When the camp was silent, and had been silent for a good while, Henry
shuffled away from the wall and out from under the bed. In his confusion
about the hat, Colonel Potter had left the light on, giving Henry a fuller
view of the new digs. He sat down on the cot, blinked once or twice in
confusion, and then stood up again.
Turning, he peered down at the surface on which he'd been sitting. "A mattress?" he wondered quietly, a hint of envy creeping into his tone. "A mattress." He repeated, shrugging as he turned his attention to a shirt draped over a chair. "Oh. A full colonel. Well, that explains that." His gaze grew more vacant, and he stared off across the room. "And here I am, talking to myself."
Beating his fist into the palm of his opposite hand, issuing forth a loud smack, "Gosh darnit, Henry, why all this sneaking around?" He demanded of himself. "You coulda just come in here, found Hawk or Trap, had a talk, had a drink-err-well, right." The thought of the boy flashed into his mind and stuck there, an annoying fly that won't quite get out of his field of vision. He opened his mouth to add something else to his tirade to self. And shut it again. No sense finding anybody now. They'll all be in surgery. And the OR is the last place on earth, Henry suspected, that he needed or wanted to be. He'd have to find them tomorrow. He briefly estimated by the size of the first rush of choppers that they'd be out sometime early -----afternoon.
"Oh, Jeez." He muttered, coming outside and looking up at the dark 4 AM sky, which, as had just occurred to him, wouldn't stay dark forever. If he really was-- that is to day, if his predicament was what he thought it might be-- well, what kinds of ill effects would it have on him, during the, you know, daytime? Walking out into the empty compound, he thought on what he knew about vampires. Garlic and crosses were supposed to keep them away. Stakes through the heart and sunlight were supposed to kill them.
A quick stop in Father Mulcahy's tent and around back of the mess tent were easy enough tests of the first two. He indeed had felt a small twinge of guilt about going through the chaplain's personal belongings in his absence, and on attempting to ingest a bit of garlic had been forced to throw the chewed substance back up, but he had felt no pain or extraordinary fear on account of the crosses, and when he attempted the food experiment with some of the other items (though he chucklingly admitted that it was hard enough to keep down when he was alive) he had come to the same results.
He had some idea that he had had a stake through his heart before, and that he had survived. In a manner of speaking.
Towards dawn, he grew nervous. Not to mention tired. Sunlight isn't a cross. If it starts to irritate, there's no quick getting away from it.
"Oh, God. I can't believe I'm doing this." Henry yawned, as he stepped into the coffin and shut the lid.
~
Henry didn't even have the wherewithal to groan in pain as he awoke the next evening. 'Have I been flipping /sleepwalking/?' he grimaced to himself, for that drained, empty feeling was back. And worse than ever. His jaw gaped open, his fangs extended in the darkness of the coffin. His body was freezing cold, and it hurt to blink; it hurt to breathe. In fact, he halted both of these activities, which he had continued out of sheer force of habit in the time since his death.
When the throbbing scent of life made itself known outside his hastily chosen abode, he inwardly panicked. But that only lasted a second. He moved as if on autopilot, opening the coffin and calmly stepping out.
The fangs lighting upon the startled throat of Hawkeye Pierce cut short the intoxication-delayed cry that attempted to issue forth.
Henry's arms slipped under the slumping arms of the suddenly docile doctor and held him up with an amount of ease that would have startled him if he'd been paying attention. But that was not, of course, the case.
It was the best thing he'd ever tasted in his life. He drank in the red gushing liquid and it hardly seemed to go down his throat as much as soak into his tongue and the roof of his mouth. A giddy giggle echoed inside his head as the Thing inside him became whetted and eventually leaned toward not causing him to ache any longer. Meanwhile, beyond the pure satisfaction of the blood, there was something else, something that spoke to Henry himself. It took him a moment to put his finger on it, but then the familiar burn and then dull soothe of the caustic fluid, not to mention its relaxing effects, clicked into place.
'Ah,' thought Henry, finding himself recognizing the tint of the juice of the swamp rats' gin machine, 'This morning was a very good year.'
