Unrefined Thirst

“Fresh squeezed today,” the bartender said, slapping the husky steel barrel behind him. He smiled, his hollow features shadowed by the dim pendant lights over the bar.

From his stool, Victor looked down the bar counter; he saw the males with their stark white shirts and freshly pressed slacks, shiny hair slicked neatly behind their ears. They mingled with flirtatious females, elegant dresses in midnight blues and wine-colored reds. The guests drank from cups; the liquid’s rousing scent permeated the tavern.

Victor’s hands quivered as he watched them drink. Was it three days since he’d last had a sip? Four? The thirst boiled inside him, but discipline was paramount.

He shook his head at the bartender. “Cup of bubble water.”

Raising an eyebrow, the bartender leaned in to meet Victor’s gaze. “By the looks of you, you need a drink, lad. You’re paler than the moon.”

Victor wasn’t sure why he chose to make his abstinence difficult. When curing an addict, they say to make it easy, remove all temptations. To enter the belly of the beast was self-restraint suicide. Perhaps it was to prove a point: if he could do it here, he could it anywhere. Maybe it was still too early in his sobriety, but he knew the cause was worth it. He had to do this. He had to know it could work.

He shook his head again, tapped his fingers on the bar. “Please, just bubble water.” 

The bartender’s sunken eyes lingered. “You ain’t one of those puritanicals, are you? Think you’re all high an’ mighty by taking the pledge?”

Victor tightened his jaw, opened his mouth to comment, but before the words left his lips, he caught himself. Breathe in, breathe out. That’s the first lesson when dealing with temptation. Control your breath. He closed his eyes, breathed the metallic scent of the bar. The soft notes of a piano mixed with the steady chatter of the guests. A voice inside screamed for a drink, but he would choose not to listen. He was better than the carnal needs of his biology. 

 He opened his eyes. “I’m no puritanical. Just someone requesting bubble water. Is that too much to ask?”

The bartender eyed him suspiciously. He poured a cup of bubble water, placed it in front of Victor. “You know they ain’t right, those puritanicals. We’ve been drinking it since the beginning of time. You think by abstaining, you’re a better person. Like you’re saving lives or something.”

“I told you,” Victor said, sipping his bubble water. “I’m no puritanical.”

“And that one there ain’t a blend salesman.” The bartender thumb-gestured to a male at the end of the bar, chatting cocksure between two females. He wore the usual salesman attire: black suit and tie, oxfords shined to a sheen. Behind sharp cheeks, he grinned, his milky teeth visible even in the muted light. The females grasped his arms on either side, giggled at his jokes with contrite.

The scum of the earth, Victor thought. Big earners with mammoth egos, the blend salesmen were the antithesis of everything Victor stood for. All the work he had done to balance the scales, to build justice in the world, and all they cared about was the paycheck, the females, and satisfying their thirst.

“Them puritanicals ain’t big fans o’ them blend salesman,” the bartender said. “You don’t look impressed with that one.”

Victor grimaced. He couldn’t reveal his allegiance here; who knew who could be listening? But in a moment of irritation — perhaps the abstinence was clouding his judgment, perhaps he was exhausted from years of bickering with heartless morons — he lashed out. “And what if I was one? What if I did take the pledge?” 

The moment the words left his lips, he regretted it. 

A few bar patrons looked over. The bartender stepped back. As he rag-dried the hollow of a cup, he dissected Victor with his eyes. “You would have to leave, yessir. Ain’t having none o’ your kind in here. You come to my bar, you drink the fresh squeeze.”

Victor looked at the stout steel drum erected like a monument behind the bar. The keg tap was polished to a sparkle. He felt his innards squirm in discomfort. As loathsome as the contents were, the thirst intensified inside him. He pulled his eyes away.

“Tell you what,” said the bartender. He lifted a cup, opened the keg tap, filled the cup to the brim with liquid. “You have a sip o’ this, and you can stay. I know you ain’t really one o’ them puritanicals.” He placed the cup beside Victor’s bubble water.

Victor looked into the cup; the liquid sat in a delicious dark pool. Willpower, he thought. You can do this. But the metallic scent flooding his nostrils was overbearing. A deep primal lust took hold and the thirst spoke within. Just a sip. All the good you’ve done, you deserve one sip.

Beads of sweat formed on his brow. The bar grew hot and stifling. He peeled his collared shirt from his skin. “I won’t drink that,” he whispered under his breath.

The bartender leaned forward, placed both forearms on the bar. “You’re sweating, lad. It’s just a sip. It’s in our genes, you know. We can’t live without it.” He nudged the cup forward so that it was under Victor’s nose. 

