by P. T. Phronk
“Maybe he deserves it. I still can’t let him die.”
“You have no choice in the matter. We both know you’d be dead before that arrow left the bow.” She returned to lapping up his blood.
But Stan’s most dangerous weapon wasn’t the crossbow. He hesitated for a moment. Like a grenade, the weapon—the information that he’d discovered—could be thrown back in his face. If she found out who Wilcox was working for, Stan’s role in the vampire’s life would be redundant.
He couldn’t let a man die.
“He’s working for others,” Stan said, his voice cracking. “They’ll send more. Maybe they’ll finish what this guy started.”
She looked up, blood falling from her chin in strings. Jeffery’s breathing was slowing
“You’ve bitten him. That means your blood is in his right? You can follow him back to whoever hired him. If you kill him now, you’ll never know, and you’ll never be safe.”
She swallowed. “You’re always thinking about the details, Stanley.”
Jeffery tumbled from her arms and hit the ground in a heap.
Stan was swept off his feet. He got that feeling of falling the wrong way, and after some initial zigzagging about in the air, he was flying in Dalla’s arms over Southern Washington. She squeezed his wrist until it hurt, then the crossbow fell to the ground below. He could feel the bulge of the syringe in his pocket. It would probably do something unpleasant to the vampire, but now was not a good time. The farms below were circular, looking like black and white polka dots in the moonlight.
“You left him to die,” Stan muttered.
“His heartbeat was strong. He will live. Probably.”
She landed roughly in a sandy small-town playground. Stan hit the ground hard. Both of them sat in the sand for a moment, catching their breath. Did she even need to breathe? Her chest certainly rose up and down. Vapor rose from her mouth in broken puffs.
Her face contorted in agony. All of her exposed skin was slick, either from her burns or from Jeffery’s blood.
She eased herself to her feet, shaking, then pulled a bloody wad of money from her bra, which she tossed to Stan.
“I’ll go clean up this mess. Stay here, wait for your dog. Wash yourself up, then find a nice place to dig in for a while. I think we need ourselves a vacation from this vacation.”
13. Long Walks on the Beach
BLOODHOUND FOUND STAN IN THE morning, kneeling on the bank of a mossy stream in his underwear, shivering, with steam rising off his skin into the freezing air. His clothes and glasses were in a pile beside him. The stain on them, from being pressed up against the various fluids covering Dalla, had not quite come out. He scratched at a fifty dollar bill under the water, trying to get a pesky spot of blood off of it.
Stan hugged his dog.
“We’ll go somewhere warm soon, girl. Just gotta do some money laundering.”
When the money was clean enough, though slightly pink now, they found a gas station. Bloody waited outside while Stan dried his money and clothes under a hand drier. The attendant gave him directions to the nearest hotel. He’d never hitchhiked before, but he stuck his thumb up by the side of the road, and, sure enough, a trucker pulled over. Luckily, he didn’t ask any questions, probably because he looked to be in as rough shape as Stan.
By the time he bribed a clerk at a Best Western into checking him in without a credit card or ID, the sun was starting to rise high in the sky. He collapsed in the bed, Bloody hopped up beside him, and they slept together until nightfall.
Stan hadn’t slept so soundly in days, and he was vaguely aware that he may have still been half-asleep when he shambled to the bathroom like a zombie. He looked in the mirror. His face was pale except for the dark stubble on his cheeks and the purple bags under his eyes. He lifted the filthy bandage from his neck. The wounds where Dalla had bit him were tender to touch, but had almost completely healed. The stump of his finger, too, felt better than it should have. Even though the ordeal had felt like weeks, it had really only been a few days, and some part of his muddled mind wondered how he was healing so quickly.
His clothes were covered in brownish spots that would make any reasonably intelligent person suspicious. He dug into a pocket in his tattered jeans, and pulled out the syringe he’d grabbed from Jeffery’s bag.
No, he definitely wasn’t thinking clearly when he pulled the plastic cap off of it. He squirted a bit of the stuff—the vampire sedative that had subdued Dalla for at least a little while—into the sink. It was thick like gel, opaque white.
His vision was still blurry as he watched it dribble down the drain. He grunted. Images of Dalla, her eyes, her lips, her tongue, danced through his mind like a dream; it was probably literally a half-dream, for he wasn’t fully conscious, wasn’t all there, when he dropped the syringe into the toilet then flushed.
Smelling and looking like shit, in need of new clothes, Stan went to the one place he knew he would still fit in: Wal-Mart.
It felt strange, being among people again. He must have looked strange too, even among the unusual Wal-Mart clientele—one woman wore a hat shaped like a stuffed Thanksgiving turkey—because people looked at him like he didn’t belong.
That needed to stop. He bought new clothes. Some of the more expensive shirts were decent, and hell, if he was going to be spending blood money anyway, he might as well go all out. He stopped in the pharmacy section to pick up some Advil, shaving cream, and a toothbrush; the hotels usually had toothpaste, but he’d been using his finger for oral hygiene, which just wasn’t the same. He couldn’t wait to get back and shave.
