“Shut up,” said the first again. “Now let’s get inside, find my damn crowbar, and get this damn thing the hell started. Get in.”
I slid behind the wall next to the doorway as a pair of hands began to pull a shaggy head and torso through the window. As I waited, listening for an opening, the first voice spoke again.
“Damnit, guys, I’m stuck.”
Fruit and the third voice started giggling.
“Shut up guys, get the damn crowbar and help me!”
I leaned past the doorjamb slightly, giving myself a view of the room while remaining relatively hidden should any of the intruders look over. Two and a half people were in the room, one being unable to fit through the hole they’d made in my window. One was sitting at the head chair of my dining room table, which he’d turned to face the window. Another one was standing near the fallen crowbar. Two backpacks were lying on the floor nearby.
“What’s in it for me if I help you out of there?” said Fruit, apparently trying to negotiate out of his moniker.
“I won’t kick your damn ass is what’s in it for you! Now get me out of here before, like, spiders come down on me or something.”
I took the opportunity to sneak into the room while they were distracted debating the release of the larger one. I crept along the length of the table until I reached the end nearest the group, putting me directly behind Fruit and his superior’s crowbar. While he was still mid-debate I grabbed the fallen crowbar, sprung up, and brought it down upon his head; the force of which sent him to the floor without so much as a whimper.
The other two stopped arguing and looked over at their fallen friend, then up at the creature who ended him. That’s when the shrieking began, which was unusually high for male interlopers. The one in the chair grabbed the nearest backpack and, in a valiant attempt, hurled it to the ground several feet away from me. I advanced on him, unfazed by the display. The sight of my approach sent him sprinting across the room and face-first into the doorjamb, where he crumpled into an effete heap. After he’d conveniently incapacitated himself, I quickly silenced the one still bleating halfway inside my house.
With the immediate threat squelched, I took the time to remove the corpse from my window and inspect their backpacks, in which I discovered an ouija board and several candles of varying color. While I had been expecting as much, they’d also brought a book that I was unfamiliar with.
Interview with the Vampire.
Struck by curiosity as to how and why someone would have been given the chance to sit down and interview one of my kind, I skimmed the first chapter. It seemed to me a fortunate coincidence; as for weeks previous I had been feeling that my spacious new dwelling, though well furnished, was still a bit empty. I had been considering recruiting a fresh…I’m not sure what the scientific term for a fledgling vampire is, but Brice kept referring to himself as a “thrall,” so that’s what I’ll use…a fresh thrall to share the house with. If the book’s interview was conducted with any considerable depth, which I assumed it was, then the intruders might have already been familiar with vampiric customs and I wouldn’t have to go through some heavy-handed orientation process.
It seemed like the perfect opportunity had just fallen into my lap. Two of them were dead, but the one that had run into the wall, Brice, was merely unconscious. After the “enthralling” process was complete, he was surprisingly enthusiastic about his induction into vampirism, though I soon discovered he’d been woefully misinformed about the basics of unlife.
* * * *
At around twelve thirty or so, Brice and I were perched atop an unoccupied brownstone in the downtown area, waiting for the bars to close. I’d spent the last hour teaching him the finer points of stealth, which involved a good amount of time spent untangling his cape from various surroundings while he squealed and fidgeted like a ferret in a glue trap. After the cape was lost due to an accidental tearing-it-in-half-and-slapping-him, Brice slowly began to master the art of walking in the dark without tripping over noisy things.
As I was beginning to explain how to do that nifty neck-snapping maneuver from behind an unsuspecting victim, I noticed that he was holding an arm straight up. He had a habit of doing this whenever he had a question to ask, though this time he had a smirk on his face that appeared unusually confident for a boy wearing a white neckerchief.
“What is it this time?” I said.
“Why do we have to do all this stuff to sneak up on people and stuff before biting them? Can’t we just go in to the bars and hypnotize them, then lure them out somewhere else, like in the—”
“Like in the books, you mean?”
