Blooded

  Contents

  Chapters

  1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 • 18 • 19 • 20 • 21 • 22 • 23 • 24 • 25 • 26 • 27 • 28 • 29 • 30 • 31 • 32 • 33 • 34 • 35 • 36 • 37 • 38 • 39 • 40 • 41 • 42 • 43 • 44 • 45

  About the Author

  Other Works by Chuck Dixon

  Blooded

  Chuck Dixon

  LEGAL

  Copyright © 2017 Chuck Dixon

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the characters in this novel and any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover illustration by Bill Wiist

  Ebook Design: QA Productions

  DEDICATION

  Thanks again, Hutch.

  • 1 •

  This wasn’t the first time I woke up in a cheap motel wondering how I got there. After three rough divorces I know the turf. Only not a shack-up as cheap as the one I found myself in this time.

  I opened my eyelids as far as I was able. Stained ceiling tiles. Never a good sign. Drop ceilings hide things like mold or bullet holes. I tried to raise my head for a better view. Bad move. Nausea. The room shimmied like I was seeing it in a home video. Caught a glimpse of the plastic alarm clock on the nightstand before my head dropped back on the pillow.

  1:21.

  AM or PM?

  That’s how hungover I was.

  Only this was like no hangover I’ve ever had. I’ve had the dry heaves hangovers. And the ones where your tongue feels like it’s been replaced with a dead slug. And the ones where your eyes can’t seem to look in the same direction. And the headaches. The epic, put-me-out-of-my-misery skullbangers that feel like they’re never going to go away.

  This one was nothing like any of them.

  I felt like my body had no weight to it. Something like a tingling chill over my whole body but not unpleasant. My head felt funny but there was no pain. No headache at all. I tried to remember what I’d been drinking. The taste in my mouth was tinny. Whatever I’d been abusing the night before, it wasn’t my usual.

  It took a year and a half but I managed to turn on my side to face the front of the motel room. A sliver of yellow light under the drawn blinds. Afternoon then.

  The room was grim. And it reeked. My nose took in every funky smell like they were in high definition. Spilled beer, cigarettes, sweat and sex. And something else. A dense, organic smell that was sweet and musky all at the same time.

  Walls covered in cheap paneling that shared the secrets concealed by the ceiling tiles. An old Samsung TV was secured to the wall with a bicycle lock. An ancient chest of drawers dotted with cigarette burns. Yard sale paintings of horses crooked on the walls.

  And blood.

  There were dried drops on my pillow. I lifted the once-white sheet to find a broad smear of blood fringed with red fingerprints. Some of it was still tacky. The bed was sticky under me. My naked ass came off the sheets with a ripping sound.

  Something barreled up my throat from my stomach. I made it to the bathroom, sliding on my knees over the cracked tiles. I tore the shower curtain aside to empty my guts into the tub.

  More blood.

  I vomited up what looked like a gallon of blood. Bright red with black clots sliding down the walls of the tub toward the drain.

  I was dying. Right?

  I ran a shaking hand over my sides and back. No stiches there. No one had taken any vital organs from me. My fingers found a wound on the side of my throat. Two crossed slits about two inches long with the flesh at the edges puckered. Someone had cut my throat and left me for dead.

  My hand came back without blood on it. Maybe I was all out of blood. Maybe I was bleeding out internally. I had no idea then how much blood an adult male holds. I do now. But then I figured I must have puked up most of my supply.

  On shaking legs I levered myself off of the side of the tub to get a better look at that cut on my neck.

  I didn’t get that far.

  Scrawled across the glass of the mirror were words spelled out in blood. My blood.

  WELCOME TO THE CLUB

  • 2 •

  I was thirty-two on the day I died.

  No need for names. Not like I’m ever going to be able to use my name again.

  I worked as a real estate agent at Handley and Barker. Some new home sales in the developments off the interstate. Places with names like The Oaks and The Homes at Westham. And some existing houses closer to the city.