In the aisle by Housewares, an obese mother scolded her child. The kid was crying as she pointed a puffy finger at him.
“Shut up. No more whining about shoes or books or DVDs. Your father’s check ain’t come in yet and I been saving for our new kitchen counter. You get your fuckin’ shoes after that, k?”
“All the other kids at school—”
“Don’t matter what the other kids do. You’re your own kid, right?”
Tears ran down the kid’s face.
“Right?”
“Yes mom.”
“You love your mommy?”
“I love my mommy.”
They embraced, and the kid kissed his mom on the cheek.
Stan scowled as he passed. From behind the back of the kid’s head, she scowled back even harder.
Humans.
At the Electronics department, he paused. Some growing part of him believed he would get through all of this alive. An even bigger part knew that at the end of this journey was Damien Fox, his girlfriend Hillary Miller, and possibly a baby they whipped up together. Pictures of any one of them could make him rich enough to stop doing this shit and get on with his life.
He felt sick thinking it, but he also knew that pictures of the inevitable tragedy about to befall the couple would be worth even more.
Pictures required a camera. He only had enough cash left for a low end point-and-shoot, but it had a bit of optical zoom on it and plenty of memory. He paid for his stuff, and surprised himself when he started whistling on the way out the sliding doors.
He wasn’t three steps out when Dalla had him by the neck, slammed against the wall.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked. Her face cracked and peeling, she looked like a burn victim. Which was, in a way, what she was. She had her purse back and was wearing fresh clothing.
“I needed some stuff.”
She poked his bag open and peered inside. Her fist hit the side of his face so hard he could immediately feel blood pooling to form a bruise.
“I didn’t permit you to spend my money on toys,” she said. “Where is our pet?”
Stan cringed. “She’s at the hotel. Jesus.”
She pulled him up by the back of his collar. “Hotel Jesus? Never heard of it. Are the beds made of hay?” She paused. “Come on, Stanley, it’s okay to laugh.”
He felt more like crying.
“It’s just down the road,” Stan said in monotone. “We can walk.”
“Good. I am so—” She looked at him sideways. “Fine. Doing so great. Lovely evening isn’t it?”
“You think I’m going to try killing you again. I won’t. Because … because you are too strong. That man knew what he was doing, and even he couldn’t do it.”
“Thanks to you, right?”
“Right. So does that get me a pass on the whole eating me thing?”
She stopped, then grabbed him by the chin with her slender fingers. She squeezed hard, bursting more blood vessels in his bruised cheek. Her grip forced his gaze to meet hers.
“You wish,” she said. Her tongue caressed her teeth.
At the hotel, she inspected the room, patted Bloody, then turned to Stan. She handed him another wad of cash. “You’re going to spend this wisely, right?”
Stan turned on the television.
“Right?” she asked, her voice rising in volume.
“Right,” he muttered.
“And if you’re good, I’ll let you keep that toy you bought, okay?”
“Okay.”
She smiled. “You appreciate what I’ve done for you?”
“I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”
She shut the door behind her, then Stan did not see the vampire for three days.
There was snow on the ground when Stan emerged from the hotel. He let Bloody off her leash to frolic in the soft powder.
Dalla pulled up in a convertible Beetle, red this time. She gracefully stepped out in a new flowery hat and sleeveless dress. Her skin was perfect again, with not a burn or splotch to be seen.
“Nice ride,” said Stan.
“I couldn’t resist,” she said. “And the creamy filling was delicious.”
They drove for hours after having Bloody do her thing with the Damien Fox T-shirt. The agreement was to head in the general direction of both Fox and the vampire hunter that Dalla could track, then stop and deal with whoever they hit first. Only Stan knew that they’d hit both at the same time.
They were passing Seattle when Dalla remarked, “jeepers, maybe he really is in Canada.” Her fears were confirmed when they started passing signs warning that the border was imminent.
Stan rummaged through the glove compartment. He found the vehicle’s registration, a small emergency car kit, and among other assorted slips of paper, a picture. It depicted a family, all of them pale as Kleenex; two older kids, a mom, and a dad, all smiling in front of an old-fashioned Starbucks. He wondered which of them were now in Dalla’s stomach. If a kid lost a parent or a parent lost a kid. Merely because they were driving a shiny car that she liked.
“We’re going to have trouble getting over the border,” said Stan, pulling out the car’s documents.
“Honey, we’ve already got trouble,” she said, glancing at the rear-view mirror.
Flashing red and blue light flooded the car. The border came into sight ahead of them. Two more police cars blocked the way through.
“Hold on to the dog,” said Dalla. “Grab your stuff.”
“Wait,” said Stan. He started wiping the car’s door handle, dashboard, and glove compartment with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Always worried about the details,” she said. She reached behind her to grab her bags. Then the door to the car was open, she’d grabbed Stan’s arm, and they were outside, flying straight up.
Stan looked down. The car continued to careen forward, veering off to one side. The police car behind it slammed to a halt as the Beetle slammed into some sort of fuelling station beside the booths that lined the border. The subsequent explosion was so bright that Stan had to squint, and it was followed by a boom that echoed through the night. The windows of the border booths shattered, one after the other.
