The Vampire Megapack: 27 Modern and Classic Vampire Stories

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Well, it’s not fair,” he said as he thrust the lettuce under the faucet and turned on the cold water, pulling the head apart. Why, he wondered, was this called butter lettuce? It wasn’t anything like butter. He made a pile of the leaves and waited for his mother to say more. He began to pull the lettuce-leaves apart, remembering how sweet it had been to pull the rats to bits. He tried to imagine the soft green leaves were muscle and sinew and bone, but it didn’t work and he was left to try to remember how good it had felt to kill the rats.

  “Did you have a good day at school?” His mother sounded slightly distracted, but he answered her anyway.

  “I guess so. I got a ninety percent in geometry, and Mister Dasher said my English paper was better than the last one.” He told her the good parts and left out the things Jack Parsons had called him in gym, and the bad grade he’d got in the American History quiz. There’d be time for that later. He looked around for the salad bowl and began to put the torn lettuce into it. In spite of the lowered heat, he could smell the green beans charring in the sauxepan.

  “Good for you,” she said, going to work on the tomatoes, taking the time to make the wedges all about the same size.

  “So how was the clinic?” Henry asked, trying not to be too obvious about it.

  “Trouble, a lot of trouble. Old Missus Chuiso got out of the day room and into the pharmacy and started taking everything she could get her hands on. They had to pump her stomach, and there were a lot of upset people on the locked ward. The violent ones needed extra medication.” She sighed. “Half of them aren’t really crazy, they’re senile, or they have brain damage, like Brian Bachman, who went over the handlebars of his motorcycle into a tree. He has seizures, bad ones, and he can’t stand up straight.” She had another drink, this one longer and deeper than the previous one. Henry knew it had been bad—she always mentioned Brian Bachman when it was bad. “I told Doctor Salazar that we ought to separate the crazy ones from the senile and damaged ones, but he says we don’t have the budget for it. It would be better if we did something to make the place better for them.”

  “But it’s county, Mom, and you say that’s like charity.” He scowled, thinking that it was stupid to argue with her when she was like this, but unable to stop. “The Thomas J. Doer Memorial Clinic is for people who can’t afford—”

  “I know, I know,” said his mother, refilling her vodka glass. “But it’s not doing any good, and in some cases, like poor Missus Chuiso, we’re probably making things worse. Not that there is anything we can do for her.” She sighed as she drank again. “It’s so disheartening to try to deal with her. You should have seen her—well, maybe you shouldn’t—they had to put her in restraints because she kept fighting them, even though they were trying to save her. She’s miserable, and she’s all alone. She needs someone with her all the time, but we don’t have enough personnel to do that.”

  “You do a great job, Mom; the best anyone could,” Henry told her as he took the buttermilk ranch dressing and held it out to her. “Do you want to toss it?”

  “No; you do it.” She slipped the tomato wedges into the torn lettuce and went to wash her hands. “The Hamburger Helper is almost ready.”

  “Great,” Henry said, though the thought of something so dead left him feeling queasy. He needed something with life in it.

  “Just put it on the table. We can toss it before we serve it.” She was beginning to sound a little mellower, but not so much that Henry could refuse dinner with impunity. “I’ll find a bowl for the string beans.

  “Okay.” He took the salad into the small dining room—it was really more of an alcove off the living room—and put it on the small round table. He thought it was disgusting, and his feelings must have showed.

  “Why are you making such a face?’ his sister asked as she came in from her room. She was extravagantly made up, with two bright colors of eyeshadow above her black-lined eyes. Her cheeks, although they had no need of augmentation, glowed with blusher, and her lips were painted a brilliant crimson.

  “Because you look like a clown,” he answered, knowing it would silence her.

  “Ha ha ha,” she said sarcastically. “I suppose you know what makes a girl look good?”

  “I know what doesn’t,” Henry said pointedly. He started back toward the kitchen not wanting to have another fight with his sister.

  “How’s Mom?” His sister asked, suddenly subdued.