The smell overpowered him, entranced him in a mesmerizing grip. The bar chatter dampened to a muffle, the piano’s notes hollowed as if underwater. A haze blurred the periphery of his vision. It was just him and the cup, the dark liquid reaching with tempestuous hands. The thirst was shrieking: DRINK. DRINK. DRINK.

Victor’s hands shook uncontrollably. Discipline, he thought, his logical mind trying to override his thirst. You cannot control your environment, but you can control your choices. His hands were drawn forward like a stringed puppet. Inches from the cup, they shook harder, rattling like jackhammers. The thirst howled maddeningly. The compulsion was too great, the thirst too loud. His hands closed around the cup. Lifting it, he brought the screaming contents toward his lips.

And then the bar door slammed open.

A loud thud shook the room and the cold night wind poured in.

“Found one on the outskirts,” A gruff voice said.

Victor, along with the rest of the bar’s guests rotated on their stools to the open door. Two figures entered. The first was a husky male decorated head-to-toe in furs. Between two beady eyes, his nose protruded from his face like a crow’s beak. The second was a human, dark hair matted over her face. Her hands were bound in front of her. She was naked, her body mud-caked. Through the thick grime that covered her face, skittish eyes flitted across the room. Crow Nose gripped her by the hair, dragged her roughly into the dim bar light. He kicked the back of her leg with a boot and she fell to her knees.

“Still room in the keg, Lonney?” Crow Nose said, tugging at the woman’s hair.

Lonney, the bartender, spread his arms wide. “Typhus, I see the night’s hunt was successful! With guests are thirsty as ours, we will make room. Found her on the outskirts, you said?”

“Aye. Fiddling with our sun shades. Escaped from the juicing farm, this one.”

“Sure smells like it. Is she marked?”

“Left wrist, traced her to Old Galaban’s farm.”

Lonney laughed. “That old sack can’t keep them in. I’m surprised the Regency hasn’t shut him down.”

Typhus furrowed his brow. “Unfortunately so; will be harder to find strays for the fresh squeeze.” His eyes met the great steel barrel behind the bar.

“Hard work for Typhus? Come now, have a drink lad. You’re in good company. And you’ve brought entertainment for the night.” Bartender Lonney gestured to the well-dressed patrons lining the bar counter. “Guests, see what our trapper Typhus has brought us? Lonney’s Tavern hires the best. Drinks and a show tonight!”

The guests at the bar muttered in agreement. Lonney handed out fresh drinks from the keg. The pianist increased the tempo of their melody. The chatter in the bar amplified, buzzing voices mingling with clinking cups. Victor watched the salesman at the end of the bar drape his arms around the two females. As he whispered in their ears, they chortled with delight.

Typhus dragged the dirt-caked human to a pole in the middle of the tavern. He chained her bound hands to the pole. Victor watched her fearful eyes scan the room: the bloodwood ceiling, the pendant lights, the silver-haired pianist in the corner, the great steel keg shimmering like a shrine. Her eyes flitted from guest to guest; the males in their white button-ups, the females in their ornate dresses. As her eyes met Victor’s, he had to look away. 

Her gaze was horrific. It had a haunted quality, like a creature that had suffered untold misery. To look her in the eye was to give this whole charade permission.

Victor noticed he was still clutching the cup of keg liquid between his palms. Looking down into the cup, he met his reflection in the dark pool of liquid. His gut roiled with revulsion. Turning away, he put the cup onto the bar. 

“It begins!” Typhus shouted, sipping a cup, strutting across the bar in his furs. “A live juicing. Here, in none other than Lonney’s Tavern!”

The guests were all standing now, facing the center of the room, drinking from their cups. The tavern grew quiet; the voices drowned; the pianist stopped playing. 

“Bring me The Fangs!” Typhus roared.

From behind the bar, Lonney hefted a large black case and plopped it onto the counter. He snapped the latches open and lifted The Fangs from their case. The metal glimmered under the pendant lights. It was a set of steel jaws, edges serrated, with two knife-like incisors projecting from each jaw. Clear tubes led from the jaws to a thigh-sized collection tank.

Typhus took The Fangs from Lonney and moved toward the woman.

She shifted on the bloodwood floor, tried to stand but the grime clutching her body caused her to slide onto her backside. She let out an animalistic yelp. As Typhus approached, she moved behind the pole, attempting to hide from The Fangs.

The spectators laughed. They clinked their cups and drank, anticipation etched on their faces.

Typhus opened The Fangs, the incisors sparkling. As he brought them forward, Lonney cut in. “Hold on, Typhus.”

