Frantically swirling clouds enveloped Martin and Adriana, a constant rush of air hit their faces, and all the world was nothing but a grey mist for them. Time sped up, time slowed, time ceased to exist, as if they were alive and dead at the same moment. This is what it felt like to be carried in the arms of Lazarus Gorey as he ran quicker than any mortal man could ever dream of. The trio wasn’t even a blur; they were unseeable and noiseless, they were nothing more than the odor of sulphur.
In an instant, the rushing air halted, replaced by a placid stillness. As the calm lingered, the mental fog of the two friends slowly began to burn away. They found themselves seated and comfortable, but their bodies felt heavy and immobile.
Drowsy, Adriana lifted her head, turned toward Martin and squinted. “Dude, what just happened?”
Martin took longer to wake. His eyes struggled to open while he licked his dry lips.
Adriana tried to focus on her friend. “Do you know where we are, Martin?” As her eyes opened wider, she was able to see more clearly. “Why is there a grease stain on your shirt pocket?”
“Pizza,” he mumbled.
“Pizza? You put a pizza slice in your pocket?”
Still groggy, he said, “Yeah. For later. Never know. Hungry.” He looked down at his chest. “Hey. Pizza gone. Damn it.”
“It must have fallen out when we...uhm...what happened to us?”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” the deep voice of Lazarus Gorey intoned. He was standing in front of them, putting surgical gloves on his hands. “I very ably assisted you in your safe arrival at my humble laboratory. Now you are my guests.”
“Yeah, well, if we’re guests, why do you have us strapped down?” Adriana asked as she tugged at the restraints that bound her wrists to the arms of the chair she sat in.
“Well, guests is a loose term,” Lazarus replied. “Guests, prisoners, call yourselves whatever you like. I prefer the term guest, myself.”
Adriana kept trying to slip her hands out of their bindings as she spoke. “Just what do plan to do with us?”
“I thought we went over that already. Maybe you’ve forgotten. Whatever. Long story short, I’m going to draw some blood from you and run a battery of tests. Any questions?”
“Is that a signed Peter Frampton album?” Martin asked.
Indeed, in his spotlessly clean and sterile laboratory Lazarus Gorey kept an array of framed album covers on one wall: Frampton Comes Alive, Rumours, Night Moves, etc.
“Ah, you noticed,” Lazarus answered. “Yes, I am an aficionado of classic rock. I’ve lived through the Jazz Age as well as the time of Beethoven and Bach, I’ve sat in English music halls when Victoria sat upon the throne, and, full disclosure here, I am the uncredited composer of ‘How Much is That Doggie in the Window?’ I have to say though, that 1970s is a much maligned decade, musically speaking. I truly believe that album rock was the pinnacle of mankind’s musical creativity.”
The two captives sat and stared at their captor. Lazarus suddenly looked dismayed. “Oh, what the hell do you two know? You probably think Derek and the Dominoes sang doo-wop.” He turned to the table behind and began preparing syringes and moving test tubes around.
“It’s not that we don’t appreciate that music,” Adriana said, “we’re just a little surprised at your tastes, that’s all. I mean, 70s rock was excellent, you know, Led Zepellin and all, but how many times can you hear ‘Stairway to Heaven’ before you just want to scream?” She rolled her eyes while pretending to gag.
Lazarus whipped around, a sneer on his face, a syringe in his hand. “Whatever. It’s time to get some blood out of you two.”
Martin’s eyes widened when he saw the needle coming toward his arm. “Is this going to hurt?”
The big man paused a moment. “Hurt? I’ll have you know I’m an excellent phlebotomist. What vampire wouldn’t be?”
Adriana chuckled. “I don’t think it’s the pain that you need to worry about, Martin.” She looked up at Lazarus and said in a stage whisper, “He’s got hemophobia, Laz.”
Looking both perplexed and disgusted, Lazarus said, “A vampire’s son who can’t stand the sight of blood? Now I’ve heard everything.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it. You’re trying to stall me.”
For some reason, Martin wanted to sound brave now. “I’ll be okay. I can handle the sight of blood.”
“Glad to hear it,” Lazarus said as he swiftly jabbed the needle into Martin’s arm.
