Blood and Breakfast: Chapter 2

	Life had clung to Anon like a cancer, regaining consciousness from a fall that should have killed him and his pursuer. Knowing not how much time had slipped by, his mind attempted to piece together the events that had transpired. Anon became alert, defensive, upon realizing the giantess of hostile intent was mere steps away from him, lying motionless and inert just as the statuesque form she previously freed herself from. Cautiously he crept towards the mysterious woman, trying to deduce if she were alive or deceased. His neck craned upward to gaze at the exposed ceiling to see how many floors the two of them had tumbled from. The room they now occupied appeared ghastly and archaic, the stone foundations of the manor showing no exits save the ceiling above and an iron gate leading to more uncertain passageways. This was a cell, a prison stained in blood colored like faded rust and echoing of the screams of residents long dead. Shuttering from the décor and drafty air, the man directed his attention back to the woman before him. Anon lacked medical experience, but wasn’t deterred in examining the exposed maiden to see if she posed any additional threat. Slowly and hesitantly, Anon touched her cool, pale skin to see if any heartbeat could be felt. Upon first contact, the maiden groaned, which alarmed the would-be doctor enough for him to run towards the nearest and only exit. With a loud clang, the cage at been shut tightly behind him, locking the woman within. The threat had been contained, or at least Anon hoped that was the case for now. Rising from dust, dirt, and fluttering snow, the exposed ceiling bathed her in the sun’s rays as if spotlighting a one woman cabaret. Her confused expression shifted into anger, and with what little strength she possessed, she limped her weakened and exposed body towards the cell door to face her new warden. The woman could not pry the bars from their position, and her clawed hand proved useless to the hardened metal separating her from Anon. The bladed appendages that almost eviscerated Anon like tissue-paper were now dull by comparison, and quietly receded back into her fingertips. She was spent, exhausted, her only tool of defiance left was her eyes staring hateful daggers into Anon’s soul.
“Release me, NOW.” she cried, breathing heavily with each syllable and visible in the frosted air. Anon, tending to his wounded arm to both check for extensive bleeding and to politely refrain from staring at his foe’s generous nudity, attempted to sound confident to his happenstance victory. “Call me crazy, but I believe that’s a bad idea”. Peering angrily through tangled ebony hair, now sitting helplessly on the floor, her grip tightened on the bars. “You’re with him, aren’t you? Ethan Winters, I will curse that name until I have his bones pounded to powder for what he’s done to my family! Once I am free, your screams will match his as they echo through my home. Do you hear me?!” Anon did hear her, rather loudly in fact, finishing the crude bandage he had torn from his own clothing to mend his damaged arm. His mind was still trying to piece together how he survived that fall, but more importantly, what exactly this woman was, and what to do with her. “I don’t know any “Ethan Winters”, lady, and I’m sure he’s long gone by now if he ran into you” he retorted. His response had apparently frustrated her, not the reply she was hoping for. “Pathetic man-thing” she spat, “I will drink every drop from your veins. Your intrusion is your death warrant, and after you are a husk to be discard into the garbage, I will find him.” Pulling a nearby wooden stool to sit on, his hands in his face, Anon peaked at the dungeon floor at his feet.
“So…..who or what?” he said. His captive didn’t appear to understand his inquiry.
“Excuse me?” she replied, momentarily ceasing to bend the metal bars that divided them.
“Would you rather to tell me who you are, or what you are?” he quietly said under his breath, trying not to make eye-contact with her predatory irises. “I don’t know many women who go from decor to homicidal maniacs with deadly manicures”. The truth was, Anon didn’t know many women at all. Given the life that he lived, a home and acquaintances were a luxury he did not possess.
Silence was all that was received.
Awkwardly, the gentleman rubbed his neck. Clearly humor had not alieved the tension in the room. Said room in question, was also beginning to unsettle him from the various tools and devices displayed on tables clinking chains. He did not want to linger here for long, questioning the residence he once thought now belonged to him. “So….do you have a name?”.
Still no reply.
“…..I’m Anon by the way” continued the man, knowing not if this one-sided conversation would provide him the answers he sought. “See, there was this man, a rather large merchant, who gave me a key to this place. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted it. Had I’d know you existed, I probably would have ran the other way back into the forest to take my chances. I d-“
“Is there an end to your insufferable chattering?” she interjected.
“I’m nervous, you tried to kill me, cut me some slack”.
