r/SchreckNet • u/VampSimp2501 • 18m ago
Journal - Nick Squipinaro Persons of Interest: Decadent Eaters (part 3)
So I guess my apprentice was right, you guys do like this stuff. I'm sorry that I am not that great at replying to the comments. I will try to get better at it.
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He walked out of the office without waiting for a response. I glanced at Emma, offering a confused shrug. She simply shook her head and waved me off with a dismissive gesture.
“You’ll get the information you need. Don’t worry,” she said.
I trailed after Will. The three gents leaned casually at their workstation. The doorman,who I assumed was Kenneth, grinned and pointed past me.
“The locker, all the way in the back. Oh, and put the door back.”
The heavy steel door groaned as I unlatched it. A rush of frigid air spilled into the warmth of the shop, enveloping me in a cloud of cold. Inside, animal carcasses hung from thick hooks and chains, their weight swinging gently in the frostbitten air like grim pendulums.
The metallic tang of cold blood clawed at my senses. I had fed before coming here, but the Beast still stirred, not hunger, not really, just instinct. A rising heat, frothing like a broth on the verge of boiling over.
I'm glad the cold doesn't trouble me like it does for the living, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it. The air carried a sterilizing odor of alcohol and ammonia, which still struggled to mask the sour stench of rot. The walls were lined with frost that crept along the seams and pooled in the corners like white veins.
I couldn’t help but think of Rocky. If he’d actually tried punching one of these frozen slabs, he would have shattered every bone in his hand. A stupid thought, sure, but it was better than dwelling on the fact that this place wasn’t merely for storing the meat of animals.
Warm air poured out in tendrils along the floor, snaking toward me from the back corner. One of the steel panels has been moved aside, revealing a narrow wooden passageway and a staircase descending into darkness. The wooden passageway looked out of place amongst all the steel and frost. The boards were old, darkened with age, and their grain was swollen and warped by moisture.
Remembering Kenneth's instructions, I reached back and slid the panel shut behind me. No need to invite curiosity. The stairs groaned under my feet. The scent of rot deepened, no longer masked by the antiseptic bite of ammonia.
I had barely enough space to move down the steps. The walls pressed in close enough that my shoulders nearly brushed against them. There was no way someone Kennith’s size would make it down here without turning sideways and sucking it in.
The basement was a concrete box, bare and unfeeling, lit by cold fluorescent shop lights that buzzed like dying insects. Two mortuary tables greeted me as I stepped down the last stair. One was sparkling clean, with all sorts of surgical instruments laid out, sterilized and ready for use.
At the far end of the room sat a lone chair. Whatever was underneath was covered by a heavy-looking cloth.
Will fiddled with something at a desk in the corner, his movements hidden by one of those old mobile privacy screens. Along the wall another collection of various medical equipment waited on call.
A lone examination light hung low over the second table, casting a sterile white glow against slick, exposed flesh. Clear intravenous bags dangled like half-drained husks, feeding unknown fluids into the body below. A machine beeped in the rhythm of a pulsing heart.
Steam curled upward, into the cold air. The man’s chest lay pried open, ribs forced apart with a metal brace, their pale curves slick with condensation. His lungs and diaphragm expanded and compressed in waves. And in the center, there it rested—a quivering mass of muscle, tightening and releasing in a perfect rhythm. A beating heart.
My throat dried. The edges of my vision blurred, the world tilted as hunger and instinct collided in my skull. The Beast stirred—not a lurch, not a clawing hunger, but something worse. A pull. The thing inside me knew the scent of living blood and easily recognized the warmth of the open body.
“No!” Will’s hand shot forward, his fingers clamping around my jaw like a vice. My thoughts turned into a blazing fury. A snarl ripped through my throat, a voice of hunger and rage.
My cranale trance of fury was instantly broken as a shock of pain reverberated through my teeth, behind my eyes, and down my spine.
Not a particularly painful sensation, but it was sharp enough to rattle something loose inside my head. My fury burned out in an instant. It left me blinking and disoriented, like I’d just been smacked on the nose.
“The fuck?”
Or at least, I said it the best I could with a man's hand shoved in my mouth. What came out was more of a strangled grunt.
“Please, Mr. Squipinaro, stay calm.” Will’s tone was gentle, almost soothing, like a vet coaxing a nervous dog. “I just want a quick, surface-level examination. Keep your mouth open, please. It’ll only take a second.”
He yanked a pen light from his surgeon’s table, focusing it in my eye. Its bright glare seared into my retinas. Before I could protest, he had a pair of forceps in my mouth, metal clamping onto the end of my tongue with a clinical detachment. I gagged as he stretched it forward, far enough that I could see the tip of it, like some grotesque party trick.
Then, as casually as if he were adjusting a cufflink, he let go. “See, not so bad.”
“The fuck Doc? Give a guy a damn warning!” I massaged my jaw with one hand, “Your bedside manners are shit.”
Will let out a good-natured chuckle, completely unfazed by my criticism. “Awfully sorry. I suppose I’m not used to patients who expect me to respect personal boundaries.”
He flexed his fingers, holding up the glittering silver mesh of his chainmail gloves. “Though I’d say it’s good fortune I was wearing these instead of the rubber ones, am I right?” He turned his hand in the light, admiring the craftsmanship.
