Blood Lite

by Jim Butcher

  What he did know was that he could not embarrass his family by going home. Not then. Not ever.

  Thus began a lifetime of adventure for Nattee-Tohaquetta, aka Way-Out Willie. First he walked to Austin, Nevada, where he met a pretty young woman by the name of Dora who gave him shelter at her place of employment—the larger of Austin's two whorehouses. He quickly became a favorite of the rental ladies, who were quite happy to feed him in exchange for yard work and Indian tall tales. On his sixteenth birthday, they even took it upon themselves to initiate him into manhood in the pleasantest of fashions.

  Nattee and Dora became a couple. She continued plying her trade, but pleasured him on the side. In what spare time she had, she taught him to read, a skill that allowed him to learn about his ostriches. Of most significance to him was the fact that his spirit guide was not unique and he determined that he would earn the money to buy several more.

  He did, and Willie's Ostrich Farm and Whorehouse was born.

  All went well for him until his ostrich conspired to lead its fellows away from Willie's Farm and Whorehouse and onto the road that led from Austin to Belmont. Like a revolutionary army, sixty-three strong, they marched off, leaving Willie no longer the owner of an ostrich farm.

  Rather than search for them, he sold his farm, split the money with Dora, who said nothing about being with child, and took off for Las Vegas to become a gambler.

  The woman had called them "our soldiers," yet Willie had said they never attacked unless provoked.

  Or trained? Legs thought.

  Maybe he could find a way to free them, but what was the point if they killed whoever they'd been trained to kill? Or if they killed him.

  Either way, it seemed to him, he was a dead man.

  He was still staring at the birds when he heard a door open behind him. The man stood by the barn door they'd entered through while the woman stood near a storage closet he hadn't noticed before. She had stripped off her camo outfit and was standing in a pair of short shorts and pulling on one of those white suits that emergency workers wear when cleaning chemical spills.

  "You got some pair of legs. Let me out of here and I'll make you a star."

  Zippering the suit, she came toward him. She held a' large syringe in her right hand. Praying it wasn't meant for him, he squinted at the name tag attached to her suit and said, "Ava. Perfect. Why would you want to be here when you could be a headliner?"

  "You're a funny man, Mr. Cleveland." She came closer.

  "Legs," he said. "Call me Legs."

  "All right, Legs. Let's talk. What did Willie tell you about his work here?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing? That's hard to believe."

  "Believe it."

  For a moment, the woman was silent. Legs figured he had nothing to lose by asking what it was they were doing to the ostriches to turn them into killing machines and why they were doing it. He was as good as dead anyway. Might as well know what he was dying for.

  "Willie told you nothing?"

  "Nothing."

  "Tell me something, Mr. Cleveland. Legs. Do you also have an ostrich spirit guide?"

  Legs shook his head. "I don't believe in that stuff."

  She looked at the syringe in her hand. "He did," she said. "It kept him safe in there."

  Legs could feel the sweat running down his neck. "What did he do here?" he asked again.

  "He worked with the ostriches. Taught us about them."

  "Why?"

  She held up the syringe. "He wanted to live to be old," she said, "and keep his own teeth. There was a price to pay and he paid it."

  It was all Legs could do not to reach out and knock the syringe out of her hand. "I don't mind false teeth," he said.

  She laughed.

  "There has to be some other reason," Legs began.

  "There was. Me. I'm Dora's great-granddaughter."

  "Aren't you afraid I'll tell people—"

  "What? That we're training an army of killer ostriches? You've got to be kidding."

  "How much time do I have to spend here?"

  "As much as we say."

  In his mind, Legs heard old Willie telling him to behave. He saw only one realistic possibility open to him: He would work on Ava, which wouldn't be the worst punishment in the world. She did have great gams, and who knew, maybe she could sing.

  She pointed at a loft over the barn. "There's a mattress up there, a pillow, a blanket and a computer. You can use one, I assume." Without waiting for an answer she said, "Start learning about ostriches. Oh, and say hello to Willie."

  "Willie?"

  The man grinned. "See you later, if there's anything left of you to see," he said, and he and the woman walked out of the barn.

