Bad to the Bone

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Franklin chuckles. “Tell David which subject you’re taking this semester.”

  I lift my chin and enunciate the words “Business ethics.”

  David laughs. “Does that count as your foreign language?”

  “Hah!” Franklin high - fives him. “I told her she should use herself as a case study. How to stay in business by impersonating your dead boss.”

  David’s smile fades, followed by Franklin’s smirk.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” Franklin says. “I forgot.”

  David nods, then extracts his fake fangs. “I need a drink. Help yourselves to—” He flaps his fingers at the table, then walks into the kitchen without another word.

  Franklin runs a heavy hand through his thinning blond hair, and I decide not to chide him. We’ve all made his mistake—mentioning the station’s late owner in a less than sensitive manner. Elizabeth Vasser was a vampire, but not a DJ. She was loved by approximately one person: David.

  I turn up the radio, as if that will reduce the tension. It’s tuned to WVMP, of course. From six to nine tonight, they’re rebroadcasting Shane’s latest show, with one major difference.

  While Franklin empties the candy corn into a plastic skull, I move to the sliding glass door that leads to David’s deck. His closest neighbor is half a mile away, on the other side of a large cornfield; the eight - foot wall of dried stalks obscures the view of the distant farmhouse.

  Red streaks of light flame the field, then fade as the sun sets. A white cat trots up the stairs of the deck. I slide open the door so it can saunter in.

  “Hey, Antoine.”

  The cat hops over the threshold and drops a dead cricket at my feet.

  “Uh, thanks.”

  Antoine was Elizabeth’s cat—named, perversely, after the teenage vampire who made her back in 1997, the vampire David staked in revenge for turning his fiancée into a monster and thus dashing his hopes for growing old with her. When she died permanently, he adopted her cat and has yet to change its name.

  The song ends, and a familiar voice replaces last night’s preempted Tori Amos tune.

  “94.3 WVMP - FM, Sherwood, Maryland. Shane McAllister here, live on this all - too - sunny Halloween evening. In a few minutes I’ll return you to the replay of this morning’s show. But first I have a special message for the people who interrupted our broadcast at midnight and again at 3:07 a.m.”

  David comes out of the kitchen and shares a look of trepidation with me and Franklin.

  “We’re not afraid of you,” Shane says. “You don’t have God on your side. All you have are deep pockets and a pair of artificially inflated ‘nads.” His cool voice contains a sharp edge of anger. “You know what we’re gonna do when we find your pointy electronic friend, the one that’s been chewing up our frequency? We’re going to snap it in half, then play nothing but female artists all day, one bitchin’ babe after another, while you sit in jail choking on your own hate.” After a short pause, he says, “Happy Holiday.”

  A commercial comes on, filling the show’s gap left by last night’s pirates.

  “That was subtle,” Franklin says.

  “It gets us attention,” I point out, “which means ratings.”

  “Not if these people get pissed off and decide to throw a twenty - four - hour broadcast blanket over us. It’s not like the authorities will do anything.”

  I can’t blame Franklin for his frustration. This morning the FCC told us to fill out a complaint form and fax it to their Enforcement Division. I’m sure we’ll hear back from them before the end of the Mayan calendar.

  “These people won’t cut us off completely.” David carefully pours orange juice into a row of brain molds. “They’re trying to make a point.”

  The word “point” reminds me of something Shane said. “David, what would one of those translator thingies look like?”

  “All it takes is an antenna and a repeater, which is about the size of a fuse box. Usually they’re on a tower at the top of a hill.” He wipes up a puddle of spilled juice. “But Sherwood has a lot of hills.”

  “Does it have to be a radio tower?”

  “No. You could attach it to an existing structure, like they do with cell phone transmitters.”

  I turn to Franklin, whose cheese puff halts halfway to his mouth. Our eyes meet, and a lightbulb dings on between our heads.

  A lightbulb in the shape of a big honkin’ cross.

  At precisely seven o’clock, Jim’s blue ‘69 Charger pulls into David’s driveway. We three humans lay our bets on the end table in the corner of the living room, predicting which vampires will be brave enough to investigate the cross.

