Better Off Undead

by Martin H. Greenberg

  She was standing there, more frail than ever. He was whispering to her, and she shook her head. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders, and she glared into her eyes with hopeless defiance.

  I emerged from hiding. I don’t even remember grabbing the kukri from my pack. I was on him in an instant, and I did not even notice the sudden impossible strength with which she tore out of his grasp, backed up against her humble door and shouted out an inarticulate warning.

  He never turned his head, while he still had it. He only looked at her, in puzzlement, I suppose.

  His head came off more easily than any of the others. Practice, I thought, as it fell.

  And then his hot life’s blood painted the walls around us. Splattered me.

  His body fell to the pavement, alive, for a moment. Alive.

  Not undead.

  Elizabeth, unstained yet, flinched against the doorway. She tried to keep her eyes pressed closed, but she opened them to the bloody scene before her.

  And she looked at the rivers of hot blood with a longing I was already far too familiar with.

  Then she closed her eyes and grasped the cross at her throat.

  “Plenty to spare at the blood bank I help at,’’ she whispered. To me, I suppose. Or to an imaginary confessor. “Like a restaurant, so much gets old before it’s needed, and has to be thrown away. Cold blood,’’ she said, and dared a glimpse at all the hot blood before her. “Good enough for the likes of me. Keeps me going, more or less.

  “For the blood is the life,” she whispered, and I first heard shouting, someone in the townhouses across the way yelling about 911.

  She opened her eyes and looked at me.

  “I did have lupus, before—that wasn’t a lie—and it was killing me, slowly, painfully. I went everywhere, all the health cults, until someone introduced me to the new cure. The fad the month before had been cocaine, then meth, for a week, then everyone wanted the new drug. Blood. I’m surprised that there are any mortals left, what with all the young dudes and dudettes coming to this side of town to get bitten. I suppose most of the vampires disposed of the victims they didn’t want to share the street with.

  “But I couldn’t kill. I couldn’t make another like me. This method of avoiding a painful, drawn-out death was my salvation, in a way, but the price . . .” She looked down and sighed. “It’s too much to ask of another. I wasn’t sure I could pay it myself. Believe me, there were opportunities to kill, to feed, but I couldn’t do it. Ironically, after a few months, I’d nearly wasted away to nothing, unable to feed, unable to die, when an old man found me crouched against the cathedral and helped me live again, on blood from suppliers at the hospitals and the meat markets supplied him. And so I stepped . . . out of fashion.

  “I could hunt these streets for a thousand years,” she said, in a conspiratorial whisper. Then she grasped her cross again. “But I will not. It is my choice. I can choose not to harm anyone. I will wither away before I will become what he wanted to be.”

  She stared at me in disgust. “Or what you are.’’

  I stepped toward her, hardly noticed that I stepped over the smooth corpse. Hardly noticed the sirens that approached. I looked around me and noticed our reflections in a window. There was a mirror in the room behind the window that faced us, across the way, and I looked at it. I saw myself, and a mere flicker where Elizabeth’s face should have been. I had seen that with all the vampires, they could hypnotize the person in front of them into seeing living vibrant flesh, but the illusion was too difficult to extend to a mirror.

  Then, as if by force of will, the flicker went away. And I saw Elizabeth as she was. Like a china doll. Unspeakably beautiful. No flaw of living flesh. Perfect. It was the perfection they hid, I suddenly understood, so as not to inspire lethal envy in the living.

  I dropped the kukri to the pavement, just as the sirens came to a stop just out of sight. I looked into Elizabeth’s eyes and let my longing show.

  “You want the same thing he did, the same thing everyone on these streets seems to want now,’’ she whispered in horror. “And that I cannot give.’’

  I fumbled for words to deny what she had said. Become one of the undead, search the darkness every night for prey?

  She turned and fumbled at the lock. She entered the doorway and turned to me.

  “You would be the worst monster of us all,’’ she whispered, and closed the door, leaving me to the shouts and the recriminations.

  BUMP IN THE NIGHT

  Amanda S. Green

  I wake as I have so many times before. Fear quickens my pulse and I fight the almost overwhelming urge to move. My heart pounds so hard anyone nearby will hear it. Blood pulses an almost deafening beat in my ears. Every nerve seems alive, on fire, as I lie there struggling not to scream. I have to remain motionless, silent, or whoever, whatever had awakened me will pounce.

  Even so, it takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to snake my arm out from under the covers. I desperately yearn to turn on the lamp beside my bed, to flood the room with light. Light is good, so very good. It chases away the shadows and the monsters hiding in them. I hesitate, not yet ready to face the unknown.

  One small part of my brain tries to tell me to quit being foolish. There’s no one waiting to pounce the moment they realize I’m awake. I’d locked up the house and set the alarm before coming to bed. There’s no way anyone could have gotten inside. I’d been awakened by a nightmare I couldn’t remember. That’s all. A nightmare brought on by too much bad pizza and a horror movie marathon I knew better than to watch so late at night.