“Yeah, they do it all the time.”
By my count, it was the tenth time that night that he’d complained about vampirism not working like in that rummy little book, and it was becoming far more of an annoyance than I had originally anticipated. Even after spending the majority of the first night explaining how we aren’t granted eternal youth and handsomeness, he still wouldn’t accept his circumstances. I was only able to convince him to let me teach him the basic necessities of vampiric existence by reassuring his belief that we actually have special vampire nightclubs where he’d get to wear latex and drink blood from a martini glass. I’m still not certain how he (or anyone) could think a loose-knit collective of thirsty corpses would have need for such a place.
Since he was still having trouble reconciling the differences between the reality of his unlife and the expectations he had for it, I decided that he needed to have it shocked into him. I’d use the term “scared straight,” but that seems to imply an entirely different problem of his that I’m frankly unqualified to comment on.
“Well I’m certainly open to new ideas, and you seem to be a good deal more familiar with the process than I. Why don’t you go down there and mesmerize one of the patrons into following you into the alley?” I said, giving my best attempt at an enthusiastic tone and knowing full well that vampires can’t hypnotize people any better than your average human with a swinging pocket watch and pointy mustache.
I briefly wondered if such a pocket watch was the reason for the long chain hanging from his pants.
“For reals?” he asked, apparently too excited for grammar.
“Yes, uh, for reals. You’ve had enough of the intensive training for now. If this might be a more effective technique, then you should certainly give it a go.” I moved to the edge of the roof and motioned to the numerous bar signs lining the sidewalk below, which could only be described as offensively neon.
Our rooftop perch granted us a view of two intersecting streets, both of which were flanked by several bars. With little deliberation he decided to try a gaudily-lit establishment across the street from us called the Salty Sailor. After making an odd gesture with his hands and muttering something about “invoking his bloodline,” he descended the building’s fire escape into an adjacent alley, yelping as he made the three-meter drop from the bottom tier to the ground. As he minced across the street I sat on the edge of the roof and waited, eager to see the precise manner in which he would fail his given task.
Soon enough Brice stumbled out of the Salty Sailor followed by three significantly larger bar-goers who didn’t look like any longshoremen I’d ever known.
I assessed that things were not going well based on the angles of their caps and the fact that one of them was now holding Brice by the doily, shouting something about cigarettes as the boy was trying to cringe hard enough to break his grasp. I’d obviously have to step in to lend a hand; though not an immediate one.
After his attacker shouted a particularly venomous taunt about his clothing, Brice reached back and, probably trying to tap into some sort of vampiric strength, delivered a slap that accomplished about as much as a slap from arms like his can ever hope to: his attacker flinched slightly, which allowed Brice to wriggle out of his grasp and dart back into the alley.
The three larger coves pursued Brice, gaining ground quickly. Realizing that he couldn�
�t outrun them, Brice made a spectacular running leap towards the nearby fire escape. Soaring through the air using more momentum than muscle, he almost managed to brush the ladder’s bottom rung with his flailing arms before he landed flat on his back, emitting the type of squeal one might use to try and communicate with dolphins.
It was then that I realized I’d forgotten to tell him we can’t fly.
Brice’s pursuers halted their approach and began chuckling at the sight of his attempted escape. Their chuckles turned into outright howls when he picked himself up, turned to face them, and raised his hands in what he apparently thought was a boxing stance. After thoroughly slapping their knees and lobbing a few more insults at the boy they made their way back across the street, leaving Brice more injured than any fight could have.
I descended to the bottom tier of the fire escape and leaned over the rail at Brice, who was then sitting against the wall clutching his legs to his chest.
“What did we learn?” I said.
“Drop the ladder down.”
“I said, what did we learn?”
“You said I could hypnotize people!”
“Did I? I remember saying you could try, which you apparently did. I’m not sure where you got the idea that you’d have any chance of succeeding, even with that ridiculous pocket watch of yours.”