  David opens the door and absorbs the DJs’ mockery at his outfit. Shane springs up the stairs.

  “Happy Halloween again,” he says before kissing me.

  “I loved your message to the bastards tonight.” I stroke his abs in an exaggerated swoon. “Very macho.”

  Behind him comes a hiss and a yowl. Antoine is standing at the top of the stairs, his wide yellow gaze fixed on Jim. The cat arches his back, then dashes down the hall in a streak of white fur.

  Jim glides up the stairs, shoulder - length brown curls shimmering in the overhead light. “Man, I must be getting old,” he says. “Critters all hate me now.”

  As vampires age, they become less human and more, well, wrong. Animals sense this and act accordingly.

  “Any others coming?” David asks the DJs.

  “Spencer’s finding Travis a quick drink.” Regina glares at David as he motions for her to put out her cigarette. “Monroe’s at the station manning the booth.”

  I examine the three vampires’ outfits. “I thought you guys were wearing costumes.”

  “We are.” Regina displays her black leather dress, spray of foot - long spiked ebony hair, and silver - buckled combat boots. “I’m Siouxsie from Siouxsie and the Banshees. Duh.”

  “But you dress like that every day.” I study Jim’s leather pants, button - down black shirt, and studded belt. “Jim Morrison?” When he nods, I turn to Shane. “No need to guess there.” Except for the greater height and slightly darker hair, my boyfriend is Kurt Cobain reanimated.

  Noah comes up the stairs last, his red - gold - and - green knit cap doing little to cover his masterpiece of dreadlocks. “You will guess Bob Marley,” he says, “because your grasp of reggae is so superficial I want to weep.”

  “Actually, I was going to say Peter Tosh.”

  “Oh.” He pats my shoulder and smiles. “Very good.”

  Franklin picks up my betting sheet and looks at the vampires. “Did you guys see that big white cross?”

  “It cannot be missed.” Noah goes into the kitchen with his bottle of apple juice—as a Rastafarian, he avoids alcohol (and processed blood). “We’ll take the long way home.”

  “We’re going to investigate it,” I announce, “to see if it holds the translator.”

  The house goes quiet except for the radio.

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?” Regina asks me.

  “Come on, the station is under attack by a bunch of chauvinists, and we’re a quarter mile from a giant clue.”

  She twists her studded leather bracelet in a nervous gesture. “So you want us to start playing Cagney and Lacey?”

  “More like Scully and Mulder.” Shane puts his arm around my shoulder. “I’m in.” He gives a broad smile—too broad for him. I can feel the tension in his grip.

  As Franklin said, Halloween is supposed to be scary. And not just for humans.

  Shane, David, Jim, and I make our way down the dark country road toward the cross, unaccompanied by cowards. Franklin offered to stay by the phone in case we need to call him for bail money after being arrested for trespassing.

  But I have plenty of cash after winning our wager. I knew Shane would be game for anything I asked, and Jim is the reckless sort. Noah is the personification of caution, and Regina harbors a typical vampire’s pathological fear of religious symbols; so
they stayed behind.

  The cross shimmers against the starry, moonless black sky. A ground - based spotlight shines on it, changing from red to white to blue every thirty seconds, creating an effect that would make me laugh if it didn’t nauseate me. I bet people can see this spectacle ten miles away.

  We stumble through a thick copse of trees—or more precisely, David and I stumble. Shane and Jim have the coordination and night vision of natural predators—not that their blood donors ever provide much of a chase.

  We come to a small clearing at the base of the cross, about fifteen feet in diameter. It’s almost completely dark, since the patriotic spotlight sits on the ground on the other side of the trees.

  I sweep the flashlight beam across the clearing. “So where would a translator—”

  Two glowing red eyes stare out of the darkness.

  “What the—”

  In front of me, Jim halts and holds out an arm. “Whoa.”

  A hunched black shape slouches in front of the white structure. The clank of a chain rises over the sound of the wind in the trees. A low growl stops my breath.

