Fanghunters (2 page)

The address on his driver’s license was
an apartment block over in Humboldt Park. 745 Coolidge Avenue, Apartment #654.
Dom stood on the sidewalk across the street and stared at the block with
trepidation in his heart like it was an old haunted mansion or
The Munsters’
getaway. It was dark, grimy, barely a light burning. He checked his watch: it
was two am.

He sucked in a nervy breath of cold air.
The journey over from the basement he’d just escaped from was a mishmash of
déjà vu, anxious uncertainties, and a whole bunch of loneliness. He took the
bus, using the few dollars he had in his wallet. He sat near the back, turning
that driver’s license over and over in his hands like it was some ancient relic
that held clues to who he presently was and who he’d been. It told him where
he’d been living before he ended up the victim of a vampire, and that was about
all. It was all still a haze.

As the bus cut through the streets of
Chicago, and he watched the Windy City buzz by, thoughts and feelings began to
stir inside him; old memories, places he’d been, seen, places he’s always
wanted
to see. It was totally the wrong time for that; right then he wanted to fit all
the existing pieces into the jigsaw, not create new ones that had no place in
the old him.

He sat there, a bag of raw nerves, biting
his dirty finger nails, semi-conscious of the junkie-esque state he was in:
trembling, clammy, twitchy. The last thing he wanted was to get pulled by any
cops looking to make a cheap arrest, right then he was prime meat for that. And
the paranoid state he was in was no help. But one thing was clear: he needed
shelter, and he needed a place to gather his thoughts and work out his next
move.

The bus finally pulled into Humboldt and
that déjà vu went into overdrive. He stepped off the bus, lightheaded like he’d
been drinking. Neon signs bathed him in an artificial glow, reflecting off the
wet sidewalk. It had been raining on this side of town. Over to the left, a few
hobos were sleeping on benches, huddled up against the cold. For a moment, Dom
thought he recognized one or two of them, but then supposed it could just be
his mind playing tricks on him in his desperation to regain some kind of
sanity.

He checked the local map pasted to the
station wall, running his finger along the drawn streets, working his way back
to Coolidge Avenue. While he did, his memory began stirring, kicking into gear
the more he stared at the map. He’d known these streets like the back of his
hand; that hand was just a bit rusty right then. He nodded his head, his
instincts beginning to switch into gear. He knew he had to make a right at the
end of the street. And that’s where he went. Head down, he passed the few hoods
and hustlers that were obligatory on the night streets of Chicago, hoping they
wouldn’t bother him. A few girls were offering services; Dom moved past them
like they weren’t there. Clouds hung in the night sky, threatening to unload on
the ground below. There was an icy bite in the air. He kept on walking.

The more streets he moved through, the more
his memory slotted into place. He found himself going down streets without
thinking, his instinctive navigation system taking control. The closer he got
to his apartment, the more apprehensive he became. He wanted to be off the
streets, get back home, and get his head together. He made it to the KFC
drive-thru that marked the top of his street. The sign read: Coolidge Avenue.
His heart skipped a beat. He was almost there. He passed by the Iranian
minimart where he always bought his bottles of Bud and toilet roll. A hobo was
propped up against the front of the store, his legs splayed, paper bags dotted
around him. Dom nodded his head: Old Harry. It was Old Harry sitting there; the
guy he’d throw a few quarters if he had any spare.
Good to see nothing’s
changed...

He marched along the sidewalk, leaving Old
Harry behind, knowing he was so close to his apartment. He scanned the area
with wide eyes and then it was there. His apartment block, sitting there,
waiting.

He stopped and watched with baited breath,
a weird sense of dread and relief flooding him. Something about the block was
off.
Just nerves, buddy,
he told himself.
Just nerves...

He wanted to get off the street and into shelter.
He sucked in a breath and stepped up to the stairwell. It was quiet. Well at
two am on a weeknight that wasn’t unusual. The engine of the odd car on the
street below punctuated the buzz of the fluorescent lights in the stairwell.
Dom remembered his apartment was on the third floor. So, up he went, his feet
scratching on the cement steps. He made it up the first two stairwells, the
familiarity now enveloping his mind more than the venom. He looked out onto the
second-floor landing to see the small bikes belonging to the twins that lived
in the apartment directly below his. The ones with the perma-pigtails and
grins. He felt a grin emerging on his own face at the sight of them; it was a
relief against all the horror and anxiety of breaking free from his chains.

He moved into the stairwell once more and
jumped up it two steps at a time, his heart stopping dead. Excitement was now
surging through him. He jumped out into his landing and he squinted his eyes.
He could see the slanted angle of his front door. A navy blue that looked even
darker in the night. He nodded and ran his hands through his hair. He puffed
his cheeks.
You made it, buddy.

