Better Off Undead

by Martin H. Greenberg

  It was just her and the storefronts, on this little side street. Serena walked down to the corner, then pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed Les’ number.

  “Hello?’’ he said.

  “It’s Serena. I need help.’’ The words spilled out of her, mostly confused, but she managed to tell him what had happened, and read the names off the street signs.

  “I’ll be there as fast as I can.’’

  She made it back to the alley, trying to find somewhere dark to hide. She ended up sitting a little way back from the mouth of the alley, with her cheek pressed up against the cold brick of the building, watching the little slice of street in front of her, and waiting. Trying to guess how much time had passed, and how long it would take Les to get to her, she listened to the wind, the sound of distant dogs barking, and the rumble of cars passing on other streets. She started up once, when a car pulled onto the street in front of her, but it just rolled past, and she settled back into her wait.

  The sound of people failing to be quiet at the other end of the alley caught her attention. Serena looked back to see the oval pools from several flashlights playing over and into the dumpster, the building walls and the alley. They were headed her way.

  Frantically she looked around. There was no connecting alley across the street. No dark alcoves where she could hide, only barred storefronts, sidewalk, loose bits of trash and patched pavement. She carefully stood up, keeping tight to the brick building. Watching the flashlights, she quickly slipped around the corner out of the alley and ran to the street corner.

  Maybe they were mild-mannered citizens, a neighborhood watch group or something. Serena tried to convince herself that the people in the alley had no connection to her and no intention of bothering her. She tried to ignore the pain in her chest from her wounds.

  Distressingly quickly they appeared in the mouth of the alley. One pointed at her. “There she is.’’

  Three men and two women walked menacingly toward her. They all wore dark clothing. Ski masks covered their faces and they reeked of garlic. The impotent cliché would have made her laugh, if they hadn’t been so deadly serious.

  Seeing no sense in pretending she didn’t know what was going on, Serena hissed at them, baring her teeth. As they drew near, she could smell their blood, singing in a rhythmic thump-thump through their bodies. She needed, she wanted, that blood. Vampires were supposed to be stronger, more agile. Serena hoped that even in her weakened state she was still stronger than they.

  They dropped their flashlights and spread out in a semicircle around her. Two of the men and the two women held up various items. Serena recognized five different religious symbols, but three of the items mystified her. They all had to be religious symbols, but none held any terror for her. She’d never been a big believer in symbols of any kind, not even Freud’s.

  “This’ll be quick,’’ the man holding a sharpened stick and mallet said. She recognized the voice as the one from the hospital who’d said no one would care what happened to her.

  Launching herself at him, Serena grabbed his wrists, pinning them behind him, trying to get her teeth onto his neck. He struggled against her. Pain shot through the wounds on her chest like a burning ember leaping up to a flame, but she decided she’d rather have the pain than death and continued the struggle. The others tried touching her with their symbols. When that didn’t work, they tried hitting her with their symbols.

  Serena quickly came to the conclusion that she wasn’t tall enough to reach his neck, and she’d have to bite him through his thick shirt. At that point someone poured water between them. It seemed a stupid move, and took her by surprise. It didn’t hurt, but she breathed in some water, choked, and let go.

  Gasping for air and trying to dry her face with her hands, she slipped away from one of the men when he tried to pin her arms behind her. She saw the sharpened stick just as it raked across her bloody chest, thankfully going in the wrong direction to stab through her. She fell to the sidewalk, screaming in pain.

  A car screeched to a halt at the corner. Serena saw Les get out of the driver’s side of the car and leap onto the roof of the car. He jumped toward the fight, spreading his arms out beside him and a cape out behind him. He landed on two of the men, including the one with the stake, pulling them down to the sidewalk with him.

  The others ran back to the alley.

  Les stood up, pulling up the two he’d caught by their collars, and threw them at the alley mouth. They too ran.

  He turned to her. “Let’s get out of here.’’