  Suddenly the creature roars and leaps forward. I jump back, squealing like a little girl. The chain rattles, then jerks tight.

  Shane grabs my arm. “It’s just a dog.”

  Can’t be. The noise it makes sounds like a cross between a rabid cougar and a locomotive.

  “I’ve never seen a dog like that.” David looks just as scared as I am.

  “Don’t worry.” Shane moves a little closer, stepping sideways. “It’s tied up.”

  I gesture for David to stay back, then follow Shane. The barking grows louder but higher - pitched. Finally the flash-light fully illuminates the dog, and I let myself relax.

  It probably weighs twice as much as I do, and my head might fit inside its mouth, but its tail is wagging, and it’s play -bowing and clawing the ground at the end of the chain.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” I murmur. “We’re here to help.”

  The dog’s bark turns to a whimper as I approach. My light reveals ribs and hip bones showing through patchy black fur. Its head is square, but its legs are long, lending a mismatched, rangy look. Huge eyes reflect the light with a green glow.

  When I’m a few feet away, the dog drops to its belly, then rolls over, pawing the air and rubbing its—wait, his—back on the gravelly dirt.

  “Looks friendly enough,” Shane says.

  “It could be a trick.” David’s voice gets fainter as he backs up behind me. “It could be luring you in, looking all innocent.”

  “Dogs are a lot of things, but they’re not con artists.” I kneel near the animal, out of range of the chain. He stops groveling and gets to his feet, then shakes off the dust with a horselike shudder of his hide.

  “You’re all right now.” I keep my voice low and even, my gaze on his shoulder instead of his eyes as I extend my hand, palm down and curled, for him to sniff. He licks my fingertips, his tail whipping back and forth like a puppy’s. “What a good boy. You’re someone’s pet, aren’t you?” I examine his huge black face, crisscrossed with faded gray scars. “Or maybe bait for a pitbull trainer. You’re too nice to be a fighter yourself.”

  “You know what’s freaky?” Jim says. “He’s not barking at me.”

  As if to prove the point, the dog wags his tail at the hippie vampire.

  Jim laughs and sings the first line to Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog”—off - key, as usual. The pup wags harder.

  “Whoever put him here doesn’t deserve him.” I stand and dust the dirt off my knees. “So we should take custody.”

  Shane comes up next to me. “You mean steal him?”

  “Not steal, liberate.” To avoid threatening the dog, I step past him instead of advancing directly. He pads beside me, panting, as I approach the base of the cross, where the chain is hooked to itself but not locked. “He’s not even securely tied up. They probably have a dozen just like him.” I look down at the black beast, whose head reaches my waist, as he sits politely at my feet. “Well, maybe not just like him.”

  I squat to unhook the chain, and my hand brushes the white metal of the cross. It’s much colder than the air, which isn’t even chilly enough to fog my breath.

  I place my palm against the cross. It’s not only unnaturally cold, but clean, despite the dust in the clearing. It holds the sheen of a china plate that just came out of the dishwasher. (Not that I’ve ever owned a china plate or a dishwasher. But I’ve seen them in catalogs.)

  The dog whines. I unhook the chain and notice that he hasn’t circled the pole, shortening the length and reducing his range like most tied - up dogs would do.

  “If you’re so smart, then tell me your name.”

  He just looks at me, eyebrows twitching.

  “How about Dexter? You look like a Dexter.”

  Dexter blinks, then yawns. I notice Shane staring up at the cross’s T.

  “Can you see an antenna?” I ask him.

  He starts. “Uh, no. It’s too dark to see from here.” He rubs his arms as if he’s cold. “Maybe with binoculars.”

  David clears his throat. “That box could hold a repeater.” Standing outside the range of Dexter’s chain, he points to the base of the cross.

  I jiggle the heavy padlock on the door of the metal box, which is about my height. “Shane, could you pick this?”

