Date: Sun, 19 Aug 2007 20:32:53 -0700 (PDT) From: Nathan Bathory Subject: Bloodsoak Chapter 2 To make an extremely long story short, Chester woke up in a hospital bed, entirely confused; After throwing the biggest fit in the world while he tried to get someone to answer his questions about why he felt like shit he was finally informed that he had epilepsy, and a seizure triggered in his sleep put him in a coma for two weeks. The hospital room was bare and sparse except for the television in the far corner and the usual assorted IV drips and mechanical folding beds, and Chester found himself angry he could barely move. "Now was that so hard?" he asked the nurse waspishly, fumbling for his glasses. The fact that he was less confused and surprised about having epilepsy and was more annoyed that he'd lost out on a fortnight tells you a little bit about him in general. "Look," the exasperated nurse said, an expression of extreme annoyance on her face, "We're actually kind of busy trying to keep our other patients from being dragged out onto the lawn and killed. I'm sorry we can't attend to your every beck and call." "Right," Chester said in an entirely insincere voice, picking up a remote and pointing it, trying in vain to get a channel in that wasn't a game show or an infomercial. The nurse looked out of place in her teddy bear scrubs. She scowled at him, walking quickly over to the window, high heels tapping on the floor sharply. With a dramatic flourish she ripped open the curtains and to Chester's amazement he saw an absolute mob of people crowded outside, waving signs. "What on earth-" he asked. "They've discovered Hematitus," the nurse said, and her voice shook slightly. "It's a kind of iron deficiency in the blood. Completely genetic, intransferrable, but... We have a few patients with it here." "But why are so many people angry?" Chester asked. "They're not normal humans," the nurse said, staring out the window. "Or at least that's what they think. It's... well, this is going to sound ridiculous, but it's a lot like vampirism. Actually, immensely so." "Oh," Chester said. He did not sound freaked out but intrigued. "Please go on." "They need vast quantities of iron in order to function normally," she said. "At least that's the hypothesis. And the easiest source of that is the highly-digestible iron in blood, which is what we have to practically continually pump into them to make them healthy. It's all a bit of a situation with a capital S, to tell the truth. I can't say I blame them, though." She looked down at the crowd and sighed. "But of course people can't stop being what they are. They're born that way. Idiotic preachers are causing all kinds of a ruckus and calling them unnatural and saying it's a choice. Tell me, Chester, would you choose to be that way? With everyone hating you and you being dependent on the vital fluids of other people, unable to reveal who you truely are and unable to act like a normal human being without getting sick to the point of frailty?" Chester's face looked bizarre in the light of the room suddenly, and he sighed. "No," he said, his heart beating. in sympathy for the faceless few in the same hospital that everyone hated. "I wouldn't choose that in a million years." They both watched the protesters marching about outside with their large signs in hand, some eating sandwiches, some looking tired, all of them looking idiotically hateful, as if they knew they were angry but didn't know why they should be. Marching around like ants, almost lackadaisically. "They're not very, uh, determined-looking, for a protest, it doesn't look like," Chester said. "I would expect them to be more vengeful and angry." "You're right," she said, frowning. "Maybe- Maybe-" Her eyes opened wide, and her hand went to her mouth. "It's a distraction!" she said, comprehension suddenly dawning. "Oh God-" And then, as if hearing her words, klaxons went off. The intercom system blared. "Code Honeybee in the Special Care Unit," a woman's terrified voice called. "I repeat, Code Honeybee in the Special Care Unit. All available security and personnel please report to the SCU, again, all available security and personnel PLEASE report to the SCU-" The nurse's face was twisted in agony. "I'm supposed to be down there!" she said frantically. She gave Chester a quick once-over. "Are you going to be alright here while we take care of the situation?" "I'm awake," Chester said. And then, under his breath: "Definitely now." "Just don't move, and if you need anything buzz your alarm," she said. "We have orderlies ready. I really do have to go-" And without further ado, she left the room in a rush of legs and high heels, escaping into the noisy corridor. The sound of a rush of doctors and boots echoed throughout the hallway. Looking out the window, Chester saw that the protesters had begun streaming into the building, holding things in their hands like wooden sign posts and metal crowbars. "Fuck," Chester said, heart thumping rapidly. "Fuck-" He fumbled with his weak arms, and found that his fingers barely worked. Cursing to himself, he tried to pull the IV out of his wrist. The entire tube looked obscenely gigantic, and it felt for a moment as if it had sealed to the inside of the hole. But then he tugged harder; The seal popped, and left what looked like a gaping wound in his wrist. Blood trickled darkly down his arm, but he didn't worry about that. Just as he was trying to rip the EKG patches off his skin the door burst open, and he nearly had a heart attack. He grabbed the nearest heavy object, a bed pan, and got ready to come to blows. "I mean you no harm," the young man in the doorway said. He had a curious voice, like tinkling glass, almost, and an even curiouser accent. Thick, curling, almost barbed-wire looking tattoos swirled up and down the right side of his face and dissappeared underneath the collar of his brown leather trenchcoat. They were so dark black that they seemed to gleam like oil or snake-skin. They looked almost alive. Next to those, Chester barely noticed anything else about him, be it his short-cropped chestnut-colored hair or the large briefcase in his hand. "Are you with those crazies outside?" Chester asked, voice shrill from confusion and fear. He held the bed pan aloft, realizing how ridiculoud he looked but not caring. "No," the man said. He smiled a gentle smile. His teeth were perfectly white. "I'm the guardian of your Uncle's estate." "What?" Chester asked, face a spasm of confusion. The young man stepped further into the room. There were people running in the halls, screaming wildly, but he shut the door and