  Looking up at him, she blinked and asked, “Where’d you get the cape?’’

  Wrapping it around her, Les said, “It’s just a blanket I keep in the car for the winter. The heater’s died a couple of times. It does make a rather effective cape in the dark.’’

  Serena rested in the car as he drove, trying to ignore the throbbing mass of pain coursing through her. Somewhere outside of town, he pulled off the highway, negotiated through several two-lane byways, and into a cemetery. He pulled up to a family crypt, white and shining in the moonlight.

  Leading her through the doorway, he pointed to a granite coffin. “Sit there. It’s the final resting place of an old friend of mine. He won’t mind. He might even enjoy the company.’’

  “What now?’’

  He gently pushed a lock of her hair back from her face. “That depends on whether you can heal up quickly or not.’’

  “I am getting better,’’ she said.

  Les patted the granite top. “Stay here. I’m going to get a flashlight from the car.’’ When he returned he examined her wounds in the light of his flashlight, shaking his head. “You’ll have to have some blood, or you’ll never recover.’’

  “No,’’ she moaned. “I want some so bad, but . . . Didn’t you say vampires could recover from almost any wound or disease?’’

  “Yes, almost any. But at a price.’’ He sat beside her. “Drinking blood enables us to regenerate and rejuvenate. Your wounds are so bad that without a drink of blood you will die, and you’ll need a good-sized drink too.’’

  “So I die. Is that so bad?’’ She already knew the answer. He waited. “I want to live, but not at the expense of another.’’

  “There’s something you should know. This,’’ he looked around the crypt as if expected to find the words he wanted written on the walls somewhere, “disease only slows the degeneration of age and time, and keeps you alive through it all. Your body will keep trying to regenerate itself, even though it can’t at this point. It will take you hundreds of years of decay before you die. And you’ll feel every minute of it, as your body slowly rots until there’s finally nothing left of you. Because vampires don’t die at their deaths.’’ He looked down at the granite slab they sat on, caressing it with his hand. “That’s why we drink blood. It’s that, or slow agonizing decay, or asking someone to murder you. To destroy your heart so that the disease can no longer be pumped through your body. There aren’t any other alternatives. I’ve spent over two hundred and fifty years searching. Your choices at this point are a stake through the heart to end it quickly or a drink of blood.’’

  Serena wondered who was under the granite beneath them. And how he had died, or if he was even dead. “I never wanted to be a vampire. I never asked for this. I swore I’d never bite anyone; I’d never make someone else into a vampire.’’

  “No one ever asks for this. Even if you bit someone you probably wouldn’t turn them anyway. Most people recover from a vampire bite on their own within a year. Some never notice they were bitten,’’ he whispered. Les looked into her eyes. “There is another way. I’d have to leave you alone for a while. I don’t want to leave you helpless.’’ He started to roll up his sleeves then stopped and rebuttoned them saying, “No, that would be noticed.’’ After a moment’s hesitation he unbuttoned his shirt, his skin almost as white as the bleached cotton. “Bite me, but don’t take too much.’’

  “What? But aren�
��t you already a vampire? I thought your blood wouldn’t be good for me.’’

  “More myths.’’ Les smiled, showing his fangs. “Blood is blood. I’ve had other vampires bite me before, it doesn’t seem to matter. Just don’t take too much, or I won’t be able to do what I have to. Not the neck, I don’t want it to be too noticeable. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. Much.’’

  Now that she looked at him, really looked at him, she could hear his blood singing to her. She bit. And drank. It tasted so good, and she felt her strength returning to her.

  “Not too much,’’ he whispered, tapping her head.

  Regretfully, she stopped. He’d aged thirty years in those few seconds. His hair had gone salt and pepper, there were crow’s feet around his eyes, and his mouth was deeply lined.

  “Stay here,’’ Les said, in an older voice. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t leave the crypt. The sun might be too much for you.’’