  I do okay.

  Did okay. That’s all over now.

  I showered the blood out of the tub and ran hot water for myself. Even a blistering shower didn’t take the edge off the chill I was feeling. The room filled with steam. The bloody letters ran down the face of the mirror. I toweled off and went back into the room.

  My clothes were thrown all over the carpet. Business casual and my bright blue blazer with the H&B logo on the breast pocket. Most surprising to me that my wallet and keys were still in the pockets of my slacks. The cards and cash right where I left them.

  I sat naked on the edge of the bed, waiting for a pot of coffee to finish brewing in the cheapjack coffee maker. Even crap “complimentary” motel coffee loaded with sugar would go a long way toward fixing me up.

  I tried to put together the string of events that brought me to the Mountville Motor Lodge. The name was stamped on all the towels.

  The last thing I recalled with any clarity was leaving the Essex, a bar in the first floor of the Marriot on Route One. I’d made a sale the day before and won a bet. Larry and Peter bet me I’d never sell that rundown shitshack in Overton. I made the sale to a stupid pair of newlyweds and closed the day before. Larry and Peter owed me drinks and dinner over that. Mostly drinks. Though we did stay long enough to close the Ruth’s Chris before heading for the Essex.

  We closed the Essex, too, and parted company in the parking lot. Larry and Peter shared a cab. I swore to get a ride. But there was no way in hell I was paying cab fare to my condo way out in Bexley. It took me three tries to get the right number and I summoned an Uber driver on my phone. Twenty minutes later a beat-to-crap Kia pulled up to the curb of the Marriot.

  The driver was not the college-aged guy I usually got on Uber. And she looked out of place in the banger she was driving. She looked like she’d be way more at home on a Harley. Hair dyed indigo black and cropped blunt at the neck. Her exposed ears gleamed with rows of piercings. She wore a black t-shirt ripped to reveal her midriff. Black jeans and boots both trimmed with silver flourishes. The dark clothes set off her milk-white skin. She revealed a generous amount of cleavage when she leaned across the front seat to push the door open for me. On one breast was a small tattoo of what looked like a hieroglyph, a stylized human eye.

  “Bexley?” she said. She had a trace of a French accent. That sealed the deal for me. I was in lust.

  “Yeah.”

  I folded myself into the seat next to her. She floored it off the Marriot lot, my door slamming shut.

  “You’re cute,” she said. The Kia puttered down Commercial Avenue.

  “I’m drunk,” I said.

  “Just drunk or drunk enough?” She smiled as she drove, eyes on me.

  I was trying to get my head around her question when she spoke again.

  “You in a hurry to get home?”

  It was all a hash after that. I could recall glimpses of a parade of bars and clubs. The order was fuzzy but I sensed that we moved down the chain of drinking places to the bottom. I recall Roxanne—that was the Uber driver’s name—getting into it with a pair of bikers at a place called Loki’s. No idea how that turned out. Lost somewhere in my alcohol delirium.

  The ro
om I found myself in was featured in a few scattered moments I could dredge up. I remember rolling on the bed naked with Roxanne, our clothes thrown everywhere in the frenzy to get at each other. The one thing that was clear in my memory was the girl holding me down on the bed and me fighting to get at the teacup breasts swinging free just before my nose. She was strong, far stronger than her skinny body led me to expect. The last thing I remember was her on top of me, lips close to my ear, a throaty chuckle as she whispered.

  “Want to try something really wild?”

  Wild, all right. Waking up alone with my throat slit, puking blood and a threatening message painted on the bathroom mirror. The worst of it was, I thought, that I couldn’t remember any of the sex.

  What did it mean? Welcome to the club. Did she have some wicked STD that she shared with me? Herpes. Jesus, maybe AIDS. The bitch left me with something that might kill me, I was sure of it.