rapped it sharply with his knuckles. Almost as if he had smacked it into place, it seemed to seal perfectly and severely dampen the noise from outside. "Nice and quiet," he said serenely. He gazed at Chester for a moment with eyes the color of water in a clear glass cup and then nodded. "Yes, yes. We're all here, then." "Look, I just woke up from a coma, I think," Chester said, almost crying. His voice was wavering with emotion. "I'm a little confused and scared right now, because I have no idea what's going on. I wake up here in a hospital with protesters outside, and nobody comes in to check on me, and next thing I know there's a mob of people running in the halls and you show up and tell me you're my dead uncle's executor and I've never even seen you in my life. I'm having a little trouble dealing with all of this. I didn't even know my uncle had any property left. I thought it was all confiscated by the state when he was committed." "I understand," the young man said. "Just calm down. I'm your ally here, Chester. I had to come now, because I have a very busy schedule. Intensely so. I didn't exactly plan on this happening, but when life gives you lemons you make lemonade." He chuckled a small chuckle before he began, and the tattoo seemed to ripple on his throat as his muscles moved in his skin. "My name is Sotheby, before we go any further. You are Chester, I take it?" Chester nodded, mouth dry. Muffled yells echoed from the corridor outside, which Sotheby ignored completely. "Excellent. As I said before, I have some belongings of your Uncle's. And it is true that, when he was committed, ninety percent of his property was confiscated by the state. I'm not here to get into the details or explain what went on. Frankly, it was before my time, and I don't know anything more about it than you do. I'm a junior member of my law firm, and they gave me this case second-hand after the first executor died." "Hold on right there-" Chester said. "Why are you just coming here now? Why not on my birthday?" "Database flags," Sotheby said. "You were checked in and we saw your name, so I was sent out. Of course, I had not planned on this." He gestured to the door, and his eyes were suddenly very focused and narrowed. "But we must do what our job is. It is only human nature." "Doesn't answer my question," Chester said, lips pursed. "Why not when I turned eighteen?" Sotheby remained silent for almost a moment too long before he spoke. "You were difficult to trace," he said. "Thus the database flags." "Hmm," Chester said, unconvinced. "So what's left that hasn't been seized? And is it possible that I could ever get any of it?" "I don't know," Sotheby said. He frowned. "Again, all I've been sent to do is give you this. They didn't tell me anything else." He held up the briefcase he had been carrying. Its leather cover gleamed. "What is it?" Chester asked, curiosity overwhelming him. "Open it and see," Sotheby said. He smiled suddenly, and laid the briefcase on Chester's bedside table. "I trust you will do the right thing with it." He turned to leave and Chester saw that the tattoos reached around the back of his neck. "But-" Chester said. "Hey! Where are you going!?" Sotheby ignored him and rapped smartly against the door, unsticking it, and then slipped out into the crowd, going almost unnoticed. The door closed behind him. Chester was torn with indecision. Should he try to make his escape now, or should he wait for it to die down? Hadn't anyone called the cops yet? And what was inside the briefcase? It stared at him, sitting on the bedside table, waiting as if it were some kind of bizarre Pandora's Box ready to unleash everything good and evil in the world. Grimacing, he pulled it towards him with his weak arms. His head began to spin in circles. His hesitant fingers unlatched the clasps, and he sprang it open with a strange feeling in his gut. A heavy, ancient book lay in it with strange script over the front, and an object wrapped in black velvet lay next to it. With trembling fingers, he unwrapped the black velvet completely and took in with thirsty eyes the object in front of him. An emerald grail lay there, encrusted with rubies and diamonds, looking as innocent as a beartrap covered by leaves. Memories flashed, half-remembered in his brain, visions of bubbling blood and sadness and a sense of being trapped in and locked away forever and never escaping. He remembered a voice like iron scraping across his brain. Half-remembered flashes of things gone by jolted into his brain one after another. His mother, his real mother, a blonde-haired woman kissing him on the forehead. His father pushing him on the swings when he was just a boy in the crisp fall air. The smell of fresh pancakes every Sunday morning. His mother, smiling at him, being happy for him, hugging him because he'd done good. A funeral, now, one of a series. This one is the first. His best suit is itchy and uncomfortable and stifling but Mommy is sad so he tries to be strong for her. His mother's face is sad, so sad, and when Chester hugs her she cries even harder and clutches him to her chest. He remembers and understands now what he hadn't then- "Mommy's brother is dead," his father said. "She's heartbroken, so try to be a good sport, alright?" Chester nods, even though he doesn't get it then. He does now. Another blur, memories passing in front of his eyes one after the other. His mother being white-faced afterwards, not happy, completely sad. Chester is standing outside of his parent's room and his father is holding his mother and she is crying, sobbing, and it's all Chester can do not to cry himself. He walks from their room and into his room, then pulls the covers over himself. Lightning flashes outside, as if God is angry, and then suddenly Chester sees a tall man with blonde hair in his room, illuminated by the moonlight and the streetlamps outside. He is dressed in a black suit and his hair covers his eyes. He does not say a word to Chester, but stands, half-in shadow, his head lowered. "Who are you?" Chester asks, but the man says nothing. So Chester goes to sleep without disturbing his Mommy and his Daddy, and when he wakes up the man is gone. But every night the man is there again, always standing and never moving, his hair hiding his eyes. He can't remember when the man finally went away for good. Maybe after his Mom died. Police sirens bust through his reverie, tearing it wide open. Cop cars are pulling up to the hospital, wailing, and all the memories that had been streaming into his brain dry up. "My uncle," Chester said to nobody but himself. "What really happened?"