Survivors

He Says in Love and War All Is Fair

They all but strip-search me, turning out every pocket, taking off my boots, my hoodie, patting me down. Reminds me of getting arrested. Wasn't fun then either.

Every time I get motion back in my limbs or start flexing my jaw, I get another shock. I can only hope it runs out of battery, but my opportunity for jailbreak has long since come and gone. Lina gets shuffled off somewhere else. Her parting glance to me is one of annoyance, not sympathy nor gratitude.

Mike's lackeys tie me up with as much spare stage rigging they can find. They don't have to zap me after that. I'm as threatening as a fish in a boat. I just lie on the floor, down to my boxers and sports bra. I've got more curtain rope than clothes on.

By now they've dragged me to another room too. Old prop room sans a majority of the props. Mike's got all my stuff spread out on a table to peruse. A couple lackeys stand silent guard near the door.

"So, let's come clean here," Mike says. "And by 'us', I mean 'you'. Who you traveling with?"

"Get bent," I sneer. My fangs are still out.

"You're not so scary down there in your drawers. Should be thankful I let you keep those on, doll."

I don't say anything to that.

"Take two. You got a camp somewhere?" he asks.

"No."

"What are you doing here?"

"I heard music. I saw the lights."

"And you were in Miss Lina's room because...?"

"Well, once I realized this was your place, I thought I'd steal your girlfriend. It's only fair, after you tried to steal all my stuff."

He laughs a little. "We'll see."

He goes through my wallet, one item at a time.

"Congratulations, Vanessa, your driver's license isn't expired yet. Maybe we'll find a working car for you. What else... The Salem Sunbeam, Renard-Yildirim wedding, 1960. Your grandparents?" He flips through more mementos. "Broadway Street Dance International. Sounds fancy. And look at this, your name's on one of the final brackets. Didn't realize I bagged two big-time celebrities. Who won?"

"Look at the date."

"Ah. Rough. But by the fact you're still standing - in a manner of speaking, heh - I'd say you did."

"Like a true survivor," I mutter.

He rifles disinterestedly past all the photos I printed off my phone while I still could. Goes through the rest of my stuff. Sets aside useful supplies for his gang.

"So what now? Gonna kill me?" I say.

"I could've done that by now," Mike says. "I've been hoping to run into you again actually. You really did a number on us back in the woods. Did a number on us today, too."

"You like getting your ass kicked? Why don't you untie me and I'll help you live out all your masochist fantasies."

"Big talk from your position."

"It took all those boys and a stun gun to save your life, Mikey. I'd be doing a keg stand with your arteries by now if nobody had a zapper. So what's the plan?" I say. "You're holding the fox by the ears."

He holds up his bitten hand, makeshift bandages red. "Will this do anything to me?"

"Make using a typewriter a pain," I say. "Maybe get infected."

"I mean am I going to turn into a vampire too? That is what you are, yeah?"

"Yes I am and no it won't."

"Then the first thing we're going to do is have you turn me into one. A pet vampire's nice, but you're far from tame enough. I need that power for myself," he says.

"And why would I wanna give you that power?"

He walks around in front of the table to loom over me, cracking his knuckles. "Because I'm going to beat you until you do."

"I - You wanna get your hands in biting distance again?" I taunt falteringly.

"Good point. Brian, get the bitch a muzzle."

Not what I hoped would happen.

Brian leaves, comes back with duct tape and a ratty scarf, which both go on over my mouth while Mike holds my jaw closed with one hand and my braid tight in the other. Kneeling over me now, he wastes no time in laying into me with his fists with full gusto. My head rattles against the floorboards as blow after blow cracks against my face. I just lay limp and don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

"Shit, this thing even bleed?" he grunts. "Not a bruise."

My face hurts like hell, but you wouldn't know it looking at it. Mike takes out a knife, flicks it open, and slices it across my cheek. My skin resists, but not enough. I wince. He digs his thumb into the cut, smearing the clear fluid leaking from it.

"Yeah, that hurts, huh? You feel pain, doll? Good."

I close my eyes and hope it's over soon.

The beating continues as my morale plummets. He moves back to throw some blows into my ribs and chest too. By now I'm twitching in pain, a body jerk with each strike, instincts trying to find some way to curl up to shield myself, but he won't let me shy away. I make involuntary grunts of pain soon, hitched and muffled.

Apparently satisfied after who-knows-how-long, he finally stops, panting. I open my eyes, watching, as I shiver with pain and the adrenaline of fear under him. When he reaches toward my face, I flinch, and he smirks smugly as he grasps my braid again. He pulls down the scarf and rips off the duct tape. I hiss as it yanks out what little mustache I had to begin with.

"Fu-u-uck," I groan. My bell is rung.

"Ready to talk?" Mike says.

"Okay. Okay. Fine. I - it's - it's this fluid. The not-blood blood. You have to ingest it, like a whole cup or two of it. That's how you turn."

The cut on my face had healed, and so had all the other cuts and abrasions he tore open on my face by sheer force, but my face and neck are already wet with it.

He swipes a thumb over my cheek again, where the cut had been. "What is this? Sweat?" He licks his thumb. "Tastes stale. Like bottled water been left in a car too long."

"Sorry I'm not a piquant fucken seltzer. Turning into a monster's no bed of roses, buddy."

Mike chuckles, dropping my head against the floor. He fetches an actual water bottle, empty, kneeling with it and his knife. "Brian, hold her still."

The lackey Brian crouches down, props me up and forward on my knees, my hair in a painful vice grip to keep my head perfectly stationary. Mike slices down my face from cheekbone to chin with a firm, deep cut. I grit my teeth against making any sound. He holds the bottle against my chin to gather the running fluid. His blade rests in the cut, shifting side to side to keep it open as my flesh tries vainly to heal, again and again.

Vampirism dulls pain to a point. I'm well past that point now. It's different in the middle of a fight, the rush numbs me then.

I'll enjoy eating this one.

Mike pulls back once the bottle's full. Brian tosses me aside. They confer quietly across the room. I lay on the floor feeling like a wrung-out dishrag, all ragged and spent.

Mike turns to me after a couple minutes. "So I drink this, and I'm the next Dracula."

"Y-yeah."

I don't mention how vamp juice is toxic in large quantities, and mine is sterile - I couldn't sire him if I wanted to. If I'm lucky, he'll just die. If I'm not, he'll just wish he would.

"Great." He looks to Brian. "Get Lina."