Typhus stopped mid-stride.

“We’ve got one of them puritanicals in our midst,” Lonney said.

Typhus, along with the rest of the guests turned to Lonney. The room was silent.

Lonney pointed a thick finger at Victor. “Right here. This one, drinking the bubble water.”

All eyes were on Victor, loathing carved into their faces.

Typhus spat on the floor. “A puritanical? Here?” 

Victor's pulse began to hammer.

Typhus grinned maliciously, lips curling around the end of his crow’s beak. “It’s a pity, those who choose to abstain. It’s a flawed ideology. We were built for blood; it’s in our DNA.”

Victor wanted to say something, wanted to defend himself, defend his cause, but he couldn’t find the words. His lips were too dry, his throat too tight. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. He closed his mouth.

Typhus smiled. “Looks like abstinence has silenced our high and mighty.”

The room laughed. Victor felt beads of sweat roll down his forehead. They would kill him if they knew the truth, especially in the presence of a trapper. Others could sometimes be reasoned with; they could see the harm they were causing the humans. They would disagree, of course, and would still choose to satisfy their thirst, but they would leave you to your own. You have your point of view, I have mine, they would say. Trappers were not like that at all. Puritanicals must be eliminated at all costs. That was the trapper philosophy.

“I’m not a puritanical,” Victor lied. “They are a disgrace to our kind.” It made him sick saying it, but he knew it needed to be said.

A murmur stirred amongst the bar patrons.

“Then why haven’t you taken a sip o’ my fresh squeeze?" Lonney said. His sunken eyes were dark hollow pits. “Prove it to us.” He pushed the keg cup toward Victor.

“I have a better idea.” It was the salesman’s voice this time, smooth and mocking. The two snickering females were still ensnared beneath his languorous arms. “He should juice her. Make him do it.”

Victor’s stomach dropped. He wanted to vomit, to hurl his insides onto the bloodwood floor. Didn’t they understand? It didn't have to be like this. There were other methods, ethical methods. There was the stem cell research the Puritanical Foundation had invested in; it was no longer in its infancy. Soon, human blood could be cultivated in a lab, so juice farms wouldn't need to exist. And there was the alternative blood, Beyond Blood. Sure, it didn't taste quite the same, but they were improving the formula every month. He knew the technology would take time, but even if juicing was necessary in the meantime, why did it have to be done this way? Why were there some who would put slaughter on display as a testament to our kind? Why was the world so raw and ruthless? Couldn’t we see that humans suffered just as we did?

Typhus held out The Fangs, fur boots clopping toward Victor. “You heard the lad.”

Victor hesitated, felt a fist squeezing at his insides.

Typhus was now beside him, placing The Fangs in his limp hands. “You’re as pale as milk,” Typhus whispered in his ear. “I know that thirst within.”

They were all looking at him: Typhus, Lonney, the patrons, the human. It was as if he were in a prison, garlic and silver and sunlight closing in from all sides. He knew if he did not perform the act, if he did not return to his violent roots, what he was made to be, the room would destroy him. They would tear into him with their hungry fangs, ripping flesh from bone like a pack of lions. And they would juice the human anyway. They would take her life just as fast as they took his. Is refusal worth it? How many human lives could he save in the future if he walked out of here alive? How much good could he do if he could continue the puritanical cause?

Victor stepped forward; he carried the jaws in one hand, held the collection tank in the other. 

The human squirmed on the ground, slipping along the floor with her muddy body. Her wide eyes were filled with fear. She tried to pull away, but the chain held her to the pole.

Typhus made the job easier; he sliced the woman’s thigh with a knife. She screamed, rivulets of blood flowing from the wound.

 Blood. Fresh cut human blood. Victor’s nostrils flared and the heavy metallic scent flooded in. It was intoxicating. I’m made for this, he thought. This is how we were built. Blood was his life force, and a vampire needed its feed. 

 He was inches from her now. He placed the collection tank on the floor and with both hands, opened The Fangs. He positioned them over her gashed thigh, prepared to crush down, to bite the metal viciously into her flesh. Victor smiled at her, bared his teeth, fangs glinting in the dim light. His hands were steady, more steady than they’ve ever been.

And then he looked into her eyes. 

Those haunted eyes. 

Those tortured eyes. 

They screamed at him. Shrieked. Cursed. Howled as loud as eyes could howl. 

And he felt everything.

It’s strange, Victor thought as he crushed The Fangs closed, how some do what’s right even when it’s the worst possible decision.

The chain snapped in two.

The vampires came at him.