by Garon Whited
“I don’t care about their peace of mind.”
“Oh. Then, by all means, let’s go find a box. Want to mail it or drop it off?”
“Trust a delicate scientific instrument to the postal service?”
“Fair point.”
Dropping off a package at the Cosmo was surprisingly simple. I went up to the desk clerk, handed over the box, made sure he understood it was for one Theodore Reynolds—care of Lorenzo Castiglione—and walked back out.
Nobody tried to jump me. It was almost disappointing. Then again, I didn’t completely expect them to. How many vampires brazenly walk into the place? Neither side is interested in making a scene. True, someone did try to follow us, but we pulled into an all-night gas station, got out, and waved at him. I could see the look on his face as he realized a fundamental truth: Discretion was the better part of survival. He drove away. We cruised around for a bit, but spotted no other tails.
These people need to up their game if they’re taking on vampires. Could they simply not know enough? I mean, stakes, yeah. Beheading, yeah. Sunlight, yeah. But do they know anything more than that? I’m guessing they don’t. If they did have an extensive understanding of their enemy, they wouldn’t have wanted to take one apart so badly.
“No!”
I jerked out of my reverie at Mary’s sharp word.
“What? What?” I demanded, looking around. We were cruising through some low-rent district with nothing exceptional in sight. Bronze was startled, as well. We both directed our attention to Mary.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking, no. I’ve seen that look on your face before. It’s a terrible idea.”
“You can tell my terrible ideas just from the look on my face?”
“Yes.”
I wanted to hand her a snap answer and couldn’t find one. She might be able to do it.
“Don’t you even want to know what it is?”
“Sure.”
“I was thinking of helping the Reynolds family learn more about vampires. They could do a better job of hunting Boojums if they were better informed.”
“Good to know. Now forget it.”
“Why?”
“Let me think a moment. They’ll never fully trust you and may give you away—by accident, perhaps—to other vampire hunters. The Boojum may notice when its minions get slaughtered en masse, which will attract its attention—either to you or to them or to both. Assuming you deal with the Boojum-vamps, do you branch out to other species? Assuming this world has other species. Just because we haven’t noticed them doesn’t mean they aren’t around. Are you going to catalogue them all with the help of the vampire hunting club that wants you exterminated?”
“You raise disturbingly good points.”
“Just pointing out how bad your idea is. They’ve been coping fairly well without you for the history of the world. Don’t spoil it. You’ve already given them extra information and some handy tools. Know when to quit.”
“All right, all right,” I grumbled. “Can we still stick around for Halloween?”
“Yes, provided we’re a long way from here.”
“Deal.”
Oregon isn’t exactly the fun capitol of the world, but it’s a long way from Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Far enough away, at any rate, to satisfy Mary. Portland is the major city; it’s about sixteen hours away from Las Vegas when you drive like a law-abiding citizen. It’s much quicker to let Bronze run the whole way with body bags for sunset and the occasional pit stop for gas.
I’m certain we passed some policemen sitting in speed traps. Why they didn’t hit their lights and chase us, I’m not certain. Bronze didn’t try to explain, but I had a distinct feeling of smugness from her. I chose not to pursue that line of inquiry. She’d just outrun it, anyway.
Flintridge, Friday, October 31st, 1969
We arrived in time for lunch at a couple of diners, then found a hotel. The concierge was quite helpful in our quest to locate a Halloween party or three. I avoided costume contests, since it’s hardly fair to participate. Aside from the opportunity to go full vampire without anyone screaming, I like seeing what other people have done.
We gatecrashed a couple of sizable parties on the strength of our costumes. The first party, Mary didn’t care for. Not enough costume effort, not enough entertaining conversation. The second one, I didn’t like. Too loud, too crowded. But the third party was fit for the littlest bear—just right.