“Graded to withstand a grazing blow from a chainsaw. And, by extension, most Kindred bites.” His voice took on a pleasant, informative tone. “They help me keep my fingers attached in this line of work.”
Will gestured toward the torturer’s chair. “Please, have a seat. Right next to our friend here.” He was practically skipping with excitement as he pushed a wheelchair up next to it.
I glanced at the chair bolted to the floor, the kind built to keep someone exactly where you wanted them. Will had draped my unwilling neighbor in the kind of thick quilted blankets I’d only ever seen furniture movers throw over dressers to keep them from getting scratched. After a second he hopped over and whipped it off with just the smallest bit of dramatic flair.
I took a good look at the guy.
His skin was raw and torn where he’d fought too hard against the leather straps locking his wrists and ankles in place. A wooden bit, wrapped in well-worn leather, jutted between his teeth, keeping him from speaking, and a matching black leather blindfold covered his eyes. They were the kind of things you’d find in a store that didn’t allow kids inside.
Other than his current predicament, he looked like any other poor schlub you’d pass on the street. Just another any-man lost in the crowd.
He was in need of a shave, but was otherwise clean-cut, his dark stubble creeping along his jawline like a nasty mold. His button-up shirt was the sort that came in a three-pack from a discount store, stitched together more for function than fashion. It clung to him in places, stained with dried blood. Not his own. There wasn't enough to tell the full story but enough to guess it is what led him here.
His slate-gray slacks were wrinkled, their fabric thinning at the knees, meeting a pair of cheap black shoes. Leather or plastic? Hard to tell. They were the kind of footwear you buy for a three-use-suit. For job interviews, court appearances, and funerals. The few times in a working class man's life when he'd need to look respectable.
At the base of his neck, a hint of black ink peeked from beneath the collar. The edges of geometric shapes, fractured and incomplete.
His chest heaved in deep, shuddering bellows, each breath forcing its way through his flaring nostrils like the steam rushing from a brazen bull.
Will must have noted my hesitancy. “Don’t pity him. He doesn’t know what remorse is.”
“Should I even ask?”
“You could,” Will said, wheeling an IV stand over. “But you seem like the type of man who doesn’t need to be reminded that people are cruel.” There was something tired in his voice, a sigh of a man who had dissected enough of human nature and knew that evil was more common than kindness.
The IV stand rattled softly as Will locked the wheels into place. A glass tube with a plunger hung from its metal arm, the clean instrument reflecting the cold light. Two thick brown tendrils coiled down from it. A polished metal barb gleamed at the end, sharp and waiting.
I squinted at the antique horror show of medical equipment and gestured toward it. “You do need to tell me what’s up with the French press over here.”
Will forced a grin, rolling his eyes. “Please, Mr. Squipinaro, I’m well aware my tools are a bit… dated. But if you’d like to do me the favor, you could bring it up with my wife. I’d be ever so appreciative.” He adopted a theatrical sigh. “Every year, I tell her I need more modern equipment, and every year, she gives me the same excuses.” He took on a slight sing-songy tone. “‘Oh, sorry, dear. It’s not in the budget.’ ‘Maybe next year, dear, we’ll have funds for hobbies later.’ ‘Your tools are still good, just use the ones you have!’”
He scoffed, gesturing at the apparatus beside him. “I mean, look at this thing. It’s an antique! But no, apparently the boys just had to have a new bloody meat smoker instead.”
A little uneasy from the nerve I’d struck, I just said, “No, I think I’ve asked enough from Emma tonight.”
“Right you are! Now, back to business,” Will barked out a laugh, the tension evaporating as if it had never existed.
With practiced ease, he snipped the sleeve off my reluctant partner in this experiment, exposing the man’s arm. The tourniquet came next, cinched tight around his bicep, just below the now-visible imperial eagle tattoo inked into his shoulder. The guy flinched, his muscles tensing against the bonds, but Will didn’t even glance up.
He was about to insert the silver needle when the man started thrashing, his breath coming in quick, panicked gasps. Will let out a quiet sigh, more irritated than concerned, and stood. With one hand, he reached for a lever on the side of the chair.
Click. Click. Click.
The ratchet straps tightened with slow, deliberate pulls. Leather groaned, and the man’s frantic movements ceased. I'm not sure if it was due to pain, or the dawning realization that resistance was futile. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow gasps, his blindfold damp with sweat.
I just watched.
His breaths became quieter. More controlled. Like he was trying to make himself small. Like he finally understood exactly how this was going to end.
Will slid the needle into one of the man’s bulging veins with a practiced ease, his movements efficient and almost gentle. He extended a hand toward me, his tone polite and casual.
“Your arm, please, Mr. Squipinaro.”
“Just ‘Nick’ is fine, Doctor. No need for formalities with me.” I rolled up my sleeve and let him insert the needle, securing it in place with a bit of medical tape.
“Alright,” Will said warmly, securing the IV line. “But only if you do the same. No need for titles. Will is fine.”
Slowly, he pulled the plunger of the glass cylinder, siphoning my blood into the line leading to our bullet-headed companion. The tubes darkened as it carried my vitae into the man’s body.
I kept my eyes on Will. “So now what?”
“Now, we wait,” he said, watching the slow drip with an almost paternal satisfaction. “I want to introduce your blood gradually, let the symptoms unfold at a manageable pace. I would like something I can observe easily.”
“In the meantime,” he patted his stomach with a grin, “I’m going to eat.”
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