Letting the blood soothe his beast, and the gin soothe his nerves, Henry drank.
~
Turning, he peered down at the surface on which he'd been sitting. "A mattress?" he wondered quietly, a hint of envy creeping into his tone. "A mattress." He repeated, shrugging as he turned his attention to a shirt draped over a chair. "Oh. A full colonel. Well, that explains that." His gaze grew more vacant, and he stared off across the room. "And here I am, talking to myself."
Beating his fist into the palm of his opposite hand, issuing forth a loud smack, "Gosh darnit, Henry, why all this sneaking around?" He demanded of himself. "You coulda just come in here, found Hawk or Trap, had a talk, had a drink-err-well, right." The thought of the boy flashed into his mind and stuck there, an annoying fly that won't quite get out of his field of vision. He opened his mouth to add something else to his tirade to self. And shut it again. No sense finding anybody now. They'll all be in surgery. And the OR is the last place on earth, Henry suspected, that he needed or wanted to be. He'd have to find them tomorrow. He briefly estimated by the size of the first rush of choppers that they'd be out sometime early -----afternoon.
"Oh, Jeez." He muttered, coming outside and looking up at the dark 4 AM sky, which, as had just occurred to him, wouldn't stay dark forever. If he really was-- that is to day, if his predicament was what he thought it might be-- well, what kinds of ill effects would it have on him, during the, you know, daytime? Walking out into the empty compound, he thought on what he knew about vampires. Garlic and crosses were supposed to keep them away. Stakes through the heart and sunlight were supposed to kill them.
A quick stop in Father Mulcahy's tent and around back of the mess tent were easy enough tests of the first two. He indeed had felt a small twinge of guilt about going through the chaplain's personal belongings in his absence, and on attempting to ingest a bit of garlic had been forced to throw the chewed substance back up, but he had felt no pain or extraordinary fear on account of the crosses, and when he attempted the food experiment with some of the other items (though he chucklingly admitted that it was hard enough to keep down when he was alive) he had come to the same results.
He had some idea that he had had a stake through his heart before, and that he had survived. In a manner of speaking.
Towards dawn, he grew nervous. Not to mention tired. Sunlight isn't a cross. If it starts to irritate, there's no quick getting away from it.
"Oh, God. I can't believe I'm doing this." Henry yawned, as he stepped into the coffin and shut the lid.
~
Henry didn't even have the wherewithal to groan in pain as he awoke the next evening. 'Have I been flipping /sleepwalking/?' he grimaced to himself, for that drained, empty feeling was back. And worse than ever. His jaw gaped open, his fangs extended in the darkness of the coffin. His body was freezing cold, and it hurt to blink; it hurt to breathe. In fact, he halted both of these activities, which he had continued out of sheer force of habit in the time since his death.
When the throbbing scent of life made itself known outside his hastily chosen abode, he inwardly panicked. But that only lasted a second. He moved as if on autopilot, opening the coffin and calmly stepping out.
The fangs lighting upon the startled throat of Hawkeye Pierce cut short the intoxication-delayed cry that attempted to issue forth.
Henry's arms slipped under the slumping arms of the suddenly docile doctor and held him up with an amount of ease that would have startled him if he'd been paying attention. But that was not, of course, the case.
It was the best thing he'd ever tasted in his life. He drank in the red gushing liquid and it hardly seemed to go down his throat as much as soak into his tongue and the roof of his mouth. A giddy giggle echoed inside his head as the Thing inside him became whetted and eventually leaned toward not causing him to ache any longer. Meanwhile, beyond the pure satisfaction of the blood, there was something else, something that spoke to Henry himself. It took him a moment to put his finger on it, but then the familiar burn and then dull soothe of the caustic fluid, not to mention its relaxing effects, clicked into place.
'Ah,' thought Henry, finding himself recognizing the tint of the juice of the swamp rats' gin machine, 'This morning was a very good year.'
Letting the blood soothe his beast, and the gin soothe his nerves, Henry drank.
~