  Still my pulse pounds and the cold fingers of fear tighten inexorably around my heart. No matter how hard I try to will myself to simply roll over and go back to sleep, I can’t. So I lie here as I have so many times in the past, ears straining for any sound that might identify who or what had awakened me. Every instinct screams on a primal level I know so well, warning me to run away as fast as I can. If I don’t, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life, a life that might end at any moment.

  How can I ignore that feeling? Surely this must be more than simple imagination. Everything seems so real, so close. Just as it had when I was a child, when I knew things went bump in the night and monsters lived under the bed.

  Dear God, help me.

  Drea glanced up from the page she was reading and I breathed an almost silent sigh of relief. I’d done it and had somehow survived. The earth hadn’t opened up to swallow me nor had the heavens sent down thunder and lightning to wipe me from existence. That had to be good, right? After all, a large part of me had anticipated at least one of those improbable acts happening. Honestly, I still expected something to reach out and strike me down without mercy because of what I’d dared to write.

  Truth be told, part of me wanted it to.

  What in the world had possessed me to put those particular words to paper? I knew better. By doing so I’d broken a code of silence as ancient as it was necessary. Those words hinted at things best left unsaid—for me and for those like me, as well as for the rest of the world. How could I have been so foolish?

  More to the point, why had I ever said anything about them? Drea certainly hadn’t held a gun to my head when she’d unexpectedly shown up at my front door and asked what I was working on. I could have mentioned several other projects. So why in the world had I mentioned this particular one?

  Something perverse must have taken hold of me. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Without conscious thought, I’d told her about this story, and there was no way I could turn back the clock and swallow the words before they’d been spoken. All I could do was hope some flash of inspiration would come to me that would help explain why she couldn’t offer this project to my editor—now or ever.

  Unfortunately, that hope hadn’t come to fruition yet and, with my luck, it never would.

  Still, I couldn’t give up. Perhaps Drea wouldn’t like it. That would be the easiest, most painless solution to th
e problem. Then I could simply put the pages back in a drawer so they would never again see the light of day.

  That was the only possible solution that would keep both of us out of trouble, out of danger.

  So how could I convince her?

  Drea read on.

  How different it had been when I was a child.

  My parents expected, even accepted, that I would see monsters under my bed, in my closet and outside my window. They knew that a child’s imagination is a wonderfully wild and untamed resource, good for hours of entertainment. Imagination takes the ordinary and turns it into the extraordinary, the mundane into the magical. It allows a child to fly to distant planets or be a fairy princess. What could be more exciting?

  They’d even encouraged me to use my imagination. But they hadn’t warned me about what would happen when night came and those wonderful flights of fancy turned dark and terrifying. Every sound and shadow foretold some disaster to come. They held me in a grip so firm and unyielding that I became trapped in the nightmarish hell of my imagination without hope of escape.

  Then I’d wake, knowing the bogeyman was waiting, ready to pounce the moment I let my guard down or turned my back. Fear held me and I knew I’d never be safe again. Then, miracle of miracles, Mommy and Daddy were there to comfort and protect. Oh so calmly they’d assure me there’s no such thing as the bogeyman. To prove it, Daddy would look under the bed and in the closet. Mommy would hold me close and promise to keep me safe forever.

  Remember, there are no such things as monsters. That’s what they told me over and over. It was all my imagination. If I’d think happy thoughts, I wouldn’t be afraid.

  Funny thing, they actually believed it. They’d forgotten the nightmares from their own childhoods. They didn’t remember just how real those nightmares could be. I knew how real they were; but how could I convince my parents?

  I couldn’t. So I let them reassure me and I believed their explanations. After all, Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t lie. If they say the nightmare’s nothing more than my imagination running wild, they must be right. So I’d listen and believe. In short, I grew up.

  Then the nightmares returned, coming with a force and fury far eclipsing those of my childhood. Perhaps it’s because there is more I hold dear. Therefore, I have more to lose. All I know is that the fears of my childhood are somehow magnified to such an extent that a normally confident adult once more becomes that terrified child desperately wanting her mommy and daddy to protect her.

  That’s even more frightening than the nightmare itself. So I look for some logical explanation. I listen to the so-called experts who all too easily discount the fear and sense of doom the nightmare instills in me.

  So smug and sure of themselves, these experts say the nightmares are simply extensions of whatever is bothering me. They are my subconscious trying to draw my attention to a problem so I can find a solution. There’s nothing to be afraid of because monsters aren’t real. I simply have to figure out what’s wrong with my life and fix it. That’s all.

  So simple. So easy.

  And so much bull!

  Because the truth is that the monsters are there, under my bed and outside my window. They’re lurking in my closet, just waiting for the right moment to pounce. I know. I’ve seen them.

  Haven’t you?

  Please let her hate it.

  I repeated it over and over like a mantra. My only hope was Drea would tell me I’d missed the mark this time. After all, I couldn’t always write something that would sell. No one can. Let her think this lacked that special spark editors look for. Please let this fall into that category. It has to fall into that category.

  Unfortunately, all it took was one look at the woman who had been my agent for almost two years and my hopes were instantly crushed. She didn’t hate the story. Quite the contrary, in fact. Excitement danced in Drea’s light blue eyes and a smile touched the corners of her mouth. I could almost see her adding up the dollar signs as she all but rubbed her hands together in glee. This was my newest nightmare, one I would not awaken from—unfortunately. My only hope was to find some way to convince her she was wrong, that it would be a big mistake to try to sell this story. But how?