Surprised that he barely felt the prick of the needle, Martin said, “Hey, that really was painless.” He looked down and smiled as the blood began to flow from his vein into the small tube attached to the syringe.
“See, it doesn’t bother me a bit,” he said just before he lost consciousness.
Adriana smiled at Lazarus. “Told you.”
In an instant, the rushing air halted, replaced by a placid stillness. As the calm lingered, the mental fog of the two friends slowly began to burn away. They found themselves seated and comfortable, but their bodies felt heavy and immobile.
Drowsy, Adriana lifted her head, turned toward Martin and squinted. “Dude, what just happened?”
Martin took longer to wake. His eyes struggled to open while he licked his dry lips.
Adriana tried to focus on her friend. “Do you know where we are, Martin?” As her eyes opened wider, she was able to see more clearly. “Why is there a grease stain on your shirt pocket?”
“Pizza,” he mumbled.
“Pizza? You put a pizza slice in your pocket?”
Still groggy, he said, “Yeah. For later. Never know. Hungry.” He looked down at his chest. “Hey. Pizza gone. Damn it.”
“It must have fallen out when we...uhm...what happened to us?”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” the deep voice of Lazarus Gorey intoned. He was standing in front of them, putting surgical gloves on his hands. “I very ably assisted you in your safe arrival at my humble laboratory. Now you are my guests.”
“Yeah, well, if we’re guests, why do you have us strapped down?” Adriana asked as she tugged at the restraints that bound her wrists to the arms of the chair she sat in.
“Well, guests is a loose term,” Lazarus replied. “Guests, prisoners, call yourselves whatever you like. I prefer the term guest, myself.”
Adriana kept trying to slip her hands out of their bindings as she spoke. “Just what do plan to do with us?”
“I thought we went over that already. Maybe you’ve forgotten. Whatever. Long story short, I’m going to draw some blood from you and run a battery of tests. Any questions?”
“Is that a signed Peter Frampton album?” Martin asked.
Indeed, in his spotlessly clean and sterile laboratory Lazarus Gorey kept an array of framed album covers on one wall: Frampton Comes Alive, Rumours, Night Moves, etc.
“Ah, you noticed,” Lazarus answered. “Yes, I am an aficionado of classic rock. I’ve lived through the Jazz Age as well as the time of Beethoven and Bach, I’ve sat in English music halls when Victoria sat upon the throne, and, full disclosure here, I am the uncredited composer of ‘How Much is That Doggie in the Window?’ I have to say though, that 1970s is a much maligned decade, musically speaking. I truly believe that album rock was the pinnacle of mankind’s musical creativity.”
The two captives sat and stared at their captor. Lazarus suddenly looked dismayed. “Oh, what the hell do you two know? You probably think Derek and the Dominoes sang doo-wop.” He turned to the table behind and began preparing syringes and moving test tubes around.
“It’s not that we don’t appreciate that music,” Adriana said, “we’re just a little surprised at your tastes, that’s all. I mean, 70s rock was excellent, you know, Led Zepellin and all, but how many times can you hear ‘Stairway to Heaven’ before you just want to scream?” She rolled her eyes while pretending to gag.
Lazarus whipped around, a sneer on his face, a syringe in his hand. “Whatever. It’s time to get some blood out of you two.”
Martin’s eyes widened when he saw the needle coming toward his arm. “Is this going to hurt?”
The big man paused a moment. “Hurt? I’ll have you know I’m an excellent phlebotomist. What vampire wouldn’t be?”
Adriana chuckled. “I don’t think it’s the pain that you need to worry about, Martin.” She looked up at Lazarus and said in a stage whisper, “He’s got hemophobia, Laz.”
Looking both perplexed and disgusted, Lazarus said, “A vampire’s son who can’t stand the sight of blood? Now I’ve heard everything.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it. You’re trying to stall me.”
For some reason, Martin wanted to sound brave now. “I’ll be okay. I can handle the sight of blood.”
“Glad to hear it,” Lazarus said as he swiftly jabbed the needle into Martin’s arm.
Surprised that he barely felt the prick of the needle, Martin said, “Hey, that really was painless.” He looked down and smiled as the blood began to flow from his vein into the small tube attached to the syringe.
“See, it doesn’t bother me a bit,” he said just before he lost consciousness.
Adriana smiled at Lazarus. “Told you.”
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