  I would need treatment. I considered calling 911. Then thought more about it. Did I want a police report on file to document this whole thing? I wasn’t robbed. The wound on my throat wasn’t fatal. That blood I puked up could be from an ulcer. I’d look like a grade-A asshole. I’d get a cab to take me back to the Marriot to get my car. I had a showing at three. A four-bed-two-bath in Hunter’s Court. I could make it. A little rumpled and shaky, but I could make it.

  I might be able to make it by without a shave. I went into the bathroom to take a look.

  I was struck again by the message on the glass, now running streaked down the surface on rivulets of condensation.

  I was struck more by what I saw in the mirror behind the words. Nothing. I mean, I saw an empty motel bathroom and nothing else.

  No me.

  It was like I wasn’t there.

  I was touching my fingers to the wet glass when the banging on the door began.

  • 3 •

  It was a guy from the motel office. That’s how he announced himself between hammering on the door with his fist.

  “Motel office!”

  I wrapped a towel around my waist and went to open the door a crack.

  A blinding light came through the gap making me stumble back against the bed. And I mean blinding. I couldn’t see a thing except exploding sparks of white brilliance. I threw an arm across my face. A stinging sensation washed over every inch of exposed skin. The persistent chill was gone, replaced with a scorching heat as if I’d touched a hot iron.

  “You only paid one night. It’s way after check-out.”

  “Damn.” I rubbed at my eyes with my fists. The white sparklers were replaced by red dots against black.

  “Stay after eleven it’s another day,” the guy said, stepping into the room.

  “Could you close the door behind you?” I waved a free hand at him. My arm was still across my eyes to shut out the painful glare coming off the parking lot.

  “Bad night, huh?” He said it without amusement.

  “Weird night,” I said. I lay back on the bed, feeling the burning sensation leave my face and chest.

  “If you’re staying you’re paying.”

  “My wallet. In my pants.” I waved the hand toward the chair where my slacks hung folded. I heard him cross the room to the chair.

  “Take what you need.”

  “It’s seventy-five. All’s you got is twenties.”

  “Have mercy, man. Take eighty and get out of here.”

  I heard the bills crumple. I turned away as he crossed to the door. Even with my back to the door and both hands pressed over my eyes I could see the new burst of sunlight. And that scorching sensation climbed up my spine, growing in intensity, until I heard the door click shut.

  I lay back on the bed, face to the ceiling, eyes pressed shut.

  The coffee maker dinged. My mini-pot of motel coffee was brewed.

  I got up, legs shaking, and poured a cup then dumped in three sugars. Halfway to my nose the smell of coffee filled my nose and mouth. Usually one of the most welcome moments of the day, right? Not today. Instead of the nutty aroma of fresh brewed, a cloying mustiness crawled down my throat making my stomach heave. I threw the cup aside to spatter over the paneling.

  Falling back on the bed, I curled up into a ball. A deep agony clawed at my guts brought on by the smell of the coffee. My knees to my chest and shivering, I began to cry like a baby. I was wracked with a sobbing that made the box springs squeal under me. Only my eyes were dry. No tears came.

  No blood. No tears.

  What the hell had that bitch given me?

  Decided to try an experiment.

  I stripped the bed to cover my head and body with the sheets and the spread. I probably looked like some kind of half-assed costume Arab. No way to tell since I couldn’t see myself in a mirror.

  Blinded by the bedclothes covering my head, I stumbled to the door of the room. I fumbled with the door knob and pushed the door open as far as the chain lock would allow. I bared one hand and arm and stuck it out into the afternoon sun.

  I stood the searing pain as long as I could before pulling it back in and slamming the door tight again.

  My hand and arm, from the fingertips to above my elbow, was black with gray flecks of ash lying atop it. The first layer of skin was singed and already peeling away to leave dead white flesh beneath. And it hurt like hell. I ran cold water over it with no relief. The only thing that helped was sitting in the dark until the pain faded away. The hand and arm remained black though.