  “Jess, this is simply amazing.’’

  Drea leaned back and reached for the glass of wine I’d poured her a lifetime ago. When she lifted it in a toast, I knew I needed to say something. But what? She’d think I’d lost my mind if I told her she couldn’t have the story. Still, she hadn’t heard all of it. There was still a chance she’d change her mind. Until that happened, I had to keep her from guessing how I felt.

  But how? I’m not that good an actress, one of the main reasons I never play poker.

  “Do you really think so?’’

  “Oh, yes.’’ She gave that cat and canary smile of hers that always made me just a little uncomfortable. “It’s similar to what you’ve written before, yet different. Darker, more intense. It also feels more personal, somehow. I like it.’’

  I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. What was I going to do? I desperately needed that flash of inspiration. Unfortunately, it didn’t come. Instead, emotions warred deep inside me. I wanted to shout in triumph even as I cursed my foolishness. I had created something my agent obviously liked, so it was a pretty sure bet my editor would as well. Wasn’t that the dream of every writer?

  Then reality returned with the speed and devastation of a tornado cutting a path of destruction across the plains. How could I have been so foolish? I never should have told her about the story, much less let her read it. That seemingly innocent narrative was far more dangerous than I wanted to think about. It threatened everything I held dear. But what could I do?

  Nothing. There was absolutely nothing I could do. The damage was done and there was no turning back. Now I simply had to figure out how best to contain the fallout.

  “Jess, I can’t wait to get this to Greg. He’s going to love it.’’

  She gave another of those cat and canary smiles and I fought the urge to squirm. Dismay surged for a moment only to be dimmed by the faintest glimmer of hope. Maybe Greg wouldn’t like it. Maybe he’d hate it. If he did, I could forget I’d ever been foolish enough to write the story, much less let Drea know about it.

  “Now, how about the rest of it?’’ Drea placed her wine glass once more on the table at her elbow. “Please tell me there’s more.’’

  Oh, there was more all right. Much, much more.

  “All right.’’ As I reached for more pages—compulsively doling them out to Drea like candy, like a reward—I glanced out the window and my heart skipped a beat to see the moon begin its slow trek across the night sky. “Drea, don’t forget you need to leave soon if you’re going to make it back to the city before midnight.’’

  And so you won’t be here when things get really interesting.

  Maybe I should start at the beginning. I’ve known I’m different from everyone else for almost as long as I can remember. So many mornings I’d wake, excited and energized because I’d spent the night soaring high in the sky or creeping silently through the deepest, darkest shadows in search of—something. Those dreams had seemed so real, so much a part of me. Nothing anyone said could change that.

  The beat of the drum fired my blood. Playing tag brought out the thrill of the hunt. I felt so alive then, so ready to meet the challenges of a new day. How could anyone not revel in such a feeling?

  Unfortunately, I hadn’t understood. Those wonderful dreams were simply a prelude to the nightmares to come. The nightmares were a dark warning of what life could become if I let it.

  I was fifteen when things changed. That’s when I had the “accident.” That’s what my parents called it. I really don’t remember much. We’d been in the country, near the woods, on a picnic. It was getting late. The sun had already dropped below the horizon and the first evening stars twinkled overhead. Mom and Dad had been gathering everything for the trip home and I’d wandered off, bored and sulking because t
hey’d dragged me away from my friends on one of the last days before school began. I remember following someone, something, into the woods and then nothing else before I woke in the hospital, Mom sitting beside my bed, crying.

  For several days, they wouldn’t tell me anything about what happened. Whenever I asked, they simply said the doctors wanted me to try to remember on my own. The police came to ask questions I couldn’t answer. Finally, when I demanded an explanation, Mom told me they had searched for me for hours, calling in the local police to help. Finally they’d found me lying in the creek bed, my head just inches from the water. It looked like I had fallen and hit my head on a large rock nearby. Later I learned that I hadn’t been breathing when Dad found me and that the doctors had thought me gone by the time I got to the hospital.

  That’s the day everything changed and the nightmares returned. Nightmares so terrible I’d wake, screaming in terror, convinced the flesh had been ripped from my bones, my blood drained away, leaving nothing more than a dry husk. Nothing my parents said reassured me. It was all so real. Just as those wonderful dreams had been.

  That’s when things started going bump in the night and I knew the monsters were real.

  All the experts, all the shrinks and counselors my parents sent me to, told me there was nothing wrong with me. It was all in my head. I simply needed to believe in them and take my medication. I just needed to be a happy kid and everything would be all right.

  How little they knew—then or now.

  Sure the doctors had saved me that day so long ago—or so they thought. All they’d really done was postpone the inevitable. Twice more I’d disappeared. The first of those happened the night I graduated from high school. At first no one, not even my parents, had been too worried. After all, so many seniors spend graduation night celebrating that transition into adulthood. Surely I’d come home the next morning, a little worse for wear but still fine.