Flames continued to light up the line between the U.S. and Canada as they passed over it.
The air in the sky was frigid. Stan could feel the snot in his nose freeze with every breath, and Bloody shivered in his arms.
“You know I’ve never been to Canada? Oh, this road trip gets more exciting every minute, doesn’t it?” said Dalla. She looked at the sky. “I’m assuming we’re still supposed to be heading northwest-ish? My father taught me to suss out direction from the locations of the stars.”
Less than half an hour later, they landed on a rocky beach on the west coast of British Columbia, smoothly this time; she was getting better at flying while carrying Stan. The Pacific Ocean lay before them, its waves lazily caressing the shore. It was considerably warmer at ground level. Stan put Bloody down, then stuffed his hands in his pockets. Thawing out hurt like a bitch.
“Oh Stanley!” cried Dalla. She plucked her shoes off, then pranced into the water until she was knee-deep. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen the Pacific?”
She twirled in the water, her eyes occasionally catching the reflected light of the stars. The waves splashed around her hips, making her dress cling tightly to her legs. She faced Stan, and those eyes narrowed. She beckoned for him to join her.
“I’d love to,” he said, kind of meaning it, “but I’m close enough to freezing to death as it is.”
“You’re a pooper, Stanley. A big fat party pooper.”
He let his gaze slip down her body, to the skinny pale sticks of her legs, then lower.
“How come I can see your reflection now?” he asked.
She glanced down, then at him. “You can?”
“Yes. I thought I saw it before, too. What about you? Can you see yourself?”
The vampire emerged from the water. She began walking up the beach. Stan joined her, Bloody at his heel. “I saw it in the water,” she said.
“You said before that you couldn’t.”
She flashed him a look. “I lied. It’s the same as my home, you see. When your mind suspects—knows—that something is there, it can’t help but see it, regardless of the illusions that have been tossed up. Sweetie, we’ve been together so long, your mind is friends with my soul.”
“Soul!” he spat out. “You really think you have one.”
Her nostrils flared. “Don’t make me hurt you again. I don’t know what a soul is any more than you do, but if you’ve got one then I’ve got one. Then your dog here’s got one.”
“People with souls don’t snuff out other people’s then laugh about it.”
“Do we need to have the cow discussion again? We all pick and choose which souls are okay to destroy. And me, I’m happy to snuff out a few twinkling souls if it means keeping mine lit up.”
They walked for a few minutes in silence. “Whatever,” Stan said finally.
“Yeah, whatever. Anyways, I’m feeling like we need to go that way,” she said, pointing across the water. “What does your dog have to say?”
He looked at Bloody, then pointed across the water. She looked down, her big doggy eyes tired and sad, but her tail twitched. He could lie about the direction, sure, but she’d know it, and he was quite attached to his remaining fingers. “Same,” he said.
“What are the chances of that, eh?” she said in some bizarre affectation of a Canadian accent.
“There’s a lot of world left in that direction.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Right.”
“It must be almost morning,” Stan said.
She took a pocket watch from her purse. “Yep. Trying to save me again, eh?”
“No, but I’m going to get pneumonia or frostbite or something if I don’t get out of this cold.”
“Candyass,” she said.
They walked for a few more minutes, until the rocks gave way to sand, and the tree line gave way to a parking lot. Her shoes still in her hands, Dalla took off ahead, twirling around with only her toes
caressing the ground, leaving loops in the sand.
“Don’t you just love feeling sand between your toes?” she said.
“It’s better in the sunlight.”
“You’re such a drag! Come on.”
He did love that feeling. What the hell; he’d probably be dead within a day anyway. He tossed his shoes and socks to the side, then jogged beside her. Bloody ran along with them, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth.
Dalla’s foot slipped in the sand, shooting in front of Stan’s. He tumbled forward, rolling on the cold ground, laughing despite himself. Dalla allowed herself to fall alongside him, then suddenly she was on top of him, her tiny breasts against his chest.
His hand raised to caress the side of her face. The tips of his fingers traced her lips, thin and almost black in the moonlight.
Their mouths met, mashed together, hot and wet, for the briefest of moments. When they pulled apart, her face was contorted with a confused sadness.
She shook her head. “I gotta flake off, before I, you know, flake up.” She pulled a wad of cash from her purse. She stuffed it in the front of his jeans, her hand lingering there for a moment.
He caught her gaze again. “Are we going to talk about this?”
Her lip curled at one side. She looked at him with a strange confusion again. Then, so fast he couldn’t see her move, she was gone.
(THREE)
“THERE’S A WAR ON CHRISTMAS, and everyone is invited!”
“Oswald’s rifle was photoshopped!”
Morgan pointed at a chubby girl in a Starbucks uniform. “Excerpt from Trodden and Zheng, two thousand and four, abstract: after adjusting for perturbations from nearby stars, the observed expansion remained, and temporally coincided exactly with the statistical anomalies at quantum levels. A theory of general expansions in spacetime, occurring stochastically and permanently, is described.”
The girl stared at him for a moment, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it and moved on.