by David Lubar
Soon enough, he’d glided across the room, moving dark and silent as a storm cloud, and introduced himself. After a couple of minutes of small talk, during which Vida verified that he was interesting and possibly worth getting to know, she’d asked, “You in a band?”
“Don’t play. Don’t sing. I listen. Mostly to composers who’ve been dead for two or three hundred years.” He gave her a nostalgic smile. “Those were the days.”
“Great.” She’d had her fill of musicians.
They’d stayed together for the rest of the party, during which she discovered, much to her relief, that he had no interest in monster trucks, Star Trek, existentialism, or any of the other annoying obsessions of her last string of guys. If she never had to visit another racetrack, it would suit her just fine. As they left the party, heading loosely together toward the door, he’d suggested the diner.
Vita had agreed. It’s not a date, she told herself as she followed him in her car.
When the waitress came by, Vida noticed that Art waited for her to order first. Nice. It blew her away how most guys didn’t give any thought to the small touches.
“Coffee,” she said. “And apple pie.”
Art nodded, as if he approved of her choice.
“Ice cream?” the waitress asked.
“No, thanks.” She’d gone through a half gallon in the week after the split. That was part of the ritual, too. Rip the name and address of the moron from her memo book, stuff it away in the Band-Aid box, then stuff her face until the chill killed as much feeling as possible.
“The usual?” the waitress asked Art.
“Sure, Gretta,” Art said.
Gretta tucked her order pad in her apron and walked off.
Art checked his watch.
“Curfew?” Vida asked. She didn’t even know if he lived at home. He looked like he was around nineteen.
“I have to be somewhere at three,” he said. “What about you?”
“Two,” she said. Her folks were pretty good about that, now that she was a senior. Even last year, they’d let her stay out until midnight on the weekends. She’d repaid the trust by keeping her grades up and not doing anything so stupid that it would permanently destroy her future. There’d been a couple of close calls, but no disasters. She glanced at her own watch. It was only twelve thirty. They had over an hour.
Gretta returned with two thick white mugs of black coffee. Vida reached for the Sweet’N Low. Penance for the ice cream would be a lengthy affair. Across the table, Art picked up the saltshaker, tilted it over his mug, and tapped the side twice.
“Acquired taste,” he said in response to her unasked question.
“Hey, I used to dip potato chips in mustard,” Vida said. If this was as weird as Art got, she’d be thrilled. He had looks, he had manners, and he really did listen to her. She had a feeling he’d let her talk all night if that’s what she wanted. The only time Art took his eyes away from hers was when he looked at his watch. Or when he tapped a bit more salt into his coffee.
Vida found she was glancing at her watch, too. She wanted the evening to last longer. But if it was meant to be, they’d meet again.
“I guess I’d better get going,” she said as curfew drew close. She reached for her wallet.
“I’ve got it,” Art said.
“Thanks.” Vida stood, wondering whether to give Art a friendly hug. Guys were so good at misjudging things. One brief squeeze and they wanted to drag you off to their cave.
“I’ll walk you out,” he said.
As she pulled her car keys from her purse, Art touched her shoulder so lightly, she could barely feel his fingers. “I’m glad we met.”
“Me, too.”
They exchanged phone numbers. Let’s hope this one stays out of the box, Vida thought.
She slept well. From the time she drifted lazily awake late the next morning to the time the sun set, she waited for the phone to ring.
“Call him?” she said aloud as she stared at the mute face of her cell phone. She didn’t want to seem desperate—mostly because she wasn’t desperate. But last night had been nice. More than nice.
He called at nine.
“Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“Meet you there?”
“Sounds good.”
The evening was as pleasant as she’d hoped.
“Are you around during the week?” she asked as they left the diner.
He shook his head. “I work pretty long hours.”
Vida waited for him to give more details. Instead, he asked if he could take her to another party next Friday.
And so it went for a month. And then a second month. Vida met Art at the diner, or at a party. But he wouldn’t tell her his address, or where he worked.
All she knew for sure was he went somewhere each evening at three.
It wasn’t hard to follow him. She’d pleaded for a onetime curfew extension, and her parents had reluctantly agreed. When she left the diner, she circled the block, parked down the street, and waited for Art to go to his car. She let him get several blocks ahead, until the taillights had shrunk to the size of embers on a pair of dying candle wicks. Then she drove in his trail. Eventually, he pulled to the curb in the middle of a block of abandoned buildings and stepped through the door of a dilapidated movie theater. There were a dozen other cars along the street.
Vida watched as five more people went in after him. She recognized several of them from the diner. Finally, when there’d been no traffic for at least twenty minutes, she left her own car and walked quietly to the theater.