Their venue started life as a warehouse by the river, was converted to a stage theater, then reconverted into an events establishment—weddings, formal dinners, that kind of thing. The decorations were mediocre, but they didn’t require an invitation. Food and drink were for sale inside, but there was no cover charge for those in costume.
I liked it. It had, for me, a very retro feel. The music was a combination of live musicians and someone playing actual vinyl records—a disc jockey in the original sense of the term. It wasn’t as loud as I expected, either. I didn’t have to enspell my ears to dial everything down. I think it helped that the lighting was low-key and the only flashy thing in the room was the disco ball.
The costumes were more interesting. These weren’t off-the-shelf, generic costumes. People put something together rather than buy a kit. Frankenstein’s monster was quite impressive, with high-rise shoes and extra shoulder padding. He reminded me of Herman Munster. Most of the vampiresses were themed on Morticia Addams. The Mummy struck me as more Accident Victim than ancient corpse, but the Egyptian-themed jewelry sold the costume. Besides, his date was an actual accident victim, on crutches, with a cast on her leg. The additional bandages and fake blood turned it all into a good outfit. There were angels of various degrees of authenticity and origin, a few devils and demons of the reddish variety, a couple of Greeks, a couple of Romans, a smattering of Olympian deities, and one Statue of Liberty.
Note for anyone thinking of trying a Statue of Liberty costume: Be tall. The spiky hat is a hazard.
Our own outfits were both complimented and lightly criticized. Mary was a lovely ballgown-wearing Countess Elizabeth Báthory to my medieval Dracula. Firebrand got lots of compliments, especially since the dragon-headed pommel was entirely appropriate for Vlad Dracul. Our “makeup” was also universally admired, although the most common question was why I chose to have dark grey skin.
“Everybody knows vampires are medieval metaphors for disease, being all pale and thin, but if they did exist, would a nighttime predator show up well in the dark?”
Most people nodded thoughtfully and went with it.
The other complaint, if I can call it that, was from a couple of the more Dracula-literate. They pointed out I lacked the proper crest of the House Dracul. I agreed and sighed heavily, bemoaning the difficulties of finding a decent embroidery shop.
It was all friendly, however, much to my delight and surprise. Nobody told me we were dressed “wrong.” It was always, “Say, you know what would make it even more authentic?” or, “Have you ever considered…?”
Was cosplay a thing in 1969? I don’t know, but it seemed to be on this world. Plus, I liked these people. It makes me want to try our outfits out at Comic-Con or some other major modern cosplay event. Maybe with a little more preparation, though. I mean, the fangs and the eyes are good, but the clothes make it work.
Strangely enough, what made me popular was a stupid bar trick.
A nice lady was having trouble opening a can of beer. Her nails were long and it was awkward. Her date was juggling both their plates and a beer of his own, so I took it from her, used one thumbnail like a church key, and punched out two holes on opposite sides of the can’s top. She accepted the beer when I handed it back and her date laughed aloud, a whoop of delight, and asked me to do it again.
Mary pointedly failed to rescue me from the gathering crowd. She stood off to the side and smirked.
I could have done it all night, of course, but eventually pleaded tiredness and aching thumbnails. Guys, I don’t usually do this
more than once or twice an hour. Gimme a break…
Eventually, I rejoined Mary and we sat at a little, two-person table near the bar.
“Thanks for the rescue.”
“You managed. It wasn’t so bad.”
“I suppose.”
“Good. By the way, did you notice the nonhumans in the crowd?”
“Yes,” I admitted, quietly, “but I’m not sure what all of them are.”
“I’ve spotted the two other vampires, but no Boojums. You were right. There are others in this world.”
“Any idea what species they are?”
“Nope. He’s a pretty good Elvis, but her Marilyn needs work. Did you see that wig?”
“Now, now. She’s got the legs for it.”
“And she keeps showing them off in that skirt.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I am not!” Mary snapped, then paused. “Do I?”
“You can’t show off your legs in that gown,” I pointed out. “On the other hand, you have more places to hide weapons, a better figure, and hair that doesn’t need to be pinned on.”