  “Upset. Don’t make it worse, okay? She’ll just drink more if you do.” He kept his voice down, but he had the uneasy feeling that he had been overheard.

  “So you think I’m going to cause trouble?” she challenged.

  “I hope not.” As he went back into the kitchen, he saw his mother top off her glass with more vodka. “Aw, Mom.”

  “I won’t have any more after this glass,” she said, sounding resentful, which Henry knew meant she was getting drunk.

  “Do you have to?”

  “You bet I do,” she answered him sullenly. “If you knew what I go through.”

  Henry had heard all her complaints before, but he held his tongue. “What about the string beans?”

  “In the blue bowl,” she said, pointing in the general direction of the sink counter. “Put some butter on them before you take them to the table.”

  Henry did as he was told. The exhilaration of the rats he had eaten was beginning to fade, the strength leached out of him by the deadly sorrow and anger that filled him and his mother. He watched the butter run over the string beans and tried to conjure up an appetite for the meal without success. He pointed to the skillet of Hamburger Helper, saying, “It’s starting to scorch.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” She removed the skillet from its burner, muttering as she did, “If your father would pay his child support on time we wouldn’t have to eat crap like this.”

  “It’s okay,” said Henry, knowing it wasn’t.

  The dining room light had only one bulb burning, but it was enough to illuminate the table. As his sister and mother took their seats, Henry did his best to look hungry. He sat down last of all.

  “Smells goos, Mom,” he said with false enthusiasm.

  “It smells burnt,” said his sister.

  “Margaret Lynne,” their mother warned her.

  “Well, it does,” said Margaret Lynne.

  “I’ve had a hard day,” said their mother patiently. “Can we at least eat in peace?”

  “Okay,” said Margaret Lynne in a tone that made it clear it wasn’t. “Sure. Anything you say.”

  “Okay,” said their mother, and she put some salad on her plate, then reached for the string beans. “I hope you’re not planning on going out tonight. It’s a school night, and you know you need to study more than you do.”

  “Mo-ther,” said Margaret Lynne. “I’m only going for an hour or two. And it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. I told Melanie that I’d help her with her geometry.”

  “Dressed like that?” Their mother was not convinced. “If your father saw you like that, he’d—”

  “Well, he can’t see me, can he?” Margaret Lynne asked defiantly. “He hasn’t seen me for five months now. He doesn’t give a shit about what I do!” She flung down her napkin as if it were a gauntlet.

  “Margaret Lynne!” their mother exclaimed. “You will not use such language at the dinner table!”

  “Why not?” Margaret Lynne flung back, her eyes beginning to fill with tears of rage. She pushed her chair back and rushed out of the dining room, heading for the door. “I’ll be back later!”

  Their mother sat still for a long while, then drank the last of the vodka in her glass. “I don’t know what to do with that girl.”

  Henry put his fork down. “Mom. I’m not very hungry.” He sounded apologetic, but he was secretly relieved: he didn’t have to invent a reason for not eating. “I’ll be down in the basement, if you need me.” He got up slowly, not wanting to seem too eager.

  “Oh, no, Henry. You don’
t have to run off.” She reached out and took his hand. “I want you to eat. You need to eat.”

  “Maybe later,” he said as gently as he could.

  “We can’t afford to waste food in this house,” said his mother, spooning some of the Hamburger Helper onto her plate. “Remember that, Henry.”

  “I will, Mom,” he assured her. “I’ll nuke something a little later. Just put the left-overs in the fridge.”

  “Okay,” she said, accepting defeat for the moment.

  Henry smiled, knowing what good bait the Hamburger Helper could make. He went back into the kitchen, his plate in his hand, and put it on the edge of the sink for later. Then he headed down for the basement, planning to set some more traps.