He grinned as he strode along the corridor,
going past all the other doors; the elderly couple who always said ‘hi’ on the
odd occasion they saw him. The cute brunette, Eloise, who always had a beaming
smile, and not forgetting the moany old bastard who lived in the end apartment,
who Dom was now struggling to name...

It was all like a bucket of cold water in
the face. His head swam with memories.

When he got to his front door, he stopped
and turned to face it like a soldier saluting his sergeant. It stared back at
him, dumb. Dom licked his dry lips and nodded. “Welcome home, buddy,” he
whispered. He went to enter, when a horrifying thought struck him.
Oh,
Christ, I don’t have a door key.
 

He stuffed his hands in pockets in a panic
and rummaged. He found his wallet again, and... his fingers touched metal. He
pulled his hand out to see his keys dangling from his grip. He closed his eyes
and exhaled deep.

About time I had some luck...

He fanned the keys out, seeing one was for
a Ford (I got a car? Shrug. Cool...). He picked the one that most looked like a
door key, hoped for the best, and then pushed it in the lock. It slotted in
smooth. He turned it and the door popped open, releasing the darkness beyond.
He hesitated, took a peek into the slit he’d created, and then pushed the door
open; he stood in the doorway like a phantasm. The dark hallway beyond stared
back at him. He quickly stepped into the gloom, his feet landing on something
soft. He looked down and saw the stacks of post underneath his sneakers; junk
mail and letters addressed to him. Bills, statements, that kind of
other
junk.

He chuckled and threw the door shut behind
him. The faint musk of unaerated room hit his nostrils; the AC hadn’t been
switched on in who knew how long... His sinus quickly adjusted and his hand
instinctively moved to the section of the wall where the light switch was
located. He found it and flicked it on, his eyes wide, his breath baited. The
light came on and illuminated the hallway. Now, his head swam with memories. He
was finally home, away from the madness; he’d be safe now.

He staggered through his hallway like he’d
just come back from a nightclub. He made it past the kitchen to the doorway on
the right. He swung it open and flicked on the light inside. It was his
bedroom, just how he left it. The first thing he laid eyes on was his bed;
unkempt. There were clothes all over the floor, a set of dumbbells amongst
them. He stared at everything in confusion.
How did I end up in that
basement? Who took me there? How did I find it?

He wiped his grimy face and shook his head,
unable to answer right then. He stepped back into the corridor and headed for
the lounge. He pushed the door open and flicked the light on. His home. Just as
it was. The TV, the sofa, coffee table, a laptop. His house plant needed watering.
More bouts of déjà vu began smacking him from all angles and with it were
fragments of life before the basement. Times he’d spent in this room, watching
TV, surfing the web, eating lunch, drinking Bud. It became overwhelming. He
went over to the sofa and collapsed into it, the weight finally off his feet.
He rubbed his eyes. There were too many questions in his mind and not enough
answers.

Man, I could do with a drink...

He got back to his feet and staggered to
the kitchen. A pile of dirty dishes clogged the sink; empty takeaway packets
lined the counter. He went to the fridge and opened her up. Waiting for him
inside was a cold bottle of Bud, a rotten head of lettuce, long gone off bacon,
and a half empty bottle of ketchup. He reached in, grabbed the Bud and held it
up to his clammy face. It was cold, nice. He snapped the cap off with his teeth
and took an immediate gulp. His taste bud memories were now racing as the cold
beer flowed over his tongue. Man, how could he ever have chosen vampire venom
over a cold Bud? How?

He gasped at the refreshing taste. He
nodded his head and held up his bottle to the grimy kitchen.

“Welcome home, buddy,” he said with a
rueful smile.

Sleep wouldn’t come. Night crawled to
dawn. Dom was sat on the couch in front of the blank TV, trembling, thinking
about Eddie and Dad. He had to find them and try and explain to them where he’d
been. They were probably looking for him, worrying, most likely resigned to the
notion that he was dead.

But, I’m alive and kicking, bro! I just
feel, a little... crappy.

It was the first time in who knew how long
he hadn’t had a venom fix and already he was getting the shakes. He looked down
at his trembling hands, that itch in his brain starting to gnaw again, starting
to annoy. He found himself licking his dry lips in an obsessive compulsive
fashion. His system wanted venom, but his soul didn’t. He ran his hands through
his hair, brought them down his stubbled cheeks and chin, his stare fixed on
the window. Outside, Chicago was starting to wake from its slumber. More and
more cars were now running through the streets, the blare of cop sirens
replacing the scant birdsong of the previous hour. Welcome back home, Dom; the city,
the hive. At least down in the basement he was in his own isolated womb,
cocooned from the concrete jungle.

The city sounds continued to buzz in his
head like flies while the cravings for venom got worse. He needed to get off
the couch and do something. Eddie and Dad popped in his head again. His heart
grew heavy. He wished he could contact them, could remember where they lived,
their cell numbers, something. Anything. He’d scoured the apartment for an old
cell that might be lying around, but there was nothing. There wasn’t even a
trace of any of them on any social websites. It was like they’d all
disappeared. All three of them.