He gave me a confused look, like a cat stuck in a hamper.
“That’s for my wallet,” he said, holding up the chain attached to his pants.
“Well, then it looks ridiculous.”
“Hey!” He stomped a foot and threw his hands to his sides. “Who are you to talk? You look like a math teacher.”
“My dinner jacket is not open to debate. Why do you need a chain on your wallet? Nobody wants to steal your bus pass.”
His jaw dropped, and he curled into a sniffley ball again. Perhaps I had been a bit harsh, but apologizing would only undermine my authority.
“I’m only going to ask one more time. What did we learn?”
He gave an exaggerated sigh and threw his hands down to his sides. “That you know what it’s like to be a vampire better than some puffy housewife with a publishing contract.”
I was expecting something trite, “don’t believe everything you read,” or suchlike, but the venom in his response gave me hope that he could yet be molded into a proper vampire. I lowered the ladder for him, and handed him half of his cape to clean himself off.
We ascended to the roof again and waited until last call, when Brice managed to subdue and feed from a drifter while sustaining only minor bottle-lacerations. When we returned to the house, I saw to it that we destroyed his accursed Interview book.
Over the next few days he began to make slight progress in his lessons, though he displayed a marked lack of his original enthusiasm. Then, one evening, he wasn’t in his basement when I came down. I searched the house only to discover a charred cravat amongst a pile of ashes on the back porch. While I may not be as culturally adept as some, I know a cliché suicide when I see one.
I briefly considered reciting the standard eulogy for him out of respect, but figured the “ashes to ashes” bit would have been in poor taste. Instead, I swept the remains into a dustpan and scattered them as I assumed he would have wanted: over the local mall’s bus stop.
I was slightly worried that Brice’s parents would be looking for him or, if they’d known where he was going that first night, that they would send a team of investigators to the house. Fortunately the outside world didn’t seem at all bothered by his disappearance.
My house remains uninhabited save for myself, and I’m finally beginning to grow accustomed to the solitude. Fortunately when a small town has three unsolved disappearances, rumors begin to circulate; I fancy that impressionable folks will likely blame them on the sole “haunted” house in the area. In fact, unless the concept of vampires undergoes some strange makeover in popular culture, I’m certain to remain undisturbed for years to come.
HELP WANTED, by Michael McCarty and Terrie Leigh Relf
Five o’clock finally arrived and Roberta Cannon smiled for the first time that Friday. It had been a hectic week and all she wanted to do now was go home, strip off her office clothes, take a long hot bath, drink a lite beer, and watch TV with her live-in boyfriend, Kevin VanZant.
She had just finished typing her last invoice and was ready to shut off her computer, swipe her timecard, go home, and not think about work until Monday morning at 8 A.M., when her alarm clock would go off. That was a nice thought—putting work out of her mind completely—but she knew that was impossible, since her boyfriend worked as the shipping manager.
Siralop Appliances was all-too-often the topic of their conversations when they talked. Most of the time, they sat in silence watching the tube or crawled all over each other in bed. And when they did speak to each other, it would be a bitchfest about work.
Files saved so she could continue typing invoices on Monday morning, Roberta thought about how summer was their busiest time of year—more invoices, more files. She grabbed her purse, took out her timecard, and then Charlene Maltins tapped her on the shoulder.
Charlene, a twenty-something blonde, had flunked out of college her freshman year and had a smile as phony as her overly-padded bra. Her slender finger tapped Roberta lightly on the shoulder, but it still made her skin crawl.
“Like, Mr. Krall wants to see you.” Charlene popped her stale strawberry bubble gum, some of which stuck to what appeared to be collagen-enhanced glossy lips. Hands on hips, she studied Roberta, looking her up and down, her dark indigo eyes lingering too long on the older woman’s body. “He wanted me to tell you earlier, but it slipped my mind. I saw you coming toward the time clock and then I remembered.”