  Legs heard the bar falling into place and felt the warm trickle of urine down his legs.

  He had forgotten how cold it could get out in the high desert at night. Shivering, he made his way up to the loft, followed by one ostrich. He lit the kerosene lamp they'd left up there, and covered himself with the horsehair blanket. The portable computer was on the mattress, along with spare batteries. Next to the lamp was an old brass urn. He opened it up, hoping it held liquor, but it was filled with ashes.

  "I fucked up, Willie," he said, knowing at once that he was looking at what was left of his great-granduncle.

  "That you did." Willie's voice came from the ostrich. "I told you not to take the Road to Rachel."

  Legs knew he'd lost his mind. He was talking to a spirit guide and an invisible dead Indian.

  "You're stuck with us now," Willie said. "The collected wisdom of our people has to be passed along. You'll have to be the conduit."

  "You can pass on information about those things down there."

  "Careful. Don't want to insult my buddy. How about you start checking the computer."

  First, Legs found out why the ostriches were so silent. Apparently the males hissed and grunted, but just during mating season, when their necks turned blue. They could only kick forward, like the Rockettes. Their food was grasses and bugs and small pebbles to help their digestion. Their average weight was three hundred fifty pounds, yet they ran like the wind.

  Legs was growing tired. Before turning off the computer, he looked at the day's local headlines. More than seven hundred Nevada Test Site workers or their survivors were reopening cases linked to radioactive materials here at this federal facility northwest of Las Vegas.

  "Lovely," Legs said. "They'll stomp me to death or burn me to death."

  Willie chuckled. "Sleep well, kid," he said. "Happy dreams."

  He looked down at his charges. Two of them had separated from the others. The male's neck had turned blue. They were doing a bizarre dance around each other and, ugly as they were, they were clearly getting ready to mate. He laughed despite his circumstances, lay down, and fell into a heavy, dream-filled sleep.

  The first was about his attempt to build a chorus line out of a group of Zulu warriors he'd brought from Africa. Their performance had become a bloodbath when their war dance, rooted in their collective unconscious, took over.

  The second dream was Busby Berkeley's choreographed march through town from the Mickey Rooney-Judy Garland barn movie, Babes in Arms.

  He awoke to an entrepreneurial epiphany: Ostrich Rockettes high-stepping it down Fremont Street to "The March of the Wooden Soldiers." Like Russell Markert's original Rockettes, they wore faux military uniforms designed by Vincente Minnelli: wide-legged white sailor pants, fitted red jackets and high black hats topped with jaunty white feathers. They moved in one perfect line. He could see them in his mind's eye, moving in precise circles to form shapes that fit together like a puzzle. Standing sideways, they acted as if they had been hit by a blast from a cannon and fell down one by one, each partially on top of the dancer in front. Like dominos, they descended upon one another until the final dancer fell onto a huge red velvet cushion.

  It would be hypnotic.

  "Hey, Uncle Willie," Legs said, looking over
at the urn and feeling only slightly ridiculous. He heard a soft chuckle, followed by silence. "You not playing speaks?"

  Not sure what he was hoping to see, he walked over to the urn and looked inside at the ashes. Nothing moved, no voice rose to advise him. He waited a moment and gave up. He'd probably imagined Willie's voice. Anybody would get a little crazy under the circumstances.

  The barn door rattled and Ava opened it. She held a steaming bowl in one hand and a cup in the other.

  "Feeding time at the zoo, Legs," she said. "Come on down."

  He did as she said and was handed coffee and oatmeal. "Eat it. That's as good as it gets. When you're done, you'll feed the herd and clean up the shit." She wrinkled her nose. "Stinks in here."

  He took the meal and stepped hopefully toward the outdoors. She shook her head, then relented. "Okay, but don't try anything." She was back in fatigues, a whistle hanging from her neck and her pistol prominently displayed. He had no doubt she knew how to use it.

  After he had gratefully eaten the oatmeal, he lit a cigarette, counted how many he had left and sipped the coffee. It was surprisingly good.

  "I used to read stuff about UFOs around here. There's a website, ufomind.com, sends me all kinds of information. Know anything about that?"

