(This is a continuation of the story, THE EMPTY CHAIRS. For some background see that story.)
Barbra got up naked, opened the draperies on the tall windows, and looked into the dark.
She wasn't entirely sure where she was; she'd gotten disoriented in the new city, and had needed a place to sleep through the day. She'd found a real estate sign, hopped a garden wall, and let herself into a vacant apartment. There were cameras for security, but they were nothing that concerned her. Halfway through the day a security car had stopped by for a cursory inspection, but that was all.
She stretched and stood up on tiptoe, looking at the clothes thrown on the floor.
They were baggy and un-stylish. She'd decided on a look of American Backpacker: jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, low sneakers, frayed baseball cap. Cheap underwear and no socks. Logoed backpack. She felt stuck in a bad style, but knew no-one looked at her at all, except for maybe possible pickpockets or purse snatchers. She made her shoulders shrug. It didn't matter, really. One thing did matter, though: she was hungry. Very hungry. And weirdly dissatisfied.
"Hm." The sound reverberated around the clean, ready-to-sell room. The furniture looked like rental. Thinking about what to do, Barbra went in the clean bathroom and washed up, showering with no soap, just wiping off grime. She couldn't see herself in mirrors anymore, and had to settle for trying to wipe every part of her face. The toilet sat on the floor, and she regarded it, propping a fist on her hip: she didn't need that machine any more. She actually couldn't remember what it felt like to have to do that. Periods seemed also to have stopped.
"Hm."
In the kitchen she poked through the drawers and finally turned on the TV, watching some news show about the usual crimes and politics. Frustrated, she got dressed, thought, then hid the backpack in a closet. She could stay in this place for a few nights. She let herself out a back door, and hopped the garden wall into a short stand of woods. An old man wearing an old man cap walked through on a path, led along by an elderly dog on a leash. When she went past the dog did the usual thing and whined and cowered from her. She couldn't pet dogs, cats went berserk in her presence, and her one try at sleeping in a zoo had been an experience: it had made the news in the town where she'd done it.
She felt the old man's blood pumping and moaned. "Guhhhh..." Shit, she was hungry. It was also still up in the air what the ethics of all this was. So far she hadn't faced her state, and hadn't really eaten. She'd done some things, really stupid butcher shop things: sucking blood off meat and other embarrassing acts, to stave off the worst of the hunger pains, but that was all. She hadn't felt good for several weeks. Not since the night. She felt, just... incompetent. She felt like she wasn't managing her needs very well.
"It's not like I got a manual, or a rule book..." she mumbled. At least money hadn't turned out to be a problem; she simply told people to give her money and they did. She could get people, individuals, to give her things: all she had to do was make eye contact. That had freaked her out at first, but now she just did it without thinking. The same with lodging; cameras couldn't see her, so she just slept anywhere to wait out the daylight. The sun was her enemy, she'd learned that, and she slept during the day, often in empty houses and apartments. She smiled; she refused to sleep in tombs or do the graveyard thing. There was also an issue of whether or not she was dead or what. She didn't feel dead; or un-dead; or anything. She just felt strange and right now, starving. Just fucking starving.
The streets led her around, into a warren of little alleys and dirty backs of storefronts. It was not a very safe city, a nasty bastard around every corner, and nowhere for a tourist chick to be at night; but for her, there was no danger. She wasn't nervous or afraid in the least. She'd learned she didn't stay injured: cuts and scrapes healed instantly. People couldn't hurt her, so that wasn't an issue. But she was looking for something, something... manageable? She couldn't articulate it. Irritated, she picked out a neon sign at random and walked into a bar or pub or whatever. The customers looked at her as she entered. It was a dive, filled with rough-looking people.
Pulling a fistful of crumpled bills out of the hoodie pocket she ordered a beer, even though she couldn't drink it. The bartender looked at the pile of bills and his eyes bugged out: she'd dumped a shitload of money on the bar without really thinking. It was probably more than what the barkeep made in six months. He picked through the pile carefully, removed a bill, and rang up her purchase. She stuffed the remainder of the pile back in her pocket.
The crowd's blood pumped in their bodies, most of it diluted with alcohol. She felt the bartender's body: he was older and not well; his heart was sluggish, struggling.
Not even a minute later a guy came up and started talking to her. He was skinny and had an impenetrable accent. Everything he said sounded like 'garble garble garble'. He smelled funny. Barbra tried to think what the smell was, it wasn't a scent or a perfume or even a detergent: it was something in him. There was something wrong with his blood. He was sick. She waved him away without looking at him. He didn't leave.
She got annoyed and said, rudely, "Fuck off, shithead. Go away."
The man recoiled; he apparently hadn't expected that. He started talking again, leaning in, over her: 'garble garble garble girlie'.
Barbra got angry and told him, "What, did I stutter? Get your stinking body away from me. I'm not interested in you."
She made eye contact, but the crowd was too distracting, the man was drunk, and it had little effect. She picked up the glass and faked taking a sip; the sensation of the beer almost made her gag. The man stunk, the beer was undrinkable, she was starving, and now she was pissed off and frustrated. She got up and left the place, leaving change on the bar.
Several blocks away, Barbra realized she'd been followed.
She shook her head in exasperation: she'd been careless with the money and drawn attention to herself. That was dumb. She walked into a dim alleyway and waited. Three people came after her. One was a big guy, another was a smallish dude wearing a ball cap, and the last was a hard-looking woman, with long hair and a leather jacket. They all reeked of thug. On a whim Barbra decided to allow herself to be 'robbed'. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the money, extending it in front of her. She could always get more.
"Here. Now leave me alone." It was a fair warning, she felt.
The woman walked forward and took the money, smirking. She stuck the money in her pocket, sneered and said, "Smart girl."
Barbra got annoyed with the woman, her stomach churning. She snapped, "Fuck you." She could feel blood moving in their bodies. It made her shake. The big guy moved forward and grabbed her shirt. He grinned, a big evil grin, and pawed her breasts through her clothes. The woman laughed.
