The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror 2012

by Guran, Paula

“Nah, Terry,” he says but he doesn’t sound very sure. “It’ll be okay, nothing there, no one. Nothing to worry about.”

  And for the first time in my life I don’t believe Barry. I don’t trust him to look after me and it gives me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Of course, that could be hunger—that last apple was three hours ago and I’m down to a packet of muesli bars and a tube of Pringles. “Sure, Barry. Sure.”

  No one, my arse. I know enough about bumps in the night and deserted dead hearts to know nothing’s ever really empty. If Barry knows about this place, so does someone else. You’re not king of the vampires here, Bazza, you’re just a talking head. I pull over to the shoulder of the road, reach back and put the lid on Barry and his polystyrene swimming pool. I get out of the car and look around, stretching my long body as my back protests and my worn-too-long cargos and tee stick to my skin. I can smell my own sweat and the determined stink of the cigarettes that ran out not far out of Sydney. I stare into the bush. It’s changing as we head up the mountains, getting greener, darker, denser, wetter. More like a rainforest. Not sure what I expect to see . . . nothing there, no movement, not even the twitch of a leaf in the breeze. I feel weird though; I feel watched. Imagination, I tell myself. Bullshit, I tell myself.

  I slide back into the driver’s seat and turn the key in the ignition.

  The only answer I get is the exhausted metallic grinding of a thing that’s gone as far as it can go. I lean forward and rest my head against the steering wheel, smelling the stale-sour scent of hands gripped too long about the leather cover. My spidey senses tell me this road trip will not end well.

  I’ve got Barry’s box in one hand and in the other is the long Japanese sword that parted him from his body. It seemed like a good idea to bring it along—just made sure Barry didn’t see it, sore point and all that. The water bottle hanging at my waist is making sad little wishy-washy sounds. Not much more than a mouthful left and I’m thirsty. The need for nicotine is dancing under my skin.

  The air is cool and damp, the clouds are sitting on the road and it’s hard to see too much in front of me. The condensation is plastering the fringe to my forehead. It’s mid-afternoon and I don’t know where I’m going, I’m just following the road. Can’t open the box to ask Barry; he’s been in deep sleep for hours now. I just keep walking, although my boots have rubbed blisters onto my soles and the outer edges of my little toes.

  Up ahead I can hear a sound, sweet and clear. Running water.

  I pick up my pace and stumble off the road, down a slight slope to find a clearing, a little creek running through it. There’s a fire pit that looks like it hasn’t been used in a long, long time. I refill the water bottle, drink deeply, then peel off my boots and socks and plunge my feet in. It’s icy and hurts only for a little while before the numbing cold makes everything seem okay. I lean back, raise my face to where the sun should be and imagine it on my skin. Problem with being in service with a night crawler is that you don’t tend to see too much daylight. Oh, you have to run errands and some of those are unavoidably day-oriented. But mostly, you become as nocturnal as your master. Feels like shift-work. Do it long enough you either get used to it or go nuts. Or a bit of both.

  Behind me there’s a sound; behind me, where I dropped Barry’s box (the katana I kept close). There’s that distinct polystyrene noise and I turn to see the biggest freaking possum I’ve ever seen in my life. It looks like a large dog, a Labrador maybe, on its hind legs and it’s got the lid off the cooler and one paw buried deep inside. It pulls Barry’s head out by the messy black hair.

  There it dangles at the end of possum claws, eyes closed, lips slack and a little open, the neck so cleanly severed you could almost admire it as a nice tidy job. I stand slowly. The possum sniffs at Barry’s nose, licks it, then opens its mouth and sinks sharp white teeth into the substance of Barry’s pert little snoz.

  I take a good few fast steps and bring the katana sweeping upward and the possum paw drops to the ground, which leaves Barry hanging briefly by his nose in the grip of the teeth of a very unhappy marsupial. Possum spits out its meal and gives me a look that makes me think twice about getting any closer. Then I remember that I’ve got the sword and about four feet in height on the thing. But it’s fast and the remaining claws sharp; my cargos and the leg underneath get a nasty gash before I manage to take the stinking thing’s head off.