  Ava shrugged. "The site's a mailing list for UFO and conspiracy nuts and it's being cut off on December eighteenth. That's all I know. It has nothing to do with my

  job."

  "What is your job and what the hell do I have to do

  with any of this?"

  "Guess it's time I tell you. Remember that dead body you found in the elevator at Country Club Towers and the fix-it man who died in your apartment?" "I'm not likely to forget!" "What do you think killed them?" Legs remembered the double gouges in each of the men's bellies and the blood. Not a pleasant sight. "I have no idea. Cops said it must be some kind of gang ritual, probably the Twenty-eighth Street gang." "No."

  "Who then?" "You mean what."

  Legs was getting annoyed and not a little antsy. Ava continued. "Didn't you read about the ostriches? The way they can kick a man—" "—No way."

  "Yes, way. Willie's guide did a perfect job." "How—?"

  "Listen to me. This is serious stuff. A military experiment. We hope to turn the herd into Special Ops assassins. They'll be shipped to the Middle East to mingle with the camels and get the terrorists. They're being programmed." Legs started to laugh. He couldn't help himself. What a gig. Ava was crazier than he was. "And my job is?" he asked when he calmed down.

  "Like I said. You feed them, clean up after them. You saw the syringe I had yesterday. They each get one of those every day."

  "Operation Ostrich," Legs said. "When is this supposed to happen?"

  "Think millennium."

  "If I go along with it—"

  "There ain't no 'if/ kid. Now get moving."

  After what was likely the worst day of his life, Legs returned to his mattress. For most of that night and the next, he formulated a plan. By the third day, he'd worked out the details. On New Year's Eve, he and as many of his ostrich buddies as he could muster would be off and running—not to the Middle East, but to the center of Las Vegas. He'd need to pick the ones who were in heat as his dancers.

  Until then, the trick was to stay alive.

  It took Legs another three days to get up the nerve to speak to Ava. He waited for breakfast, the only time he could actually talk to Ava, and put the beginnings of his plan into motion.

  "What's your take on the Yucca Mountain nuclear waste debate?"

  " 'Scuse me?"

  "Seriously," Legs said. "Does anything about it impact our ... um ... squadron?"

  "What do you think?"

  Legs's answer had to come out just right. He took his time.

  "I think you'd want to use the ostriches to deliver 'dirty bombs' from the Yucca Mountain nuclear waste to terrorist encampments."

  Ava stared at him. "You're not as dumb as you look, Legs Cleveland," she said, and spoke of something else.

  After a few more days, Legs said, more confidently, "I've been thinking about something we have to do with the soldiers. They need a trial run to see how they do as a team."

  "All of them? Not possible." "Right. But what about five or six?" "What do you have in mind?"

  Legs took a deep breath. "Ever seen the Radio City Rockettes?" he asked.

  She nodded. "Of course I have. Think I've lived all of my life out here in the boondocks?"

  "Good. Then think about this. On New Year's Eve day, there's going to be a major protest at Cashman Field against the Yucca Mountain project. What if we dress our soldiers as Rockettes and march them to town to pull for the project? They'll get all of the attention."

  Ava laughed long and hard. Then suddenly she was quiet. After several minutes, she said, "Be a lot of major politicians there and a couple of bands and fireworks." Legs merely nodded.

  The following morning, Ava reopened the subject. "Can you have them trained in time?" she asked. "Sure. No problem." "And you'll need what from me?" "I'll need costumes so we can dress them like the Rockettes. One for you, too, if you want to dance with them." She smiled.

  "Told you I'd make you a star," Legs said. And so the preparations began.

  When the day came, everything was ready. Legs patted his pocket, making sure he hadn't forgotten Uncle Willie, whom he'd poured into a Baggie, figuring the old man wouldn't want to miss the show. With Ava's help, he piled five "Rockettes" into a large van with the backseats removed. He'd found two couples and a fifth who made everything possible: Uncle Willie's spirit guide, with whose help he taught them high kicks and tried the "Shuffle Off to Buffalo," though without much success.