“Oh I will cut you, in time. Listen to me, “Anon”. I am Alcina Dimitrescu, lady of this house, a lord of these lands, and would rather die a thousand more deaths or be subjected to a dozen more humiliations than the one I am currently in than listen to your pathetic prattling.”
Her words were as cold as the mountain air. Communication at this time had broken down. A fire of frustration had ignited from within Anon, one that had been smoldering before he ever set foot inside the grounds, summoning the bravery to gaze at the mysterious woman who was quick to spill blood and spit venom. The world had not been kind to him, and she was no different. Why he entertained the thought of anything else occurring, he did not know. But what he was certain of, is that he had enough. Standing from his wooden stool, he looked at his helpless captive to say only one sentence “Then rot. Welcome home, Lady Dimitrescu”. As Anon turned his back on the mistress, curses and threats echoed through the chamber upon his departure. He was not welcome here, or anywhere for that matter, and thought it best to be on his way.

To the east not far from the ruins of Castle Dimitrescu, hidden by the tree line and mountain terrain, was an encampment of other foreigners. Though these men had taken residence much longer than Anon, and from appearances, were far more equipped. Armed men of various sizes and backgrounds mingled within the basecamp, drinking hot coffee from their thermoses and fighting off boredom with repetitive card games. Seasoned mercenaries carrying no flag nor colors on their jackets were standing ready to a threat that was not coming. They were being paid, well in fact, but that did not sate their restlessness. Camouflaged tents concealed equipment of the most advanced and expensive variety. Communications, containment units, monitors, all flashing to life while their caretaker, and the employer of the mercenaries, observed his data. A weathered researcher of thin proportions, and skin dry as his limited sense of humor allowed in his profession. His employers were shadows, nameless checks to be cashed, and an enigmatic collection of powerful individuals here to pick clean what little remains from this blight ridden region. He was their scavenger, though preferred the dignified respect his education was supposed to provide. “Doctor Francis Richland” had a nice ring to it, but he had doubts many would approve of his work. Why cure cancer when you can mutate it into a weapon? His occupation wasn’t as grand as the Umbrella Corporation back in its prime, but his superiors certainly were not as sloppy. Patience and anonymity had their rewards, but that patience was starting to grow thin. Just how long was he supposed to sift through this dead soil, and what did his benefactors expect to find? The Megamycete, an ancient and parasitic fungal organism, worth decades of bio-research for both medical and military application, was long since extinct. Due to unfortunate events involving foreign authorities, the invaluable specimen was cleansed with rather explosive methods. Every test, every sample thus far retrieved, proved negative. The data scrolling passed his monitor confirmed this, yet again, not to his surprise. As the researcher crossed off another test from his checklist, his ears perked at the arrival of one of his subordinates entering the tent. The mercenary awkwardly cleared his throat to make his presence known, as the scientist failed to acknowledge him upon entering.
“Yes, Mr. Solomon?” remarked the intellectual, conveying a tone reminiscent of an annoyed high school teacher addressing the abundantly obvious to an oblivious student. His eye never let his paperwork.
The soldier fiddled with one of his pouches, a habit Dr. Richland found irritating during their shared stay together. “Morrison’s team returned from their sweep of the reservoir. They collected a few samples from one of the deceased B.O.W.s, but I fear natural exposure to the elements and the time it’s been-“
“It wouldn’t have mattered either way, Mr. Solomon” the doctor interjected “You could have collected a sample a day, an hour, a minute right after death and wiped your ass with it, the samples would all be inert.” The researcher finally turned away from his work to speak directly at the mercenary. “We are talking about a primordial organism that has survived ice, fire, and continental divide, but said organism cannot endure without a proper connection to a host. The Megamycete thrived under our very feet because of nigh perfect conditions, festering into the “Black God” those sheltered villagers deluded themselves into worshipping. But now thanks to a damn bomb, there’s nothing left. Do you hear me, Solomon? Nothing!” he barked. Doctor Richland rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, venting his frustration.
Solomon wasn’t intimidated by Dr. Richland. To him, he was another spineless pencil pusher demanding results while even bigger bureaucrats hovered over him. Respect was merely a professional courtesy. “Then why are we still here?” he replied, his voice projecting obvious boredom, an affliction that had plagued every other mercenary within the site. Dr. Richland took notice to his tone, but was unfazed by it.
