The Taste of Blood
by Cindy Rosmus
Up ahead were a huge
trailer, and an old-fashioned stagecoach. A Wild West exhibit for kids. April
had always been Field Trip Month.
Danny stopped short.
Would he live through college?
Did he have AIDS?
That cheating bitch,
he thought, shaking.
Nobody asked him for a ticket. A chaperone, they
must’ve thought. He almost laughed. This curly-haired dude, clad all in denim,
like one of those cowboys outside, showing off saddles and buffalo horns.
But did they have AIDS?
The stagecoach was crawling with screeching
kids. Two had climbed up on the canopy. “Get down!” some lady yelled.
Call early, Danny
thought. Get the results now. He reached in his jacket for his phone but
stopped.
Inside the trailer
was the last exhibit. Somehow, he felt drawn to it.
On his way in, he
bumped into a guard. “Chaperone’s missing,” he told Danny. “Like, who cares?
S’not one of the kids.” The guard wandered off.
This exhibit. An animal
smell, but Danny couldn’t see any animals. The trailer was long, and narrow,
and by the time he reached the end, the smell was overpowering.
A big cage, they
were in. Before he saw them, he saw her.
Scrunched up against the back wall like she was hiding.
He stopped
dead.
Whoever she was, he
knew it was she who had drawn him in here.
She was older. Forties?
Thirties, if she lived a rough life. Her features looked raped: runny eye
makeup from crying, smeared lipstick.
Inside the cage were
two big cats. Cougars. Their fur was gray-gold, spotted. Eyes deep blue.
Half-grown, and awkward-looking, but still beautiful. Like teenagers, he realized.
She edged toward the
cage.
At first, they just
looked at her. In silent communion, like kids in class, knowing the teacher was
watching.
“Pssst-pssst,”
she
said. “Psst-psst! Pssssttt!”
A pause. Then, both
cats whistled. In this fretful way.
Danny’s heart raced.
He edged closer.
So did the cats.
Through the cage,
went her tiny hand. Danny cringed, as she stroked one cat’s muzzle, then the
other’s. Playfully toyed with one’s whiskers. The other nuzzled her hand,
wanting its turn.
Then she backed
away.
He found his voice. “Y—you
shouldn’t do that!”
She jumped. “You
scared me.”
“I scared you?”
His
voice trembled. “Lady! Whatta you, got a death wish?”
“Maybe.”
She didn’t look
sick, not physically. Plenty of meat on her, in the right places. If she washed
her face, she’d look pretty good.
“Don’t you care?”
he
said. “Aren’t you a mom?”
She nodded, sadly.
He turned away. “You’re
crazy!”
When she grabbed
him, he gasped, like one of those cougars had jumped him. But her hand was
gentle. That animal smell stayed with her. “Don’t leave,” she said. She kept
stroking his face, then his hair. “What’s your name?”
“D-Danny.”
“Danny? Could you…”
she said softly, “bring me back to life?”
He froze. Her eyes
were wide, sincere. She wasn’t drunk or
stoned. Maybe she just needed love.
And help. She had to be crazy.
When he heard
voices, he knew it. That guard, maybe the cops, were coming. But there was
still time. There was something special about her. Right now, he needed her love,
too.
That’s why they were
here.
His test results . .
. would be the same. With, or without her.
They’d both be
brought back to life.
“Oh, God,” he
said.
“Maybe I can!”
The cats whistled.
They paced restlessly, watching as she squeezed him tight.
Wildly, he pawed her
breasts, crotch, ass. Through their clothes, they rubbed hard against each
other. Made out, like it was the last hour of their lives . . .
Their very last chance.
“The Taste of Blood”
© 2006 by Cindy Rosmus. A longer version of “The Taste of Blood” was collected
in Angel of Manslaughter, 2nd ed. © 2020 by Hekate Publishing.