  * * * *

  Two weeks later, Henry caught a squirrel, and the charge he got out of eating it was way beyond what he had hoped for. It was much, much better than the rats had been! He thought it was delicious—and entirely superior to bugs and spiders. He relished every morsel of it, and vowed to catch more of them as soon as possible. But he also realized he ha d taken a terrible risk, hunkering down in the city park behind a thicket of rhododendron. Someone might have seen him, and that wouldn’t do at all. They’d probably make him stop eating the things that gave him life. No telling what mom would think, working with the nuts at the clinic. She might even think he was a bit crazy himself. He had to be careful: he didn’t ant to get caught. People wouldn’t understand, he knew that. So he hid a trap deep in a clump of hawthorn bushes in the Veterans’ Park, and hoped it would snare another squirrel for him; he’d check it on the way home from school.

  Half-way home he came upon his sister and a group of her friends gathered around a four-year old red Mustang convertible. Three senior boys lounged in the car, enjoying the obvious admiration Margaret Lynne was displaying as she leaned provocatively on the hood of the car, her boobs almost falling out of her skimpy tank-top.

  “Hey, Peggy, isn’t that your creepy little brother?” the owner of the Mustang asked, grinning at the way Margaret Lynne reacted.

  “Yeah,” she said, sounding disgusted. “That’s Henry.” She made a gesture to him to go away. “He’s always trying to horn in where he doesn’t belong.”

  “Hi, Margaret Lynne,” Henry said, as if he hadn’t heard any of the slighting, hurtful things she said.

  “Margaret Lynne?” the Mustang owner echoed in delicious ridicule. “Does he always call you Margaret Lynne?”

  “Yeah,” she admitted as if confessing to a major lapse. She began to pout.

  “And you let him?” the boy hooted.

  “I know, I know,” Margaret Lynne said, trying to recover some of the ground she had lost. “But Mom insists.”

  “So, Margaret Lynne,” the Mustang owner exclaimed, “you’re only Margo at school.”

  “And other places,” she said, beginning to pout.

  “Hey, good for you.” His false praise stung Henry as much as it chagrined his sister.

  “Shut up, Craig,” Margaret Lynne told him. She shoved herself off his car and stood with her back to him. “Just shut up.”

  Watching all this, Henry felt his new-found strength slipping away. He ducked his head in anticipation of the blow he knew would be coming, but he didn’t step back—that would be too humiliating, and it would leave Margaret Lynne without anyone to champion her. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stared at her, trying to keep his mouth shut without seeming to be too much of a fool.

  “Hey, Margaret Lynne,” Craig called out derisively. “Better keep an eye on that brother of yours. Who knows what he could say to someone who cares.” He started his Mustang and drove off in triumph.

  “You little bastard!” Margaret Lynne shouted, rounding on Henry. “You screwed all this up for me. I hope you die!”

  “I didn’t mean—” Henry said, trying to placate her.

  “Sure you did!” She lifted her hand and brought it down on his shoulder with more impact than he had anticipated. It took him aback and he tried to maintain a stoic disposition while she continued to rail at him. “You wanted me to look like a slut, didn’t you? You like to make me look bad. You did this on purpose!” She swatted him again.

  “I don’t!” Henry protested. He started walking toward home, feeling completely dispirited. He wished he had another squirrel to eat, to bring back his vigor and restore his sense of dominion in the world.

  “Yes, you do. You just did. Craig will tell everyone about my name, and everyone’ll laugh. This is just impossible! I can’t stand it!” She had started to cry, her wrath increasing with her tears; she was working herself up to a fine tantrum. “You just couldn’t shut up, could you? Oh, no! Not you. You had to keep talking. I asked you not to, but you didn’t listen!” Her weeping increased. “You’re turning my life to shit, and you like it!”

  “No, I don’t,” Henry insisted, “Really, I don’t.”

  “Of course you do,” scoffed Margaret Lynne. “You’re a turd, Henry. Just a turd. And it’s Margo! Not Margaret Lynne!” She tossed her head and hurried ahead of him, doggedly ignoring him as he tagged after her.

  * * * *

  Mother took her time getting up. Henry heard her emerging from bed ten minutes before he had to leave for school. “God. I shouldn’t have drunk so much last night,” she mumbled as she headed down the narrow hall to the bathroom where Henry was finishing brushing his teeth. She put her hand to her head. “Can you hurry it up, Henry?” She looked woozy now like she didn’t want to throw up on the hall carpet.