“Our generous and “wise” investors remain convinced that there are stored samples of the Megamycete mold stored somewhere in this region” the doctor grunted, tossing his clipboard to a nearby table. “Apparently the cult that was here was dabbling with the organism, though I don’t see how anything could have survived the cataclysm intact, or how they expect us to find anything in that damn crater.” Richland’s gaze turned to the geographical map lying on one of the tables within the tent, it was riddled with various markings both circled and crossed out, a visual record of how thoroughly exhausted their search had been. Solomon observed the map as well, trying to see if there were any remaining locations left to examine. The doctor’s finger grazed the paper, stopping at what little of the map that wasn’t vandalized by notes. “This is what your men are going to do; a final sweep is going to be made of the village. I don’t care what they say, we’re getting out of this hellhole after this. Your team will scan the blast zone, Morrison’s will take the Beneviento estate, and which leaves….”. Solomon took the liberty of pointing at the map and finishing Dr. Richland’s thought “Right here, Castle Dimitrescu, Lee’s team can search there”.

Anon marched front the front gate with a huff. He didn’t care about the weather, he didn’t even know where he was going, but anywhere was better than here. The irritated man wanted a word with The Duke before departing, and luckily for him, he didn’t need to look far. The “generous” salesman was but a few steps outside the castle perimeter, his attention fully encapsulated by the book in his left hand, flicking the ashes from his lit cigar held in the right. The crunching of snow from Anon’s footsteps had broken his trance, and met his disgruntled customer with a friendly smile.
“Good day to you, Sir, and how was our first night?” the glutton remarked. His sunny disposition was clearly not shared by his companion. Anon was in mood.
“Oh it was fantastic” Anon retorted, not sure if the sarcasm was too subtle or too obvious. He was very emotional given what had transpired. “Place is a bit drafty, bit of a fixer-upper, but I’m more concerned about the goddamn monster woman that tried to kill me! What the hell was that about? You give me a house, “no strings”, I find a vial of god knows what swishing around, drop the thing, breath it in, and if that wasn’t weird enough, it crawls across the f***ing rug to bring a statue to life of a very pissed off woman with a Freddy Kreuger hand. So yeah, I’m a little on edge, Duke. You mind telling me just what the F**K that was about? Is this your idea of a sick joke?”
The Duke seemed visibly concerned for his customer, displeased at his frantic failing and visible stress. “I did say it was a gamble. Full transparency, Mr. Anon, I was uncertain what would occur once that vial’s seal was broken, or what would occur” The Duke stored away his book, and flicked his cigar to the snow below. “I was hoping a man on the verge of suicide would get what he desired, be it the drive to survive or the death he teased so often. A new lease on life, as it were. Though I must say, I am rather surprised at the outcome. Dear Lady Dimitrescu has returned you say? And let you live? My my, what strange times we live in, Mr. Anon.”
“Oh yes, I met the previous owner, she can keep the castle” said Anon, pacing back in forth in the snow to keep warm. “I can only guess why she has literal torture chamber in her basement. Regardless, the lady can appreciate it from the other side of the bars for a good while alone. I’m gone.”
The Duke became more inquisitive, leaning forward in his wagon seat. “Impressive, Mr. Anon, and how did manage such a feat?”
“Falling through the damn floor, that’s how!” retorted Anon. “I don’t know if “condemned” can be stressed enough given the state of that place. Its sheer luck that I even survived that fall, or that I came too fast enough to run out of that cell before her.”
“And you’re not hurt?”
In dramatic fashion, Anon pulled away his arm wrapping to show his wounds. “A friendly scratch from your dear “Lady”. I’m still trying to figure out why my legs aren’t broken from the fall!” Before Anon could continue his rant, his eye caught his exposed skin from beneath the wrapping. The blood had since dried, and the claw marks were nowhere to be seen. “That’s…..that’s not right.” The gentleman’s demeanor turned from anger to fright, his mind trying to piece together what could be transpiring. “….What the hell did I breathe?” Anon asked in desperation, hoping for the first bit of rationale and sanity since he entered these lands. A concerned Duke stroked his chin, contemplating the appropriate answer to soothe his companion.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Anon, that is well beyond my realm of expertise. The contents of the vial, which you unfortunately inhaled, is a special mold native to these lands, or at least it was. The devastation you see before you is the result of those trying to eradicate it completely.” The Duke’s ominous explanation was interrupted by a coughing fit, his chubby hands covering his mouth with an ornate handkerchief. “A thousand pardons, the change in mountain air does hell on my lungs. Now where were we? Right then, the mold. Quite the potent specimen. Hard saying what it will do to a person, be lucky you haven’t grown gills.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I were, but don’t concern yourself of that. Your body appears to have taken to it quite nicely, for now at least. The late Mother Miranda called it a gift, others saw it as a valuable weapon, and some saw it as a danger so great that they destroyed this entire area you see before you” replied The Duke, gesturing his hands around him with what little mobility he had. “Lady Dimitrescu is one of many such cases gifted, or cursed depending on who you ask, with the black mold.”
