Brothers of Darkness

Chapter 9

Patrick stumbled up the stairs and stopped in front of his apartment door. He fished through his pockets but his keys were missing. I probably lost them outside when Mikey

He broke the thought off and imagined going down to get them. Michael would be there and he'd he'd what? Attack him again? Bite him? Drink his goddamn blood like he really was a vampire?

Fuck that.

Patrick used an old plastic gift card to jimmy the door. Before he opened it, he glanced over his shoulder, afraid he'd see Michael peering at him from the end of the hallway, but he wasn't there.

Unless he's hanging from the goddamn ceiling.

Ridiculously, he glanced up. The ceiling was clear, so he shoved his way inside and slammed the door. He clicked the lock, and wished for a deadbolt.

I need to calm down.

He peeled off his jacket and threw it on the couch. The sight of his bloody arm did little to soothe him, so he headed to the bathroom and cleaned it. It looked worse with the blood gone. The skin and meat were torn, like an animal bite.

An animal. Yeah, that was what Michael was like. He sure as f**k hadn't seemed human. But drugs could do that. They could turn you into something unrecognizable.

But they don't do that to your teeth. Costume teeth don't f*****g rip someone's arm like this.

Patrick closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cold mirror. He didn't know what Michael was, or what he was mixed up in, but he knew one thing: he needed something strong to drink. About fifty gallons of it.

Good thing I have a stash.

***

Friday, January 5th

"Man, you look like shit."

Through blurry eyes, Patrick came to terms with the face of his best friend. "Hey, Anthony. What's going on?"

"I should ask you that. Where the hell have you been?" Anthony threw a set of keys on his chest. "You left these at Twila's."

Patrick squinted at the familiar key ring. He had a vague memory of breaking into his apartment but the keys. they were somewhere else, right?

They were outside with Michael.

That's what he'd thought, but obviously he was wrong.

Anthony explained, "She found them this morning. I went to the gas station to give them to you, but they said you haven't been in since New Year's. Oh, and you're fired."

Patrick felt a sudden wave of artificial sobriety. He sat up, panic in his eyes. "f**k. What day is it?"

Churo stepped from behind him, and nudged an empty bottle with his foot. "Friday."

"Friday." Patrick experimented with the word as he surveyed his friend. Churo was short and thin, with prominent cheekbones and interesting eyes. His hair was dyed a mixture of black and purple and his face glittered with little silver studs; there were two above his eyebrows, a couple in his lip, and three on his nose. Patrick didn't want to think how many he had in other places.

"Friday," he repeated. Then it all connected. He'd missed a week's worth of work. "f**k! Do you think I could talk them into cuttin' me some slack?"

"I doubt it. That manager chick Becky said something like, 'if you see that prick, tell him thanks for nothing.' I guess she covered for you."

Patrick groaned. When he was hired, they'd warned him that no-call-no-show meant terminationno matter the reason.

Fuck!

"At least you can go get your last paycheck," Anthony said cheerfully.

Churo snickered at the suggestion, then slumped his way to the bathroom.

Anthony's demeanor changed and he cleared his throat. His voice was low when he asked, "Did you know Mikey's back in town? He wants to talk to you."

A sick feeling settled in Patrick's stomach, like bile mixing with alcohol. "Yeah. Mikey was here the other night. He was all f****d up." He paused, then added, "He fuckin' bit me, man. He said he was sorry afterwards but."

"s**t. He bit you? Why? What was he on?"

"f**k if I know." Patrick tried to find words to express his foggy memories. Something was wrong with Michael. something.

Anthony interrupted the effort. "I saw him last night. He seemed kinda out there, but he didn't get violent. He said he wanted to see you tonight at seven, at McD's." Silence fell and Anthony moved to the couch. He knocked aside an empty bottle so he could take its place. "You should probably go. You know he gets in trouble by himself."

"I can't spend forever taking care of him. And what's to stop him from attacking me again? Are you coming?"

"Nah, man. I got s**t to do. Besides, it's kind of a family thing, huh?"

"You're afraid he'll eat your face off, chicken shit."

Anthony snickered. "Sure, that's why I'm the one who talked to him. You're the chicken s**t. He's your little brother, man. If he gets out of line, f*****g beat him back where he belongs."

Patrick gave a fake laugh. It's not as easy as that.

***

An hour later, Patrick slopped to the gas station through the mushy remnants of snow. He kicked a stubborn chunk of ice and thought about his car. It was a rusty rattle-trap Ford that broke down just before he'd moved out. With deposits, he couldn't afford to fix it. Mark was the only gearhead he knew, and the one who'd done most of his mechanic work over the years, but he couldn't stand him anymore, not even enough to get his car fixed cheap. So, he'd sold the thing for parts to Churo's cousin, and used the money to overhaul the engine in his mom's Regal. She worked in another town, and needed a vehicle more than he did. He could walk everywhere he needed to go, or get a ride. She couldn't.

And so much for buying a new one now, unless I can get Becky to cut me some slack.

When he tried, she leaned on the counter and gave him a hard stare over a display of corn nuts. "I'm sorry, Patrick. When you didn't show up we filled the position. Wait six months and, if there's an opening, put in a new app. That's the best I can do for you."

Panic seized Patrick and he imagined having to go back to his mother's trailer. "How am I supposed to pay my bills for six months?

"Try getting a job with someone else." A customer approached the counter, soda in hand. Becky tossed Patrick a paper and waved him out of the way. "Sorry, it's all I can do. Good luck."

He started for the door and she called after him, "If you really want a job, stop getting in fights. No one wants to hire a guy with a black eye. Oh, and try fixing your coat."

Her advice jangled in his head and he glanced down at the ragged tear in his coat sleeve. How the f**k was he supposed to fix that? Tape?

Patrick cashed his check at the grocery store and bought a bottle of whisky and a roll of electrical tape. Then he went home, stuffed the bottle in the cupboard, and repaired his coat sleeve. The result was crude but effective.

He read through the classifieds twice and circled three possibilities. It was too late to call, so he made a note to stop in the next day, then headed for his appointment with Michael.