 He grabbed his head again and clawed at
it, wishing for assistance from somewhere. Anywhere.

Come on, dude, you mean you can’t even
remember where you grew up? Man, that venom must’ve really did the trick, huh?

Come on, think, think, think...

Then like divine intervention, something
popped into head, those old, deep rooted memories dredging up from the black
hole kicking in again: 58 Bachman Road.

He nodded slowly.
Yeah. Yeah, that’s
Dad’s address...

My old address.

He stared at the TV with a slack jaw, the
frown embedded in his face staring back at him from the blank screen. Yeah,
that was where he grew up. 58 Bachman Road. Edgewater. North Side. 

His jaw raised itself back up into a grin.
He chuckled.
Good work, buddy. Now, let’s go find Dad.

He checked the time. 6:34 am. Not too early
for a surprise visit. He shot up from the couch, venom cravings and shakes
suddenly a distant memory.

Within twenty seconds, he was out the front
door.

*****

He found his beat-up Ford parked in the
small parking bay adjacent to the apartment block. It needed a clean, but that
wasn’t important right then. He got in, and at any other time, that homely
feeling would’ve engulfed him once more, but other things were at the front of
his mind. He started her up, pulled out, and hit the road. Acting on instinct,
he crossed the streets of Chicago, a hot excitement coursing through him. On
his way, he cut off a couple of drivers to the sound of their horns. The noise
passed right over his head. He was eager to get round to Dad’s, eager to hug
him, eager to see the look on his face once his son turned up at the front
door. He tapped the steering wheel with anxiety while waiting at reds, took any
shortcuts he recalled, overtook any dawdling cars. He wanted his normal life
back and there wasn’t any time to waste.

Eventually, he reached Edgewater and he
turned into Bachman Road, the road he grew up on. The familiarity intensified
as he rolled along the street, his heart hammering, until finally, he pulled up
outside 58. He parked, killed the engine, and stared at the house with baited
breath.

We’re here, buddy...

He nodded and smiled.

Well, what are you waiting for? An
invitation? Go see Dad.

He jumped out the car, throwing the door
shut behind him. He sucked in a huge breath as he jogged up the path, the grass
either side of it neatly trimmed, just how Dad always liked to keep it. Now
there were no nerves. It was pure excitement surging through him. It fizzed
through his stomach like electric eels. He neatened his hair and his dirty
clothes.

How am I gonna explain where I’ve been?

The question suddenly popped in his mind,
bringing with it a slight dread. Yeah, how was he gonna explain all this off?

It’s not the time, Dom. First, make
contact with Dad. All that other stuff is for later.

Good thinking...

He slowed as he reached the porch. He
stepped up to the front door, butterflies now fluttering freely in his stomach,
half from nerves, half from excitement. He knocked on the doorbell and the door
duly opened. He threw on a smile, just for Dad.

The door swung wide, and Dom was ready to
embrace his dad and let the tears flow, and tell him how glad he was to see
him, and how much he’d missed him, and—

But, instead, his eyes fell upon a
stranger. A younger man than Dad. But, not much younger. Dom flinched in
surprise. He frowned, just as the man standing in the doorway frowned too.

Dom went to speak, but no words came out.

“Yes?” the man at the door asked.

Dom looked him up and down as if hoping it
really was Dad, but he knew it wasn’t. He knew. He cleared his throat. “I’m,
er... looking for John Dempsey,” he said to the bemused man at the door.

The man shook his head in response.
“Dempsey, Dempsey…” he repeated to himself while he searched his memory banks.

Dom watched him, a deep sense of anticlimax
setting in.

Then a sudden spark seemed to go off in the
guy’s head. His eyes widened. “Oh, you mean the people who lived here before we
moved in, right?”

Before...?

“Er... I guess so,” Dom tentatively
replied.

The man shook his head, a look of sympathy
now emerging on his face. “They left, son,” he told him. “Sorry.”

Dom looked down at his feet, devastated.
“Oh. Okay, thanks...”

“Relatives?”

Dom looked up to meet his eyes. “My
family.”

Now the man at the door looked down. “Oh.”

“I... lost contact with them. You don’t
know where they went do you?”

The man shook his head. “Sorry, son. I
don’t...”

Dom nodded his head in understanding.
“Well, thanks anyway. Sorry to disturb you.”

“No problem. Hope you find them.”

“Yeah...” Dom said with a disappointed
sigh. He turned away, taking in a lungful of air. He looked up at the grey sky,
just as he heard the door close behind him. He promised he’d find them. He
promised.

He trudged back to his car, his shoulders
slumped as if God had just thrown a cinder block on each one.