“It’s five o’clock— can’t it wait until Monday morning?” Roberta said, more than a bit peeved. Ever since Charlene had started working here, it was all Roberta could do to refrain from yelling at her, “Get a brain already!” She straightened her skirt, stroking the thin fabric around her hips. This did not go unnoticed by Charlene.
Charlene, who was Mr. Krall’s secretary, scrunched up her pretty face and appeared to think about Roberta’s question for a moment. “He said it was really important, and to tell you before you left for the day.” She studied Roberta’s body again, frowned, then brightened as if she’d finally had an idea worth mentioning.
“I bet you have to work out a lot to keep the flab off,” she smirked, tossing her hair like the cliché she was, before pivoting on her sandals and sashaying down the hall.
Roberta sighed. Charlene wasn’t worth getting worked up over. How she longed for that hot bath, cold beer, TV—and especially Kevin—but all that would have to wait.
* * * *
She entered Mr. Krall’s small office, which consisted of desk, phone, computer, two chairs by the wall, and seven file cabinets. Mr. Krall himself was a pudgy, fifty-something bald man who never smiled the whole six weeks Roberta had been working at Siralop Appliances.
“Have a seat,” Mr. Krall said, pointing to the first chair against the wall.
Roberta sat down and smoothed a crease in her skirt.
Mr. Krall pulled out a file and studied its contents for two minutes before speaking. “You’ve been working here for six weeks, is that correct, Ms. Cannon?”
“Yes.”
“I hired you because of the recommendation from Mr. VanZant. And so far, there haven’t been any complaints. You’ve been a fine worker—so far.” He took a pause, put down the file, and looked Roberta directly in the eyes. “Ms. Cannon, Siralop Appliances is a small business, and the employees in small businesses are almost like family members. In any family, trust is very important. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Roberta felt like a cornered animal. Maybe he knows, she thought. But there was no way that her scheme with Kevin could have backfired. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right here. She looked anxiously at the door, then returned her gaze t
o Mr. Krall, whose cold, stony composure gave nothing away.
They had planned everything before she was even hired. When Kevin gave her a note card with a red mark on the back, she wouldn’t input it into the computer, but instead, would take that note card and run it through the shredder so there wouldn’t be any trace of evidence. The note card was for the new flat-screen TV that hung on their living room wall. Kevin had it all figured out. He’d place the blame on some delivery driver who had been stealing appliances from the warehouse.
She gulped, cleared her throat, and said, “Yes, of course.”
“All the Siralop Appliances family members have to trust one another. Family members don’t steal from the family. We aren’t like those dysfunctional families you see on the TV talk shows. Almost everyone who works for me is a relation of sorts. The only two non-family members here are you and Mr. VanZant.”
This was the first time she had heard anything about that. It did make sense, since everyone else at Siralop Appliances had dark indigo eyes and very white teeth. “This I didn’t know,” was all she could think of as a reply.
“Well, it’s true. We had a recent incident in which one of the flat-screen televisions wasn’t delivered. Mr. VanZant tried to blame everything on Sid. But Sid is family, and Sid wouldn’t steal. Sid is trustworthy. You see, he was raised in the bright lights of Polaris. This sun is too dull, too shadowy, and earthlings thrive in the darkness.”
Polaris. Siralop. Siralop is Polaris spelled backwards, Roberta thought. Sun, earthlings—did this guy think he was some kind of alien…?
Roberta cleared her throat. “There must be some kind of mistake or something. Kevin wouldn’t steal a flat-screen TV. He loves his job, and I’m sure if he were here right now, he could explain everything. But, he’s on family leave right now because of his sick father.”
Mr. Krall’s indigo eyes seemed to darken. “Yes, I agree. If Mr. VanZant was here, a lot of things would get straightened out.”
“Do you want to talk when he returns on Monday?”
The Vampire Megapack: 27 Modern and Classic Vampire Stories Page 28