  Henry said, “Sure. You bet.” He spat into the sink and gave his mouth a quick rinse, then left the bathroom to her. “I’ll be on my way to school in a couple of minutes.” He went toward his room, wondering if he had time to check his traps in the basement before he had to go.

  “Good. Great.” She closed the bathroom door, saying, “Make sure your sister’s up.”

  “Okay,” said Henry, who knew Margaret Lynne hadn’t been home all night. “See you this evening, Mom,” he called out as he went to the kitchen and pretended to make himself a bag lunch.

  As he left the apartment he heard his mother start the shower. It was going to be a long day.

  * * * *

  School was even blocks away, but he could cut that short by taking the walk through the city park; it took up two blocks and was in need of upkeep, which suited Henry just fine. He moved steadily along and was almost out of the main cluster of trees and shrubbery when he heard a little sound, hardly more than a whisper, from the bushes under the Stone pines. He stopped still, listening with all his senses, his thoughts keen as the high, tiny sounds that he struggled to identify. Succumbing to his curiosity, Henry left the walkway and ducked under the branches, hoping against hope that he would discover something worthwhile, and trying not to be seen as he sought out the source of the noise.

  It was a baby jay, not much bigger than the egg it had hatched from not very long ago. It was trying to lever itself upright on its toothpick legs, but could not coordinate its effort enough to do more than flop about clumsily, its beak open in obvious hunger.

  Henry knelt down beside it and gently took it into his hands, all but mesmerized by the tiny bundle of pinfeathers and need. He brought the little jay up to his face. “Can’t let you lie on the ground. Something’ll get you there.” He smoothed the outsized head and made soft cawing noises, reassuring the baby bird before he broke its neck and reached for his pocket-knife to flay and gut the tiny corpse. He forgot about school, about his mom at home, about everything, as he took the new, sweet life into him.

  * * * *

  “I want to go live with Dad,” Margaret Lynne announced at dinner that evening. She and their mother had had a dreadful argument when mother got home from work, followed by sullen silences and put-upon sighs from both combatants. Henry had listened to it all from the safety of the basement, but now he could not escape the tension that filled the cramped house like summer lightning.

  “If you
r father agrees, then you might as well. Maybe he can do something with you.”

  “Well, I’ll call him tonight,” Margaret Lynne said, a bit nonplused to have her mother concede so readily to her demands. “But I mean it, Mom—I’m going to live with him.”

  “If he agrees, it’s fine with me,” she reiterated, sounding worn out.

  Margaret Lynne grinned. “Do you want to come with me, Henry?”

  But…Henry had no wish to get dragged into this. “Let’s see what he says first,” he answered cautiously.

  She shot him a single vitriolic sneer, then tossed her head. “I’ll talk to you in a little bit,” she promised nastily.

  “Just tell him hello for me,” said Henry as he got to his feet and made an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, Mom. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  His mother studied him for about ten seconds, then said, “All right. You may be excused. Take your dishes to the kitchen and make sure you put the food into left-over containers.”

  “I will,” he promised her.

  * * * *

  When he had finished in the kitchen, he headed down into the basement, where he was hoping to find something in one of his traps. He really needed to get some life into him. To his disgust and alarm, he saw no mice, no rats, nor anything else waiting for him, so he sat down and began to work on a new trap. He had the thing half-assembled when he became aware of Margaret Lynne’s voice raised in pleading indignation.

  “But why not?… Da-aad… But you promised…You’ve got to help me! Come on, Dad… I know it’s a long way! Sixteen hundred miles. See? I know… I don’t care if it is. School’ll be over in a month or so… It’ll be like vacation… I can come then, and it won’t matter… I’ll take the bus or have someone drive me. You won’t have to… It’s so hard. It’s like being in prison! You know how Mom is… But I’ve told everyone I’m going to live with you and… Oh, God, Dad, you don’t understand!”

  The receiver slammed down, and Henry could hear his sister crying. A few minutes later, her bedroom door thundered shut and the house fell eerily silent.