Anon was trying to come to terms with what he was listening to, and debating if he wanted to believe it. What other explanation was there? He wasn’t mad, he fell several stories, and here he was conversing with this mysterious merchant. His fingers were still probing his arm, trying to unveil some deception or evidence to the wounds that afflicted him prior. In both concern and desperation, he turned to the only friendly face that he met in some time. “So…I’m a freak? I’m going to become a monster like her?”
“I try to avoid such terms, Mr. Anon. The details of your condition yet remain to be seen. I assure you, no matter what form you may or may not end up taking, you’ll have a friend in me.” The Duke’s words appeared sincere, like they always did. Perhaps he was an ally, or a damn good conman. Whatever the case, Anon was not in the position to be choosey with his acquaintances. “You’re free to leave us, as always” The Duke continued “But I must warn you, a storm is on the horizon, Mr. Anon. These old bones can always feel a blizzard.” Anon was still coming to terms with his situation, looking at the mountainside. The Duke creaked in his wagon, presenting a crate that was hidden behind his large body. “I had prepared a modest housewarming gift, supplies for your pantries until payment could be sorted out properly. But seeing your displeasure and predicament, I will gladly offer it free of charge. We can barter and sort out the minute details later when appropriate”
“You expect me to return to that place with the angry giant woman in the basement who wants to kill me?”
“It does provide suitable shelter for the storm, sir. You could brave the weather, but I wouldn’t recommend it. And like you said, she’s momentarily detained.”
“”Momentarily” being the operating word here, Duke.”
“Quite true. Hell hath no fury, or so they say. Despite a poor first impression, I’ve always considered Lady Dimitrescu one of the more……reasonable lords to converse with. A woman of her status prides herself on appearances and manners, which in theory could be the means to pursue diplomacy.”
“You’re asking me to reason with someone who stated, and I now believe fully, wishes to drink my blood dry like a Bram Stroker extra. I hardly see the diplomacy in that.”
“We all have our vices, Mr. Anon. She didn’t choose hers. Though she does find morbid delight in it. All I’m saying is that perhaps a beast such as her can be bargained with. I should know, I do it every day.”
Anon thought he was crazy even entertaining the idea of returning to the castle, or talking with Lady Dimitrescu. Before him were two choices; either he expose himself to an unforgiving snowstorm with no clear destination, or remain within the walls of the castle in the hope its mistress could be swayed to allow his stay. In Anon’s mind it came down to one crucial factor, and as trivial as it may have sounded, creature comforts do make for more enticing bad decisions. He had experienced hypothermia before, and it did not suit him one bit. If death was on table, Anon was going to die warm. With an annoyed and almost defeated huff, the once normal man made something else begrudgingly accepted the supply crate from The Duke. A smile returned to the merchant’s bulbous face, delighted that his new favorite customer had chosen to stay for the time being. “Those are some assorted non-perishables that should be to your liking” boasted The Duke “Over there is a cart with other, fresher ingredients you and your lady friend may enjoy.” Anon surveyed his new gifts, placing the crate onto the small cart. From first observation he could see dried salmon, rice, and most notable of all was various small animal pens holding live chickens. His expression contorted uncomfortably trying to be polite. “I’ve never actually….um, see the thing is I’m so used to eating chicken…..already prepared.” The Duke cackled at Anon’s statement, unaware that the poor soul was serious. “No time to be squeamish now, Mr. Anon” replied The Duke. “I’m sure you’ll manage. Here, I’ll loan you one of my cook books until you get your cuisine skills mastered. I’d offer you steak but frankly I’m in short supply at the moment. The lady likes her meat rare.” “Of course she does” muttered Anon, grabbing his wooden cart, pulling it back to the home he feverishly ran from just a short conversation ago. As The Duke waived him farewell yet again, Anon found himself right back where he started, at the foot of Castle Dimitrescu’s threshold, uncertain if this place would allow him to leave ever again.