“All good points,” she agreed, leaning over to snuggle up to my arm. “I guess I was comparing myself to her.”
“I wasn’t. There is no comparison.”
Mary continued to snuggle up to my arm as we wandered around. There were two other unusual spots.
“There,” she indicated with a nod of her head, “and there.”
I looked them over while pretending to sip a drink. Both were men, standing at the bar—no stools here—dressed in matching lumberjack-werewolf outfits. I wondered how much of the hair was built-in. They were busy drinking, as though trying to drain the bar, and generally being loud. They were hard not to notice.
On another level, they were equally hard to ignore. Their spirits glowed brighter than usual, as though someone screwed a hundred-watt bulb into a forty-watt lamp. They also had an odor, almost a musk, strong enough for us to pick out in a room full of people, booze, and excessive makeup.
“Werewolves?” I asked. “It goes with their outfits.”
“Could be. Never met one.”
“Me, either. I think I saw one once, in passing. Do we get along?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do vampires and werewolves get along? Is there a history? Or is it a case by case basis?”
“I have no idea. They’re not making trouble and there are four vampires—us and the other two—here in the room.”
“Can they tell?”
“I’d guess all of them have a keen sense of smell and no desire to spoil the party.”
“Hmm. Probably. Go on.”
“I’d suppose it’s an individual thing, unless werewolves have some sort of racial grudge. I wouldn’t think we come into contact too much, though. They would prefer rural areas, wouldn’t they? Vampires need more people around, so we would be city dwellers. It’s all about the prey. If they are werewolves, though, they’re out of their territory.”
“Or we’re in theirs,” I countered.
“Wouldn’t they have said something?” Mary asked, cocking her head.
“I’d think so, if they have territorial instincts. I guess it depends on whether they think of us as competition. Maybe they don’t care. We don’t eat the bodies, just drain them. It could work out as a partnership. Besides, they look more interested in drinking and dancing than in pouncing.”
“Do we ask?”
“Nope. We mind our own business.” At her disappointed expression, I added, “If they speak to us, we can try to be friendly and agreeable. I don’t know what a werewolf can do. I don’t want to find out they grow to Sasquatch size and take heads off in a single bite.”
“That’s a disturbing thought. Okay. How about you pretend to dance with me?”
“Madam, I would be delighted to enjoy your dance while I shuffle around the floor.”
“Charmer.”
I wasn’t kidding. Mary dances. I don’t. I do try, and it helps that our intertwined tendrils give us a psychic connection. I never interfere with her movements and I’m always there to support her. She dances. I’m a mobile prop, pole, and ballet bar. It works out.
We took another table—our previous table was occupied—and pretended to enjoy our drinks.
“I want to go talk to the werewolves,” Mary decided.
“I don’t.”
“Spoilsport.”
“I’m just trying to keep me out of trouble. You go ahead.”
“You’re not trying to keep me out of trouble?”
“I’m not trying to sweep the ocean off the beach, either. I’ll be here if you need me, though.”
“You’re sweet,” she told me. She kissed me on the cheek and glided over to the bar and the faux lumberjacks. The conversation went surprisingly well. They leered rather more than was polite, but they also smiled and laughed a lot. Eventually, Mary returned to our table, wearing an amused expression.
“No blood,” I observed.
“They’re quite charming, in a rustic, down-to-earth way. They were surprised I wanted to talk to them, being a dead person and all.”
“So, are they werewolves?”
“Yes. Not bad people, all things considered. They don’t much care for undead, but humans are the same way. These two are only here to have a good time, like us.”
“That sounds remarkably reasonable.”
“Sadly, yes. No adventure there, unless we’re still here tomorrow. These two enjoy the Halloween opportunity too much to spoil it.”
“Poor sweetheart. Do you want to try and tango?”
“I’ll manage. Will you?”
“If you help.”