  He tears his gaze away from the cross and comes over to examine the lock without touching it. “No, it’s heavy - duty. And the highway makes too much background noise for me to hear the tumblers click.” He straightens up and stuffs his hands deep into his jeans pockets. “You could snap it off with bolt cutters, then replace it with an identical one if you didn’t want them to know you’d tampered with it. At least not until they tried to unlock it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I ruffle the dusty fur on Dexter’s head. “For another night.”

  3

  Stir It Up

  In the bedroom of my apartment, I change into a pair of Lycra shorts and a tank top—the fewer clothes the better when bathing a dog. I probably ought to go straight to a bikini, but it would only distract Shane.

  In the bathroom I find him bent over Dexter’s head with a pair of tweezers. A bowl of rubbing alcohol sits on the pale pink sink.

  “Ticks?”

  “Just one so far, and it wasn’t even attached yet.” He holds up a bad guy the size of my thumbnail, then plops it in the bowl of alcohol.

  “You’d think a stray like him would have a million. Thanks for doing that.” Not many guys would pull ticks off their girl-friend’s stinky dog.

  “Thank you, for not making a crack about professional courtesy.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know the joke about why sharks don’t attack lawyers?”

  I wrinkle my nose at the fat round tick as its legs slowly stop kicking. “But you only drink from willing donors. And you don’t carry Lyme disease.”

  He laughs, a sound I never get tired of hearing. But it sounds hollow, reflecting the chill of his demeanor since our encounter with the cross.

  I push back the shower curtain. “Come on, boy. Let’s take a—”

  Dexter hops in the tub.

  “—bath. Wow.” I pull down the shower attachment before he can change his mind about being a perfect dog. Tomorrow I’ll call the rescue people and get him a foster home before my landlord finds out he’s here and evicts me.

  In five minutes we’re both soaking wet. Covered in white shampoo suds, Dexter’s big black head is utterly marketable.

  “Let’s take his picture now,” I tell Shane, “so the dog rescue can upload it to his adoption page. He looks a lot less scary this way.”

  He ruffles my hair. “Always thinking of the angle.”

  I slap his arm with a soapy hand. “Smart - ass, go get my cell phone from my purse.”

  Shane leaves, allowing me to indulge in doggie talk.

  “It’s a good boy,” I squeak. “Yes, it is. Who’
s your mommy? Hmm? Who’s your ever - lovin’ momma scratchin’ your butt?”

  Dexter wags his tail with enough vigor to send the suds flying against all four walls.

  Shane returns with my phone. “Who are you calling?”

  “No one. It takes pictures, remember?” I flip open my brand - new phone, admiring the maroon chrome surface.

  Shane crosses his arms and leans on the wall. “I forgot they do that nowadays. Give me a little credit for remembering what year it is.”

  I turn back to Dexter, confused by Shane’s sudden testiness. Normally he can laugh at his own “temporal adhesion”— the vampire psycho - phenomenon of being stuck in the era in which they died. After all, he’s a lot more normal than the rest of them, due in part to his relative youth—he was vamped only twelve years ago—and in part, I like to think, to my influence.

  “Are you feeling weird from being near that cross?” I ask Shane while I take a few photos. “Fever, chills, gut - strafing agony?”

  “Nothing physical.” He rubs his chest and fails to elaborate. He’s wearing that interior look, which has been happening a lot since his dad died last month. My efforts to snap him out of his gloom always backfire, but I can’t stop trying.

  Soon Dexter’s vast geography is rinsed clean and wrapped in a bright pink - and - white towel.

  “Aww, he looks like a Good & Plenty.” I shroud the dog’s head in the towel and mug for Shane.

  A reluctant smile creeps over his face, then fades quickly.

  “Okay, Dexter - dude, you’re done.” I help him out of the tub. “Stand back, folks!”

  We’re sprayed with a shower of fur and water as Dexter shakes himself, jowls flapping, feet flailing. Then the dog dashes out the bathroom door.

  We watch as Dexter runs up and down the hall, stopping to roll on the long rug, which is soon balled up at one end of the corridor.

  “He looks happy,” Shane says with typical understatement.

  “That makes one of you.”

  He gives me a double take. “Is it that obvious?”