  Again she found herself waiting, alone and scared. She lay down on the granite, and drifted off to sleep. Serena woke to the sound of a car on the gravel road. Through the doorway she could see sunlight and manicured graveyard.

  In moments Les stood in the doorway, carrying several bags, filled with blood.

  “You stole from a blood bank?’’ she asked.

  “Sort of.’’ He set two bags down on the white granite slab beside her, keeping one for himself. “I stole the ones slated to be today’s discards—past-dated from yesterday, not the ones with some dreadful disease. They would have been destroyed anyway. Still, they’re good enough for our purposes.’’ He bit off one corner and began drinking.

  Serena watched as he became younger before her eyes. The gray in his hair turned black, the wrinkles disappeared, he seemed to stand taller and straighter.

  He finished his pint, and licked the blood from his lips. “Go ahead. You’ll feel much better.’’

  As she drank, she could feel the strength and health returning to her. He sat beside her, and chatted companionably. “This actually works out better than I’d originally thought. If I didn’t get all the surveillance cameras, they’ll see an old man rooting through their refrigerator. Won’t look a thing like me.’’

  “Fingerprints?’’ she asked as she reached for the second bag.

  “Gloves.’’ He held up his hands.

  Draining the second bag made her feel a hundred percent better. “So how will Dr. Van Helsing take our drinking blood?’’

  “I don’t intend on telling her about it.’’ Les glanced at the doorway. “You only bit me, and my intimate life isn’t her business. She’ll probably find out about the accident, but since you obviously recovered, there’s nothing more to it. Is there?’’

  Serena frowned. “I don’t think that’s what she intends with her rehab clinic. And you said to be honest.’’

  “Yes, honest. Not stupid. Honesty doesn’t mean you have to tell everyone everything. A lot of it isn’t their business.’’

  She laid her hand on his arm. “If you don’t agree with her, why do you work there?’’

  Les sighed. For a moment he examined his hands. “She means well, and most people recover on their own no matter what we do. I’m there to meet the newbies. They’re the ones she attracts. They haven’t yet resigned themselves.’’ He gripped the edge of the granite tightly. “I remember my own first few years. Angry. Vengeful. Foolish. I made,’’ his face twisted up, “many mistakes. I’ve seen so many vindictive acts, murders, suicides. All out of pain, anger, disappointment.’’ He relaxed, almost smiled. “And I’ve seen people make incredible sacrifices. Love, to a depth I never imagined could exist. Forgive . . .’’

  He looked intently at her. “You can’t change who you are. You didn’t want to be a vampire, but now you are. Without blood you will eventually, slowly, and very painfully, decay and die. Is it really such a bad thing to drink blood every thirty or forty years, or however often?’’ When she didn’t answer, he said, “We’re no more evil, and no more good, than anyone else. We’re just different from the majority. I hope some day they’ll realize that.’’ He started to smile. “At least Dr. Van Helsing’s not coming at us with sharpened stakes any more.’’

  Serena laughed. “And you only drink blood you’ve stolen from blood banks.’’

  “Sort of. Only when I’ve had to.’’ Les glanced out the bright doorway. “You ready to go now? I’ve got a change of clothes in the car you can use. I’ll have to get rid of these.’’ He motioned to the empty bags. “You can get changed while I bury them.’’

  They arrived at the clinic to find a police car waiting. Inside, a policeman leaned against the counter, talking to Dr. Van Helsing. He pulled out his badge. “Serena Tropashko?’’

  “I’m Serena.’’

  “Were you involved in an auto accident last night?’’ he asked, putting his badge back in his pocket. When she nodded, he continued, “Were you taken to the hospital?’’

  “And thrown out, without being treated!’’ she said. “They left me next to a trash dumpster.’’

  Dr. Van Helsing raised her eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

  The policeman sighed and pulled out his notebook. “Did you attack anyone at the hospital or later, and try to bite them?’’