Do I want to do this? she thought as she pushed the door open. Unlike the old doors in horror movies, this one moved silently. Vida’s own sigh of relief was louder.
She crept through the lobby. Quiet voices drifted from ahead. She moved to the inner door of the theater and opened it a crack.
“My name is Art.”
She recognized his voice.
“Hi, Art,” a roomful of other voices said, as if it was a ritual response.
Vida clutched the edge of the door as Art spoke. “I’m a vampire. I’ve been blood free for nearly eleven months.”
“Good for you, Art,” someone called.
The blood drained from Vida’s own hands and face as she let go of the door and backed away.
She turned and fled, her steps echoing in the abandoned streets.
No. It has to be a joke. He was in some sort of pretend group. Like the people who wore armor and fought at festivals with wooden swords. Or the kids who dressed up like they were in a science fiction movie. This was play. Pretend. This was Rocky Horror. Dress up. Make-believe. This wasn’t real. Not Art. Not her dear, sweet, gorgeous Art.
But her heart and soul knew otherwise.
When she got home, Vida ripped his number from her memo book, and grabbed the box. But she couldn’t bring herself to cram the paper into the remaining narrow space.
He called the next evening, inviting her to coffee.
Vida went.
“I know,” she said after they’d given Gretta their order.
“Know what?” he asked.
She stared at him without answering, unable to swallow. She could feel her pulse hammering at her throat.
“Sorry. That was beneath me.” He spread his hands and glanced away, then looked back at her. “How’d you figure it out?”
“I followed you to your meeting,” she said.
He sighed. “I’m doing pretty good. Another month, and I’ll get my one-year pin.”
“You should have told me,” she said.
“I didn’t think we’d go out more than once or twice. I haven’t had much luck with relationships. I never thought I’d start to care for you. And then, I was afraid to lose you. I guess it’s over.…”
Vida shook her head. “Darn it, Art. I think I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She put her hand on his. “So. This meeting you go to, to keep from drinking blood. It works?”
“It’s been working for me for thirty years.”
She pulled her hand from his. “I thought you said you’d been going for almost a year.”
“No. I’ve gone almost a year without a slip. Or a sip.” He started to smile, but she locked her eyes on his.
“This is serious,” Vida said. “What you’re saying is you can’t resist forever. Right?”
“Right.”
“But after you slip, you can go a long time.”
He nodded. “Right again.”
“I guess I have no choice,” Vida said. She reached for her purse.
“No choice. You should leave right now,” Art said.
“And walk out on the best guy I’ve ever met? No way.” Vida pulled the box from her purse and put it on the table.
“What’s that?” Art asked.
“Names. Addresses. Think of it as a takeout menu.”
Art slid the box from the table. “Old flames?”
Vida nodded. “They’re a bit cold-blooded. But that can’t be helped.”
“Thanks. I’ll be gentle,” Art said as he tucked the box in his coat pocket.
“Please don’t,” Vida said. She picked up the saltshaker as Gretta placed a cup of coffee in front of her. “So it’s good like this?” she asked.
Art shrugged. “I like it.”
Vida gave the shaker a tap.
Art pulled out the slips of paper, then offered her the empty box. “Want it back?”
Vida took a sip of her coffee, then shook her head. “I won’t be needing it.” Not bad, she thought as she took a second sip. The coffee tasted different from what she was used to—a bit strange, a bit exotic—but she suspected she’d grow to like it, too.
Evil Twin
First, they said it would be the end of civilization. Then they said they were close to a cure. All of this scared me to death. All the kids were scared. We checked our fingers every day. We whispered the things we’d heard the adults say to each other when they thought we weren’t listening.
It was an experiment that went wrong.
They made it in a lab.
It came here on a meteor.
One of my friends, Carly, spent so much time staring at her hands that our teachers had to take her out of class.
“Don’t worry,” Mom said every time I told her I was scared. “You won’t catch it.”
“Nothing is going to hurt my little girl,” Dad said.
I tried to believe them. I tried not to worry. Then my thumb started to split. I noticed it right after lunch on a Monday three weeks before my eleventh birthday. I stared at the end of my thumb, unable to believe what I was seeing, but knowing in my heart that the thing I feared the most, the thing I knew would get me, had finally struck.
I started screaming. By the time my panicked mind finally tried to think of ways to hide my hand, it was too late. My screams had betrayed me. All the kids backed away from me. The teachers took me to the nurse’s office and kept me there until the Health Squad came.
Now, I’m in the waiting place. I’m not sure which one. I guess it doesn’t matter. They have them all over the world. Even though it isn’t supposed to be contagious, they don’t take any chances. I’ve been here a week, now. It’s moving quickly. My arms and legs have both almost fully divided.