Apocalyptica, Friday, October 31st, Year 11
Yes, it’s Halloween again. It’s always Halloween somewhere. There are millions of worlds in the catalog, so the odds are good I can find an October 31st whenever I want one.
There isn’t much fun in Apocalyptica on Halloween. The villages don’t go in for it and the residence silos need more people to make it worthwhile. I suppose I could conjure up spirits or have Diogenes build a holographic haunted house, but it’s not the same.
I’ve been waiting for the Karvalen fleet to get its act together. Apparently, it takes not only more time and effort to call up an army than I thought, but a lot more time and effort. Fortunately, we’re done with Flintridge, so I don’t have many things demanding my attention. I’ve goofed off a bit with my shift-booths and scrying mirrors, catching up on things without ever leaving the closet.
The Manor is one of them. It seems to be chugging along just fine as a school. There has been plenty of unusual traffic to and from, but the kids are still there and classes continue. There have been police, some military, and quite a few civilians, but nobody’s shut the place down. It’ll do. I doubt I’m going to put in an appearance again.
Flintridge is also going well. Sitting in the garage one afternoon, I tracked the spyglass and observed Ted using it to get bearings on a soulless bloodsucker. It works by blanking out everything from view, leaving only a generic, undifferentiated whiteness. The signature of the Boojum shows up as a humanoid black spot. Ted mounted the spyglass on a surveyor’s tripod and, judging from the backpack radio-phone in the car, they were triangulating on a target.
I shouldn’t worry about them so much. They were killing the things before I ever found out what spawned them.
Foothold is also a going concern. Diogenes feels confident in his ability to switch our base of operations to Foothold without trouble. We’re still focused on renovating Apocalyptica, but if Mary and I dive through a portal a half-second ahead of the Sun going nova, we’ll regard it as a setback, not necessarily a problem.
It helps that Diogenes keeps disconnecting from the Foothold universe. He checks in and resyncs with it every twelve hours in Apocalyptica, but sometimes Foothold timeslips. At worst, it makes no progress, but it can potentially leapfrog ahead by days, months, or years. At the m
oment, it’s about six weeks ahead of schedule.
I also did something I should have done a long time ago. I cranked up a scrying mirror and took a peek at the Moon.
There’s not a lot to see. I mean, it’s pretty, in a black-and-white fashion. It’s stark and barren and has heavy contrast. But it’s, well… rocks, mostly. Which is fine if you’re into airless wastelands with pale dust and harsh lighting, but it’s a niche market, not much of an advertisement for tourism. It took a while to locate anything habitable. Diogenes had to help me with a holographic map while I zoomed in and out.
The most obvious thing about the Moon is the Equatorial Highway. I don’t know if that’s what they call it, but it seems like a good name. A close-up examination of the thing revealed it to be exactly that: A long strip of concrete pavement running all the way around the Moon. It wasn’t there for frivolous reasons, though. Running alongside the highway was a strip of solar panels on tracking mounts. True, half of them would always be in shadow during the lunar night, but half would always be in sunlight, unfiltered by atmosphere.
Quick back-of-the-envelope calculation. The equator of the Moon is about eleven thousand kilometers. That’s as long as a highway stretching, roughly, from Cape Town to Anchorage. Fortunately, the Moon doesn’t have any large bodies of water in the way. If they have a row of solar panels one meter wide, that’s eleven thousand kilometers… eleven million meters… eleven million square meters of solar panels. Half of them are in the dark, so only five and a half million are active at a time. The occasional eclipse might be a problem, but those are predictable.
They didn’t stop with one row. There are several linear arrays along either side of the highway. Zipping along the highway with a scrying sensor showed me several moon vehicles on the highway, carrying loads of cargo. A few were stopped in the parking lane, on the night half of the Moon. These were the transports for space-suited figures doing maintenance on the arrays and adding more panels. I envied them their ease of power production. There are good points to living on the Moon.