Dragged into Darkness Read Free Page A

the paper bag but the sodden fibers tore, exposing the broken bottles.  He cursed the inconvenience.
    He did not see the fist.  The downward blow struck him on the side of the head.  The force of the impact instantly disoriented him and an explosion went off inside his head.  His brain shook inside his skull like snowflakes in a snow dome.  He fell forward onto his hands and a lightning bolt of pain shot up his right arm.  He had stuck his hand into the jagged glass.  It sliced open his palm and blood poured from the gash.  The blood mixed with the spilt wine making an unpalatable cocktail for most beings.  He was hoisted into the air and slammed against the side of the dumpster, which rang out like Big Ben striking the hour.
    “Take my wallet but don’t hurt me!”
    “I don’t want your money!  I want something more valuable than money.”
    Pinned down, the air squeezed from his lungs, the Whistler’s face came into view.  His eyes were ablaze; it looked as if every blood vessel had exploded at once.  The irises were encircled in a ring of red.  His lips were drawn back in a vicious snarl that exposed a deadly array of teeth that were misshapen and far too big for his head.  The incisors and canines were stained yellow and brown like those of a three-pack-a-day smoker.  His cruel smile looked as destructive as the broken glass that had torn through his hand.
    The hungry mouth bit down on the Thompson’s neck.  The distorted teeth tore through his flesh, penetrating tissue, bursting veins and rupturing arteries.  Thompson’s body hemorrhaged; blood gushed forth and the Whistler drank from the massive laceration.
    The pain from the wound was intense, overruling the injury to his hand and the concussion.  Mercifully, Thompson’s injuries were swiftly anesthetized by the bite and he became disconnected from his body.  He felt his neck twitch where the blood pumped from the severed arteries.  He sensed the Whistler licking the wound, sucking at his throat and swallowing his spilt blood.  The gash in his hand ceased to bleed; there was not much blood left to bleed.
    A heavy weight hung over him.  The weight was an inexorable desire to sleep.  Not just his mind, his whole body wanted to sleep.  It took too much effort to lie there against the dumpster—it was be easier to succumb to his longing.  He felt himself sink into warm waters that soaked his body and his being.  He gradually sank to the bottom of the waters—the deeper he went the darker it became.  He was no longer aware of the alley, the Whistler, his wounds or his suffering.  He was aware of nothing.
    The Whistler wiped his hand across his mouth and licked his lips.  He breathed heavily from his exertion and excitement.  He had sated his lust and his need for human blood, for now anyway.  He stood up putting his hand inside his three-quarter-length coat and removed a packet of lemon scented wet wipes.  He took one out and wiped it over his face and neck.  He liked to be clean and this was a dirty business so it paid dividends to be prepared.  After all, he had been a Boy Scout once, a long time ago.   He looked down at the crumpled heap of man and admired his handy work.  He smiled and exposed a neat array of well-tended teeth that any dentist would have been proud of.  The perfect smile was only tarnished by the small amounts of blood that clogged the gaps between his teeth.
    It was time to go.  He bent down to the vanquished man and checked his pockets.  He removed Thompson’s wallet and looked for cash.  He was not a thief but it was always a bonus if there was some cash to be had.  It wasn’t as if a vampire had a nine to five job .  There was only fifteen dollars and a lot of plastic, various gold and platinum charge cards.
    “Christ!   Another one who doesn’t believe in cash.”
    Disappointed by the small booty he took the cash and hoped for better luck tomorrow.  He stuffed the wallet down the front of the