  Truth was, all he wanted was to cause enough of a ruckus to give him enough cover to leave town. He hadn't yet decided whether to sprinkle Willie on a poker table en route.

  Legs sat in the back with the ostriches, each of which wore a banner reading welcome to yucca mountain. Ava drove, looking stunning in her costume. When they got Downtown to Cashman Field, Ava drove them through several roadblocks with a flash of her credentials. Parked near the loading docks, they assembled the troupe. When they were all set, they walked past hot dog stands and popcorn vendors. The soldiers would love the popcorn, he thought, as they headed into the stadium, where a local band playing loud rock held the attention of most of the security personnel assigned to the event.

  While Ava and the ostriches waited in what was the visiting team's dugout when the Las Vegas 51s were playing baseball, Legs bounded onto the stage in the echoing last notes of one of the interchangeable rock anthems he abhorred. Taking the microphone, he said, "Thank you. Thank you. And now, a special surprise performance."The strains of "The March of the Wooden Soldiers" started to play over the loudspeakers and Ava high-stepped out of the dugout, followed by the five costumed ostriches. As they reached the center of the field, the birds began a strange dance around the woman. Watching her gorgeous gams move in time to the music, Legs almost forgot to edge his way toward the home team's dugout, where he could make good his escape.

  The crowd, at first stunned into silence, began to cheer and laugh. Legs felt rather than heard Uncle Willie's voice slip from his pocket up to his neck and into his ear. "Run, Legs," it whispered.

  But he was rooted to the ground. With enormous effort, he moved one foot, then the other.

  Legs moved faster now. He reached the steps off the field and took the Baggie out of his pocket. It stuck to his fingers. Legs peeled it off his hand, along with a layer of skin. "Thank you, Nattee-Tohaquetta," he said.

  He looked at his troop. Something was amiss. Ava twirled and pointed at a set of box seats behind home plate. He recognized several prominent senators from nearby states standing there, all of whom were staunchly opposed to the use of Yucca Mountain as a nuclear storage facility.

  That was when the ostriches abandoned the dance Legs had taught them and ran head-on in a vicious assault. Blood and brains fle
w into the crowd, raining onto the first few rows.

  In his ear, he heard Uncle Willie's voice, clearer than the screams and the music. "I told you not to screw with my spirit guide, nephew."

  From the middle of the carnage an ostrich, its red-and-white costume smeared with gore, came charging toward Legs. "It's still my guide," Willie's voice said. "Throw me away and it'll come to me."

  An Indian war cry rose above the sounds of death and Legs was shocked to realize it came from his own throat. He flung the ashes into the path of the oncoming bird. It grabbed the Baggie from the air in its beak, stopped and whipped around, showering Willie onto the ground, on top of the peanut shells and popcorn and political flyers.

  Legs turned to run and never looked back.

  PR Problems

  Eric James Stone

  What annoys me the most about vampires and werewolves is their good PR. Not that I want a return to the days of villagers with pitchforks and torches, but all the romantic attachment to predators who hunt and kill humans makes me sick.

  So when a cannibalistic serial killer started leaving the gnawed-on bones of his victims in public places, did the media label him a vampire? No. A werewolf? No. The press called him the "Grove City Ghoul." Those reporters had obviously never heard of fact-checking.

  First, we ghouls are carrion eaters, not predators— hyenas, not wolves. Sure, we like to feast on human flesh, but we find bodies that are already dead and eat them, after they've had a chance to decay a bit. For some inexplicable reason, people seem to think that's more grotesque than the actual killing by vampires and werewolves.

  Second, a ghoul wouldn't just gnaw on the bones, he would eat them. Besides being nice and crunchy, they're a good source of calcium. That's why ghouls never suffer from osteoporosis.

  We ghouls just have bad PR. And the serial killer wasn't helping.

  But what could I do about it? I worked as property manager for a high-rise apartment complex. Vampires might whine till daybreak about how their undead lives sucked, but it was vampires and werewolves who got the really cool jobs, like private detective or radio talk-show host. My crime-fighting experience was limited to stuff like catching the Nelson kids from apartment 4C spray-painting graffiti in the parking lot, while my radio experience consisted of listening, not talking.