It doesn’t hurt. I knew it wasn’t supposed to. But there is more than one kind of pain. The pain you can feel in your flesh is nothing compared to the pain that rises from a horror you can’t escape.
I’d heard that most victims pass out during the final days. That’s good. Because the head is the last part of the body to split. I can’t imagine what it will be like when I wake up. I have one chance in two that I’ll be all right. Well, not really all right. I’ll never be all right again.
I’ve had time to read. Even though I’m just a kid, the people here believe in explaining what is going on, and giving me books. They’re overworked, and the place is too crowded, but the people try to be nice, even if they never look me in the eyes.
The scientists call it prion-induced microreplicant syndrome. Real people call it Jekyll–Hyde disease. My body is duplicating itself. I’m splitting into two people. Other than the indescribable horror of looking at my body and seeing two pairs of arms, the split itself might not be all that awful once it’s finished—if the split just made an exact copy of me. But brain cells aren’t like other cells. There will be two of me when this is over. Identical on the outside. But completely opposite on the inside. The scientists have big names for all of this, too. But, as always, the people have a simpler way to say things. After the split, there will be a good Samantha and a bad Samantha.
That was one of the things that became obvious as soon as the first Jekyll–Hyde victims awoke. The evil ones were clever enough to try to hide their nature, but they were so deeply and darkly evil, without any hint of good, that they couldn’t disguise their darkness for long. They’re kept away from the rest of society for the safety of everyone.
The good ones, on the other hand, were so nice and so trusting that they couldn’t survive in the real world without help.
I’ve never been really bad. But I don’t like the idea of being all good. And I hate the idea of being all bad.
There will be two of me soon. And I don’t know which one I’ll become. Maybe I’ll be both. I don’t know. The scientists have theories about what happens to your identity when you split. I really don’t understand that part. It’s confusing.
I’ve been getting more and more sleepy the last couple of days. The doctors explained that my body is working so hard to duplicate itself that it’s using up a lot of energy. They have me hooked up to tubes. I’m on oxygen to help me breathe.
I really just want to sleep. I think I’ll close my eyes for a while.
My mind feels much clearer. It’s dark. I’m awake. There’s still an oxygen mask on my face, but I don’t think I need it. My body feels normal again. The extra weight is gone. I look at my hand. Just one. The split is over.
I search my brain for evil impulses. Nothing. That’s such a great relief. I look to my right. There’s someone on the next bed. Me. How strange to look at myself. But it’s the evil me. She isn’t awake yet. I can’t hear any sound from the nurses down the hall.
I get out of my bed. I take my pillow. Her life would be terrible. I know what I have to do. I remove her oxygen mask and put the pillow over her face. I lean against it. She struggles for a moment, but I am strong.
I smile, because I’m removing evil from the world. I am good. I have survived.
Starscape Books by David Lubar
Novels
Flip
Hidden Talents
True Talents
Nathan Abercrombie, Accidental Zombie Series
My Rotten Life
Dead Guy Spy
Goop Soup
The Big Stink
Enter the Zombie
Story Collections
In the Land of the Lawn Weenies and Other Warped and Creepy Tales
Invasion of the Road Weenies and Other Warped and Creepy Tales
The Curse of the Campfire Weenies and Other Warped and Creepy Tales
The Battle of the Red Hot Pepper Weenies and Other Warped and Creepy Tales
Attack of the Vampire Weenies and Other Warped and Creepy Tales
Beware the Ninja Weenies and Other Warped and Creepy Tales
About the Author
David Lubar grew up in Morristown, New Jersey. His books include Hidden Talents, an ALA Best Book for Young Adults; True Talents; Flip, a VOYA Best Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror selection; the Weenies short-story collections In the Land of the Lawn Weenies, Invasion of the Road Weenies, The Curse of the Campfire Weenies, The Battle of the Red Hot Pepper Weenies, Attack of the Vampire Weenies, and Beware the Ninja Weenies; and the Nathan Abercrombie, Accidental Zombie series. He lives in Nazareth, Pennsylvania. You can visit him on the Web at www.davidlubar.com.
This is a work of
fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
EXTREMITIES
Copyright © 2013 by David Lubar
All rights reserved.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following publications, in which these stories originally appeared: “A Cart Full of Junk,” “Running Out of Air,” “Free Seas,” and “Split Decision” in Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show; “Feelings” and “Morph” in iPulpFiction; “The Ex Box” in READ Magazine; and “Apparent Motives” in Rush Hour.
Cover art by Patrick Knowles
Interior illustrations by Jim Kay
A Tor Teen Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 978-0-7653-3460-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 9781466814608 (e-book)
First Edition: July 2013