  I have a rest, bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard while I watch blood dribble out of my injured flesh. There’s a yell and I fear a possum support column may have arrived. But it’s only Barry, waking up.

  “What the fuck happened to my nose? Do you have any idea how much this hurts? What the hell did you do to me?”

  “Oh, Barry, you don’t want to know. Now, which way? There are no signs for Sun Falls.”

  “Just keep following the road.” The he pitches his eyes downwards, trying to get a good look at the state of his nose. I manage not to laugh as he goes a little cross-eyed. “Fuck this hurts.”

  A bonfire and five figures gathered around it: a woman, an old man, two young men, and a teenage girl. Raggedy stragglers, left out here with orders to guard the place, I guess. They’re vampires, though, so it doesn’t matter if there are five or a hundred. The rush and roar of water is clear from somewhere in the darkness. I can feel a damp spray I think might come from the falls.

  I washed the wound and wrapped my leg up tight, but I know they can smell it before I step into the circle of light. There’s a collective growl that must be something like a gazelle hears before a pride of lions brings it down. I might be able to take out a couple before they get to me. The fire catches the edge of the katana and pinwheels in Barry-unboxed’s wide open eyes. The pack stays back, however. I must look as though I know what I’m doing—well, you can fool some of the vampires some of the time, I guess.

  The woman stands and takes a few steps towards me.

  “Hello, dinner,” she says. “How obliging of you to turn up.”

  “You might want to re-think that,” I say, and raise my boss’s head.

  Barry pipes up, “Lynda, keep your hands off her. She’s no one’s meal.”

  “Is that you, Barry?” The woman squints. Her hair is wound into filthy dreads, not all of her teeth remain and the breeze tells me she’s not washed in some time. Hillbilly vamps, who’d have thought it? Feeding on the occasional lost tourist, stray cattle, giant possums. “Aw, Barry. What the fuck happened?”

  “Long fucking story. I need to use the pool,” he says shortly.

  “The pool? No one’s done that in a hundred years—you dunno what’s gonna happen.” She gets a cunning look in her eye. “What’s it worth to ya?”

  “How about a snack?”

  Told you Barry was a nasty piece of work. But you know what, I’m less afraid of him than I am of them. One thing I do know is this: no matter how much he lies to everyone else, he’s always kept his word to my family. He said I would be safe. He’s also the only thing protecting me from the cast of a bloodsucking Deliverance.

  I’m flanked by two underfed youths with straggly beards and, if I didn’t know better, a look that says “Inbreeding keeps it in the family.” One of them carries a torch plucked flaming from the fire. They don’t need it to see, hell, they don’t need fire at all, but I recognize in the building of the bonfire a remnant of their warm days, a little thing to hang onto. A memory of back when, of kids playing at grown-ups, of a time when heat meant comfort, meant life. Creatures pretending one day there might be light.

  The falls are a couple of minutes walk away, down a path strewn with sticks and pebbles, occasionally hidden by touchy-feely ferns. When we reach the bottom, there’s a shallow pool and a whole lot of spray where the water crashes down. One of my escorts points to a break in the foliage, right next to the cataract; the other pushes me roughly forward. My Docs slip and slide on the damp rocks. I keep my balance though; with a head in one hand, a sword in the other, and Barry cursing me
the whole while it’s no mean feat. I walk around behind the curtain of wet and see an entrance, a glow coming from inside it like a jack-o’-lantern.

  There are no torches here, I notice, but the walls glow. Phosphorous? I wait until we’re far enough down the tunnel for my guard of honor to not hear.

  “Barry, you ungrateful bastard. I carry your sorry metaphorical arse all the way here, nearly get eaten by a mutant possum, and this is the thanks I get?” I shake him by the hair and glare into his blue eyes. “You think I’m an hors d’oeuvre?”

  “Calm down. Wait—possum? Is that what happened to my nose? You let a possum eat my fucking nose?”

