Free Vile Blood by Max Wilde

out the door, the bells serenading them gaily as they walked toward the RV and the blond man opened the passenger door and helped her to step up into the high vehicle.
    Just for a second a voice spoke to her: what in God’s name are you doing?
    And then the voice was gone and the man was beside her with his heat and his flesh and they were driving into the night.
     

14
     
     
     
    Junior Cotton lay staring up at the stained ceiling of his cell, paint bubbling away from plaster where moisture from hidden plumbing seeped and pooled. He hadn’t moved since Alfonso had dumped him on the bed, set the brake on the wheelchair and slammed the door, unlubricated tumblers gnashing as the orderly forced the key in the lock.
    Junior commanded his right arm to rise and it took some time before the limb obeyed him, lifting slowly from the rough, sour-smelling blanket, as if it belonged to somebody else.
    He brought his hand to his mouth and spat out the nighttime medication inserted by Alfonso, a necklace of spittle connecting the two bombs on his palm to his tongue. His arm, suddenly without strength, fell to the blanket and the strand of drool snapped, one half trapped in his beard, the other landing in a wet coil on his wrist, where the pulse beat fast and erratic.
    Junior heard muffled moans and screams and oaths and thuds from the honeycomb of cells adjoining his, then—as the inmates’ medication kicked in—all that broke the silence was the insect-like buzz of the caged light bulb. He almost surrendered to sleep, exhausted by the day but he forced his eyes open and lifted himself, frail arms quivering, head loose on his neck, his breath coming in little sneezes, until, at last, he sat up, feet dangling over the side of the bed.
     Freeing the purloined scalpel from the sleeve of his jumpsuit, he stared down at the short, curved blade. He ran a fingertip over the blade, felt it parse the whorls of his fingerprint, leaving a bead of blood as he stroked the corrugated crosspieces of the handle.
    Folding at the waist like a rag doll, Junior dipped his tongue to his fingertip, sucking at the warm, salty blood. He closed his eyes and savored the taste. He knew that if he was to do what he had to do tomorrow he needed to find strength, so he levered his torso upright and flopped back against the cold enamel wall. He gripped the scalpel and jabbed it at his bleeding fingertip, opening the cut, allowing more blood to flow, droplets raining down on the blanket as he brought his hand to the wall and started finger painting with his blood.
    His motor skills were unreliable and his hand seemed too heavy for his arm but he managed to trace the symbol onto the wall, the blood streaking and coagulating even as he drew.
    The symbol he’d rendered was unmistakably a pentagram—two points upward—and just the sight of it sent a charge into his body, and he was able to turn and sit cross-legged on the bed, resting his palms on the clammy paint on either side of the star, his forehead connected to nexus of the pentagram, and he began a whispered chant, his thin voice growing in strength and confidence—but not volume, he made sure of that—as he jacked into the power of darkness.
    When he was filled, Junior shoved away from the wall and felt his body respond, felt strength course through his wasted muscles and he swiveled and set his feet on the floor and pushed himself up to standing, swaying like a flagpole in the wind.
    You can do it, darling boy. You can do it. His mama encouraging him.
    Cautiously, like an aerialist high on a rope , he lifted a foot and set it down, transferring his weight. Lifted his other foot and repeated the process. Held his arms away from his sides to keep his balance. Step by tentative step, his body dripping with sweat, he reached the opposite wall, a journey of maybe six feet. But he made it.
    And he would walk again tomorrow. Walk right the hell out of here.
    When he did an about-turn, Junior was overconfident