It’s not my real name. But the Count isn’t his. So who cares anyway.
– Sure, no trickery.
I keep my eyes on his and point the chopstick over my shoulder.
– Get lost, Phil.
– Lost? Like, for real or?
– Go sit in the can and cover your ears and hum real loud so you can’t hear what we’re talking about.
– Uh.
– It’s not code, it’s literal. Go do it.
I wait until I hear the bathroom door close and the sound of “Sweet Caroline” hummed nasal and out of tune.
The Count’s eyes keep trying to peel away from mine. I clap my hands in front of his face and they pull back to me.
– Yeah, kill me, kill me, kill me.
– Soon enough, Count. Questions first.
I point at a pile of textbooks and back issues of quarterly medical journals heaped within the circle.
– Been keeping up on your studies?
– Yeah, yeah, good question. Yeah, I have. More, more, give me more like that.
I watch the pulse jumping in his neck at death-metal tempo; feel the heat coming off his body; smell the sweaty tang under the shit and blood that speaks of a metabolism careening brakeless.
– When’s the last time you ate?
He purses his lips.
– Ooooh, toughie, toughie. Good one, stumper. But I can get it, I got this one, I got it. Uuummmm. Two weeks? A little more? Yeah, yeah, two weeks, a little more than two weeks. Maybe three?
Two weeks, maybe three. Fuck. Two weeks with no fresh blood. And he’s been painting the place with his own. He’s beyond starving.
I look at the closed bathroom door where the tune has changed to “Summer Wind.”-Why didn’t you drink Phil?
He scratches his balls with dirty cracked nails.
– Phil? Phil? Jesus, drink Phil? Who’d drink Phil? Guy’s a Renfield. Total Renfield. I don’t want any of that. Nononono.
– Bull. You’re far enough to try drinking me.
He gives his fingers a sniff.
– Don’t wanna drink you, Joe. Don’t wanna drink Phil. Don’t wanna drink anyone.
– When’s the last time you fixed?
A shudder runs up his body, his bowels open and try to void, but nothing is left in them.
He coughs.
– Sorry about that. Pretty gross. Pretty impolite. Not myself today.
– When’d you have your last anathema, Count?
He bites the air, clacking his teeth.
– It’s bad in there. The anathema is cold, man. It shows you things. I’m on the inside now, man. I don’t wanna be. I don’t wanna know. Want out. Gotta get out. No more on the inside. No more blood, no more blood. Out! Out! Get it out!
He jabs the tip of the knife into his thigh, poking a few holes and watching a sluggish welling of blood before the Vyrus seals them, coveting what little it has left.
I grab his wrist.
– Cool it, man.
He stops jabbing, looks at my hand, looks at the point where I’ve reached across his circle, tries to twist free.
– You’ve broken it! It’s broken! Things get in! No more! Out! I want out! Get it all out! Get out! Get out!
– I’ll get it out, Count, I’ll get all the blood out of you. Listen, cool it and listen.
He jerks and twitches and the muscles in his belly writhe.
– Listen? Listen? I hear it all, man, all of it.
His skin is burning my hand. Air whistles over his teeth and down his throat. Starving the Vyrus, he’s driving it to the edge, pushing it into a corner, forcing it to defend itself. Anytime now, it’ll frenzy and attack.
I put my free hand on the butt of my gun.
– Hear this, man. I need to know, Is it possible? If someone had the resources, is it possible, could there be a cure?
He stops twisting, just his stomach crawling beneath the skin.
– A cure? A cure? Yeah, yeah, yeah, easy one, the old one. Just gotta get it all out, just gotta get the blood out.
I pull the gun, show it to him.
– Sure, gonna cure you, man, but tell me first. A cure? A real cure, could that happen?
His eyes lock, his breath falters, his body goes rigid.
I hear his heart stop beating.
Fuck.
– Phil!
The bathroom door doesn’t open, but the humming stops.
I stand, gun pointed at the Count.
– Philip! Get out here!
The door stays closed.
– Um, kinda busy in here right now.
I back away from the Count.
– Philip, get your fucking ass out here!
The door swings open and he comes out, tugging his slacks up over his skinny ass, a scrap of toilet paper stuck to the sole of his shoe.
– What, what? Jesus, man, you send a guy to the john to meditate, you can’t blame him when nature calls.
– Come here, Phil.
He’s crosses the room, looking at me pointing my gun at the Count.
– Jeez, you shoot him or something? Not that I heard it or know anything, seeing as where I was and all.
He comes alongside me.
– Why you still drawing down on him if he’s stiff?
I hear something move in the Count’s chest.
He jerks erect as if strings had pulled him.
Phil takes a step back.
– Oh, oh, shit, I gotta go.
I reach out and grab the leather strands of his bolo tie and yank them up, hauling him to his tiptoes.
He chokes and gurgles.
The Count vibrates, his nostrils flare, his eyes find Phil’s stretched neck and stay there. He takes a step, a flicker, his foot landing outside the circle, and he howls. Another step, speed blurred. Another howl. He shakes all over, every spasm strobed by the impossible flood of adrenaline the Vyrus has released.
I give the bolo a jerk and it scrapes Phil’s skin and the scent of blood hits the air.
The Count comes for him.
He’s too fast to follow, so I don’t try. I keep the gun aimed at a point he’ll have to cross to get to Phil’s blood, and I start pulling the trigger.
Two bullets hit him before he hits Phil and drags him from my grasp, the thin cord of the bolo cutting twin stripes across my palm.
Phil is silent, beyond screaming, eyes wide, mouth stretched, tongue stuck out.
The Count ignores the holes in his stomach and opens his own mouth and lunges to bite out Phil’s jutting
