The older man looked from me to Switchblade, then at the gun in his hand. A look of horror crossed his features and tears sprang from his eyes. Then he fled into the shadows with the others, looking back once over his shoulder before disappearing over someone's backyard fence.
I was left alone with Switchblade. His right hand was trying to cover the wound; instead, it just flopped pathetically.
"Well," I said to him, kneeling down, "nice set of friends you have."
And as I squatted next to him, the flopping stopped and he looked at me with dead eyes. I checked for a pulse. There was none.
Aroused by the gunshot, house lights began turning on one by one. I looked down at the body again.
So much blood....
We were alone in an alley behind some apartments.
The early morning sky was still black, save for the faint light from the half moon. I was nestled between a Dumpster and three black bags of trash filled with things foul. A small wind meandered down the alley. The plastic bags rustled. My hair lifted and fell�Dand so did the hair on the dead guy.
After my runs, I usually feed on cow blood. The cow blood is mixed with all sorts of impurities and foul crap. I often gag. Sort of my own private Fear Factor with no fifty grand reward at the end of the hour.
Before me lay Switchblade, the punk who had no doubt organized the gang bang. I had ferreted him away before anyone could investigate the shooting and now he lay at my feet, dead and broken.
I looked down at his chest, where blood had stained his flannel shirt nearly black.
Blood....
I ripped open his flannel shirt, buttons pinging everywhere. His chest was awash in a sea of caked red. The hole in his chest was a dark moon in a vermilion sky.
His blood would contain alcohol, as he had been drinking. I didn't care. The blood would be pure enough. Straight from the source. The ideal way to feed. Then again, ideal was relative. Ideally I would be feasting on turkey lasagna.
I dipped my head down, placed my lips over the massive wound in his chest, and drank....