  Serena pulled herself up angrily. “They were trying to kill me. To put a stake through my heart! It was self defense. And I didn’t bite them.’’

  “Can you prove that?’’

  “I saw it,’’ Les said. “She was being pummeled by five people, two women, three men. When I arrived, they ran off. She didn’t even try to follow them.’’

  “And you are?’’

  “Boleslaw Woronow.’’

  The policeman looked Les over carefully, frowning. He glanced back to Dr. Van Helsing, then snapped his notebook shut. “Well, you’re both out in broad daylight. Can’t be too bad. And no one was hurt. I’ll let it go this time.’’

  After he left, Dr. Van Helsing looked at the two of them. “You may have fooled the police, but I’m smarter than that.’’ She looked at Les. “With as bad an accident as he described, she’d need blood to recover. Who’d she bite?’’

  Les frowned at her. “The police have found no evidence of any crime. I assure you there are no new vampires this morning because of her. That’s all you need to know.’’

  “No it’s not. Fess up now, or I’m calling that cop back and revoking my endorsement of you two.’’ Dr. Van Helsing put her hands firmly on the counter, staring at Serena. “Who did you bite?’’

  Serena pointed at Les.

  “I don’t believe it.’’

  Unbuttoning his shirt, Les muttered, “Believe it.’’

  Shaking her head, Dr. Van Helsing walked away down the hallway muttering loudly, “I ought to keep a stake in my desk drawer. Never know when I’ll need it.’’ She called loudly, “Don’t forget to order more tomato juice,’’ before slamming her door.

  “Tomato juice and sunscreen,’’ Serena said despondently. “I hate tomato juice.’’

  Smiling at her and flashing his fangs, Les said, “I hate sunscreen. Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. Maybe we should bite as many people as we can. We’ll be the majority.’’

  After a moment to think over the consequences of that, Serena shook her head. “No. That wouldn’t work.’’ But she smiled at him, showing her own fangs. “But I will remember who I am. And who you are. And I thank you.’’

  “Therapy, a half hour after dark tonight.’’

  “I’ll be there.’’

  GOOBLE, GOBBLE, ONE OF US

  Charles Edgar Quinn

  There are no vampires.

  I am a vampire hunter.

  When the age of reason, unabashed, swept from human minds the cobwebs of beliefs in dark things, in ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, men stopped believing in vampires.

  Invisible, unnoticed, vampires swelled their numbers. Unchecked.

 
; My name is Christopher Mauldin. I am the predator who sees them, who moves in their midst unsuspected.

  You do not sniff for the scent of the grave, not if you wish to find them. You look for a perfection beyond life, a smoothness that mocks the hot organic. You look for their attraction to their next victim, as desperate and feral and sad as a starving Donner Party pilgrim studying the fresh corpse of her child.

  And you do not look in the parties of the fashionable, as if high society would not notice the loss of a debutante or two. Money, if the vampire has it, serves only to attract the lonely and cover their vanishment.

  Always the lonely.

  Which is how I became the hunted. And the hunter.

  It began when I had just left high school. My family’s circumstances and a few incidents in school made it impossible to pursue a college education. Not that I didn’t work at the same poor jobs as most recent college students and graduates of my generation, but I lacked the caste documentation that seemed to bring some consolation to my coworkers.

  I found my first job in a used record store—my mother had been too anxious about my supposed chances at a scholarship to allow me to work for money during high school. The staff and clientele were evenly divided between the hip musicians and partiers on one hand and the lonely collectors on the other, and I found myself very much at home among the latter.

  The store was deep downtown, in geography much like that of the Congo, growing more lawless and unknown as one ventured further inward. Carlos, the middle-aged owner, sported a Pancho Villa mustachio and a mane of coal black hair that still went almost to his waist, even though the effect was lessened and made a bit strange by the growing proportion of gray. Poor Carlos did not realize how his keeping the same style of dress and hair for thirty years had left him now looking like a street bum or a lunatic, depending on the social circumstances.