as I went. "If they call me ... they call me Blood of the Rising Moon," I whispered in his ear. I then grabbed him by the shoulders and hoisted him up against the wall. He was a tall man, but still his feet dangled above the floor. In the candlelight, his terrified face had a ghoulish expression.

"Please man, I helped you get away from the cops. We could be friends. I've never wronged anybody in my life," he pleaded desperately.

"For your good deeds, John, I'm sure you'll reap a rich reward in the afterlife. And because you've been such a good friend, I won't tear you limb from limb. That can be very messy and causes a lot of irritation in the community. I've learned my lesson on that score."

"Please, I can help you, I'll do anything you want," he simpered.

"That's the spirit, John, negotiation. Anything can be negotiated - your life for something I want. What could that be? Let me think ... I have an idea -- scintillating conversation, maybe? John, your brain is mush and your body is a worthless husk. But take heart; your blood will live on coursing through my veins. You will live through me."

"Please, please!" His whining was becoming irritating.

"Work with me here, John! Help me out - what could you possibly have that would be of the slightest interest to me? ... I'd like luxurious accommodation, but looking around I'm of the opinion that we can rule that out. Perhaps, you could provide me with a new wardrobe? My taste tends toward Armani. Can you help me there? How about sexual favors? No, John, you're not my type and, no offense, but you smell bad."

"Spare my life and take my soul!" John cried in desperation. Great, shuddering sobs shook his body.

"By Jove, we may be on to something here! What a quaint idea! John, you amaze me! Your life in exchange for your soul! Why didn't I think of that? We just may be able to reach a bargain." I slightly released my grip so that John slid down the wall to the point that his feet rested on the floor.

"Yes, yes, anything to spare my life." Tears streamed down his cheeks, a wide gap-toothed smile appeared on his face and he beamed with gratitude. He looked the picture of innocence, angelic almost.

"We can't forget that you did help me tonight. That should be worth something, shouldn't it, John?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed in joyous ecstasy.

"Just kidding, John!"

Those were the last words he heard before I leaned over and sank my fangs into his neck. His blood felt like warm nectar as it slowly seeped down my parched throat. Unfortunately, it had the unpleasant aftertaste of cheap booze, and I knew I was in for a hangover next morning. His body slid down the wall to the floor.

"No good deed ever goes unpunished," I always say.

(Word count: 1548.)