  “Focus, Barry. Seriously, do you think I’m going to drop you in the all-healing, all-fixing pond so you can serve me up to that lot?” I shake him again and he winces. “Or are you gonna snack on me yourself?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Once I’m whole again, no one’s going to mess with you.”

  “You didn’t answer me!”

  “I might need a little blood when I’m done,” he admits. I give his head a good rattle and a few choice profanities, and he yells, “Not much! Not much! Just a little to top up. I promise!”

  “What are we talking? A thimbleful? A shot glass?”

  “Just a—bit. Terry, I promise I won’t drain you, I won’t turn you.”

  What choice do I have? The devil I know or the ones I don’t.

  The pool is at the bottom of the slope, in roughly the center of a small cavern. The liquid in it is milky-white with the same sheen as mother-of-pearl, and the smell is a little like household cleaner. A bit bleachy—more Domestos than Dettol.

  “What’s that?” I ask, trying not to breathe too deeply.

  “Stuff. You know—stuff.”

  “You knew about this how?”

  “Stories, Chinese whispers, old diaries—your lot aren’t the only ones who keep records, you know. Nothing precise, nothing exact, just hints.”

  “You read our diaries?” I shouldn’t be surprised.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a bad person. Throw me in.”

  “But what if it doesn’t work?”

  “Not really in a position to be picky, am I? Fountain of youth, a wellspring, a cauldron of plenty. There are legends and they all say it brings life.”

  I don’t point out to Barry that strictly speaking he has been for some time well and truly beyond the usual span of any creature. Well and truly outside the spectrum of what we call “life.”

  “So,” I say, “life?”

  “Life. Now hurry the fuck up and toss me in.”

  I walk around the edge. It’s about five meters across and bubbling enthusiastically. If I drop him, maybe he’ll just drown—this is a bit deeper than the esky—which still leaves me with a problem.

  “Here’s the deal, Barry: I’ll put you in but in return you let me go. I’m no one’s lunch, I’m no one’s slave, I’m gone. I’m out. I do whatever I want.”

  “Terry . . . ”

  “You want life or not?”

  “Yes, fuck it!” He gives a growl of frustration. “Alright. Agreed. I can find better than you at the local whorehouse anyway.”

  “Touché.”

  I kneel beside the pond and lower Barry in, resisting the impulse to drop him from a height to see how much of a splash he’ll make. Some of the fluid leaps up like a nipping fish and lands on my fingers. It stings like ice. I grit my teeth and keep going, don’t release the head until he is thoroughly submerged.

  I try to straighten up, withdraw my arm, but I feel sharp teeth in my wrist. Barry, you bastard. That, however, is the least of my problems: the water has me. Blood spurts from my nose and turns pink as it hits the milky pond. It’s like I’m in the grip of an electrical current. It tugs at me and tugs at me until I over-balance and it pulls me beneath the surface.

  I feel as if I’m dying forever.

  My last sight before I’m overwhelmed is Barry’s head tossed and churned, jumping about like popping corn. Angry fingers of fluid force their way into my mouth and race down my throat, filling my lungs like inhaled fire. My skin seems to peel off, each hair follicle is a tiny pin in my scalp. Surely my eyes burst.

  When it stops hurting, the water lets me go.

  I crawl out and lie on the surprisingly warm rock. I’m whole, intact if somewhat soaked. I rub a hand against my shin, right where the possum bite was and feel . . .

  And feel . . .

  Nothing.

  I roll up the leg of my cargos and strip away the bandage. There’s just a pink mark that might have been a scar but fades as I watch. The katana is where I left it, and I pick it up, prick at my finger with its sharpness. Something silver oozes out from the cut and just as quickly the opening closes over.

  A great spout of water comes from the pool and a body lands not far from me, gives a displeased groan.

  Barry, whole again, tall and handsome and muscular and . . .

  And no longer pale as if he tries to tan beneath the moon.

  He rolls on his back, coughing, making a noise like an espresso machine. He breathes. I poke at him with the katana. A tiny drop of blood blossoms on his skin and he swears. Rich, fresh, oxygenated, living blood.