  I saw something on TV once about a kid who couldn’t go outside because the sunshine would kill him. But that was an allergy or some other kind of condition that the kid was born with. It wasn’t something you could catch off some Uber driving whore.

  No matter what it was, there was no way I was making my three o’clock. I rang up Handley and Barker. Glenna answered and I told her that I came down with some kind of stomach bug and could Larry or Peter take my showing? She told me she’d take care of it and suggested dry toast and weak tea before hanging up.

  I collapsed back on the bed and ran everything over and over in my mind until I dropped off to sleep. Only I don’t remember falling to sleep. More like passing out. Or surrendering to a trance.

  • 4 •

  It was full dark outside when I woke up and called a cab. No more Uber for me, thank you.

  A horn honked out on the lot. I opened the door a crack to stick an experimental hand outside. No burning sensation. I stumbled out between two parked cars and dropped in through the sliding door of the bright yellow minivan.

  I told the driver to take me to the Marriot where I left my car. The deep sleep I’d been in most of the day didn’t leave me with a rested feeling. I had a hollow sensation inside that was different than hunger—even though I couldn’t remember the last meal I ate. My head felt like a balloon on the end of string. And my vision was funny. Not blurred exactly. More like looking through heavily tinted lenses. Every light source was surrounded by a shimmering halo.

  Maybe these were the first symptoms of whatever Roxanne had shared with me. Or I could have been drugged. Was this what that date rape drug was like?

  “You need to buckle yourself,” the driver said.

  I pulled myself upright and snapped the straps in place.

  I watched the back of the driver’s head as he pulled off the motel lot. He had protruding ears that were translucent whenever the headlights of approaching traffic struck them. I could see even the tiniest blood vessels inside the papery lobes. I could see the veins in his neck. I could see his pulse. Swear to God I could hear his pulse.

  The emptiness in my gut turned to fire. A sudden swirling blaze spreading out to my arms and legs. My joints felt like they had blades in them. The scalded skin on my arm broke out in a maddening itch.

  “You don’t look so good,” the driver said.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. My eyes were staring, fascinated, by the throbbing artery in his neck as he turned to glance back at me.

  “Just don’t puke ba
ck there.”

  “Sure. Sure.”

  “If you’re going to puke let me know and I’ll pull over.”

  “Sure. Sure will.”

  The Impala was right where I left it the night before. The cab driver asked if I was okay to drive.

  “I’m sober. Just not feeling well. Some kind of bug.”

  His wide eyes and slack mouth told me that I looked every bit as bad as I felt.

  I got the door open first try and slid in behind the wheel. The cab pulled away. I rested my forehead on the steering wheel before gunning the motor to life.

  The drive back to Bexley took an eternity. The streetlights and headlights stabbed me in the eyes. Every other surface emitted a curious glow as if the world was made of neon. I tried to blink it away. I drove to the condo through a nimbus of shifting glare.

  Rather than head to my own place I knocked at the neighbors’ door two down from me. Cheryl and her roommate Nancy. They were both nurses at Memorial.

  Cheryl, the redhead, answered the door. She wore an over-big state college sweatshirt and sleep pants. I hoped I didn’t wake her. I wasn’t real clear on what time it was.

  “Holy shit. Is that you?”

  I practically fell into her foyer. She called for Nancy and they both helped me inside. A male voice on the TV in the living room. An audience laughing in response. They parked me on the stool at their kitchen bar.

  “Get him a drink of water, Nance.” Cheryl dashed deeper into the condo while Nancy opened a bottle of Fiji that I waved away. Nancy was in a pair of pajamas open at the throat to show the curve of her pink breasts. All I had eyes for was her delicate neck exposed under a fringe of short cropped honey-blonde hair. The muscles and cords under a fine layer of peach fuzz held me enthralled. I ran my tongue over my lips.

  Cheryl came back with a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. She put a hand to my forehead.

  “You’re ice cold. You look feverish though,” she said.