Midnight Snack

Allan washed the blood from his hands and looked at the clock; midnight, time to meet Fred. Fred always worried if Allan was late; he took his traditions seriously. Allan locked the butcher shop door behind him and hurried across the moon-washed street to Berrington’s House of Wings. He pushed on the door, but it was locked. Fred always had the door open for him; it was their time for wings, beer, and poker. Allan rapped on the door and waited. The night was cold, and Allan shifted from foot to foot, hands pushed deep in his pockets, trying to stay warm. He rapped again and, after another long wait, was about to turn around and get back to work. The door blind shifted, and he saw a pair of eyes peering out at him. “C’mon Fred, it’s cold out here.” The door opened and Allan stomped his nearly numb feet into the restaurant. “Get busy tonight, Fred? You don’t usually forget…” He stopped when he saw the look on Fred’s face. “What’s up, Fred? You look like you seen a ghost.” “They found another one last night,” Fred whispered. “I’m scared.”

Allan knew what Fred meant; it was all the town had been talking about the last two months. Every other night another dead body was found, freshly killed, drained of blood. They were calling them the Vampire Killings in the news. There were those in town who took it literally; the stores were always out of garlic these days. It was also all Fred talked about and, frankly, Allan was sick of hearing it so, when Fred began, “But Al…” Allan cut in, his voice dripping with scorn, “Don’t be stupid, Fred. A vampire? This isn’t Transylvania. Hell, it’s some nut poking holes in people’s necks. It’s a sick world out there, but a vampire? Get the wings, Fred, we’re too old to be playing bogeyman.” His voice almost a whine, Fred began again, “But, Al, you don’t get it. The victim’s picture was in the paper today…” Allan dropped into a seat and pulled a pack of blood-stained cards from his bloody apron, “Don’t be such a wuss; it’s time to play a man’s game. You got fifty bucks of mine and I plan…” “Allan!” Fred broke in hysterically, “The victims are steady customers of mine! What if the police suspect me?” Allan reached over and gripped Fred’s shoulder, “You didn’t do it, Fred, and you have the perfect alibi. All the killings were done at night, and I stare at your ugly mug every night from across the street while I get your daily order ready. You got nothin’ to worry about, Fred, so drop it.” Fred sighed and moved behind the counter to get their snack. “Alright, Al, I guess I let my imagination run away from me.”

Their customary hour passed as usual, wings, beer, and poker. Allan scooped the blood-stained cards up and stuck them back in his bloody apron pocket. “I’ll get you yet, Fred,” he said with a grin. “In the meantime, take good care of my money.” Fred laughed but Allan still heard the fear in his voice, and he was very quick to lock the door after Allan stepped out into the night.

The butcher shop was nearly dark when Allan stepped inside. He froze when he heard a rustle in the back. His eyes darted around the moonlit store, but nothing looked out of place. “Geez, Fred, now you got me goin’,” he whispered to himself. The old butcher began to walk into the cutting room when he heard the rustle again. His heart skipped a beat as he reached for a cleaver. The finely-honed blade was raised high as he burst into the bloody room with a loud yell. He slammed the cleaver down, sticking it into the chopping block, and reached for one of the live chickens fluttering in its pen. “Well,” he laughed, “we’ll make short work of you…”

Allan jumped at the sound of a knock at his shop door. He stood for a moment, wringing his bloody apron, as the knocking continued then laughed nervously. “Hold your horses, Fred!” he called out as he opened the door. “What did you forg…” He froze with the door halfway open, his face pale with fear. He saw death in its eyes and he screamed in terror as the bloody-fanged chicken flew at his neck.