  “Oh, Barry,” I say. “You were right.”

  He sits up, runs his hands over his arms and legs, wondering, not understanding. “But . . . ”

  “It does give life, Barry. You’ve been dead a long time.” I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice.

  “But . . . Fuck!” He stands up, pacing. “Okay. I don’t have to outrun them, I just have to outrun you.”

  “Here’s the thing, Baz, I don’t think they’re going to be interested in me anymore.” I rise, do the thing with the poking and the quick silvery bleed. “Close as I can figure it, nature abhors a vacuum. The pond finished what you started, taking my blood and all, then . . . replaced it.”

  I start up the path, cast a look behind, “Long time since you’ve been meat. How’s it feel?”

  There was something inside the music; something that squished and scuttled and honked and raved, something unsettling, like a snake in a satin glove.

  The Bleeding Shadow

  Joe R. Lansdale

  I was down at the Blue Light Joint that night, finishing off some ribs and listening to some blues, when in walked Alda May. She was looking good too. Had a dress on and it fit her the way a dress ought to fit every woman in the world. She was wearing a little flat hat that leaned to one side, like an unbalanced plate on a waiter’s palm. The high heels she had on made her legs look tight and way all right.

  The light wasn’t all that good in the joint, which is one of its appeals. It sometimes helps a man or woman get along in a way the daylight wouldn’t stand, but I knew Alda May enough to know light didn’t matter. She’d look good wearing a sack and a paper hat.

  There was something about her face that showed me right off she was worried, that things weren’t right. She was glancing left and right, like she was in some big city trying to cross a busy street and not get hit by a car.

  I got my bottle of beer, left out from my table, and went over to her.

  Then I knew why she’d been looking around like that. She said, “I was looking for you, Richard.”

  “Say you were,” I said. “Well you done found me.”

  The way she stared at me wiped the grin off my face.

  “Something wrong, Alda May?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I got to talk, though. Thought you’d be here, and I was wondering you might want to come by my place.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “All right.”

  “But don’t get no business in mind,” she said. “This isn’t like the old days. I need your help, and I need to know I can count on you.”

  “Well, I kind of like the kind of business we used to do, but all right, we’re friends. It’s cool.”

  “I hoped you’d say that.”

  “You got a c
ar?” I said.

  She shook her head. “No. I had a friend drop me off.”

  I thought, Friend? Sure.

  “All right then,” I said, “lets strut on out.”

  I guess you could say it’s a shame Alda May makes her money turning tricks, but when you’re the one paying for the tricks, and you are one of her satisfied customers, you feel different. Right then, anyway. Later, you feel guilty. Like maybe you done peed on the Mona Lisa. ’Cause that gal, she was one fine dark skin woman who should have got better than a thousand rides and enough money to buy some eats and make some coffee in the morning. She deserved something good. Should have found and married a man with a steady job that could have done all right by her.

  But that hadn’t happened. Me and her had a bit of something once, and it wasn’t just business, money changing hands after she got me feeling good. No, it was more than that, but we couldn’t work it out. She was in the life and didn’t know how to get out. And as for deserving something better, that wasn’t me. What I had were a couple of nice suits, some two-tone shoes, a hat, and a gun—.45-caliber automatic, like they’d used in the war a few years back.

  Alma May got a little on the dope, too, and though she shook it, it had dropped her down deep. Way I figured, she wasn’t never climbing out of that hole, and it didn’t have nothing to do with dope now. What it had to do with was time. You get a window open now and again, and if you don’t crawl through it, it closes. I know. My window had closed some time back. It made me mad all the time.

  We were in my Chevy, a six-year-old car, a forty-eight model. I’d had it reworked a bit at a time: new tires, fresh windshield, nice seat covers and so on. It was shiny and special.

  We were driving along, making good time on the highway, the lights racing over the cement, making the recent rain in the ruts shine like the knees of old dress pants.

  “What you need me for?” I asked.

  “It’s a little complicated,” she said.

  “Why me?”

  “I don’t know . . . You’ve always been good to me, and once we had a thing goin’.”