Best New Vampire Tales (Vol.1)

by Laimo, Michael; Newman, James; Hults, Matt; Webb, Don; Meikle, William; Wilson, David Niall; Everson, John; Waggoner, Tim; Daley, James Roy

  We exited silently from the antechamber of the vampire and paced over to the adjacent cave. In the back of my mind I kept reminding myself that from all our travels today it was growing late, and I wanted to put our plan into action before darkness took over, and the vampire awoke.

  When we entered the second room, I wasn’t quite sure what in God’s name I was looking at. But then, as the ensuing events unfolded, the horrible truth reared its ugly head.

  This room ran much larger than the first, perhaps twice the size. At its center and trailing all the way to the rear wall was a nesting of what I could only interpret as cocoons: white, bulbous egg-like spheres, perhaps fifty or more of them, united together in a sticky conglomeration of fluids and solids. Some of them, the larger ones at the forefront of the mass, had begun to hatch, and from within more vampire-beasts emerged, heads ensconced in a layering of something viscous, their papery wings still wet and newborn, not yet feasible for flight.

  I’ll continue by saying that Jorge was dead. Well, perhaps not dead yet, but in the process of being taken alive. One of the hatchlings in front had Jorge in its grasp, razored claws rooted into his shoulders, sharp fangs buried deeply into a great tear in his neck; hence we heard no scream, as it had bitten away his vocal chords. Jorge’s legs shot straight out in front of him like two planks, kicking up wildly as if electricity were running through them. And then the blood––so much of it, covering his mask of death and the mask of life of his attacker.

  Roberto took an angry step forward and began screaming in Spanish, and this time, I held him back.

  Thinking of my plan, I looked around and realized with horror that it was Jorge who had held the half-filled jug of kerosene. But it was nowhere near him––not that I could ever venture close to the horrifying scene to retrieve it.

  “Here!” I heard Roberto scream, and I saw him dart back towards the entrance where the container sat; Jorge had placed it down before approaching the vampire ovum. He immediately ran to the egg-collective and started splashing the fuel all over them, tossing the container back and forth in a heave-ho manner.

  At once great screams echoed from the eggs, and they all began to tear open, quickly now, each and every Goddamned one releasing its very own vampiric beast. Albino-like, tenebrous, coated in embryonic wetness. Flattened wings, busily working their way free from their prisons into the new world.

  Roberto finished spraying the fuel and I walked over, holding my torch, preparing to set it down. But then something caught my eye and I froze.

  One of the emerging vampires, freshly broken free from its milky shell, was staring at me.

  I felt my heart drop to my feet, heavy in pain. It was Juan-Carlos. Or what used to be him. “Lord have mercy,” I managed. “My dear friend, taken by evil.” The words came automatically as I stood there rooted watching my dear friend of fifteen years raise up and spread his wings out, a near six-foot span, and then launch a deafening roar along with the rest of the beasts: all of the missing people of Banalica.

  Roberto had been wrong. The people of Banalica had not perished. They had found new life.

  So I would be the one to put them to death, I thought, and placed the torch to the kerosene-drenched collective.

  I watched with awe as it went up in great flames.

  Screams erupted, pain, agony, bedlam, all evil things gone to hell and back, collected here in one single mass. I shielded my eyes as the flames multiplied, enveloping all the newborn vampires, watching in awe as their wings melted away. And then their fresh skins, sliding away from their bodies, and I held my breath as green smoke rose and the stench of sulfur filled the room. And through it all, I saw Juan Carlos’ face staring at me, staring at Roberto, and it seemed to me that he was pleading for mercy, begging for our forgiveness.

  I tossed my torch into the fire, forgetting all along my true purpose for coming here.

  It was standing behind us as we turned around to leave.

  The great vampire, the mother of all invention, looming over us, freshly awakened from a day of slumber only to find us––two priests––in its lair, burning its children. I tried desperately for prayer but found no words of faith to break through my mortal fear. Roberto and I stood close awaiting the worst: our deaths.

  The vampire howled a shrill so loud my ears popped and I at once went deaf. I expected it to immediately trance us with its yellow gaze, take us for its children, and I watched its scowling visage in assumption that no other alternative existed for me. But then it turned its head, shielding itself with its wings. Still howling.

  Then I realized.

  The fire. It was afraid of the bright fire.

  Roberto still held his torch. He thrust it toward the vampire and it cowered, staggering backwards, wings turned. It staggered back through the cave and we pursued, realizing its vulnerability, chasing it out into the night where we saw it take flight like a giant bat, sending its dark wind into our faces as we stood by the cave’s entrance.

  Smoke filtered out behind us and we quickly made our way back through the jungle into Banalica.

  With the assistance of the townsfolk, we built a bonfire outside the church and spent the night there, watching the skies for the flying creature, knowing deep inside that Banalica would now be safe from harm’s way.

  * * *

  It has been six months since my experience in Banalica. I have relocated my plight of God to Cocina, where many of its padres have perished in attempt to rescue the faithful from evil.

  With Roberto at my side, we wait––wait for word of some other villa that has been absorbed by evil.

  And then, in the memory of Juan-Carlos, we will fight again.

  Window Across the Street

  JAY CASELBERG

  Her window stands across the street, framed by white wood, by bricks, fawn shaded in the dimming evening light. Curtains are there, half-closed. A gentle breeze stirs them back and forth. The same breeze moves a tree branch and the leaves sway to and fro, occasionally obscuring then revealing the shadowed space beyond. My eyes are sensitive to every twitch of movement in the same way my cat's ears dart at every sound––like radar. Sometimes he sits with me as I watch and I stroke him gently from head to tail, my cat, my long time companion.

  Late at night, across the street, she closes the curtains, chequered, glowing dimly in the darkness. Half-formed man shapes move behind them, and I can but imagine what goes on in there, in that private place shuttered from the world. She leaves the window open, but the curtains closed. The breeze sometimes parts the cloth tantalizingly, revealing the barest sliver of the space beyond.

  She always looks before closing them, across the darkened street, glancing up before letting the hair fall across her face, a cascade of blond, as if she does not know. The lingering glance before she drops her gaze sets my heart pounding and dries my mouth. I speak to her then, my lips forming words, but no phrases come. The wind and the gentle rumble of my cat sitting beside me are the only sounds to break the stillness.

  Winter will be upon us soon. The leaves will drop from the tree, leaving the branches to scrape at the sky, but revealing larger gaps that I can see between. Sometimes she wears a red silk robe, gilded dragons worked with fine embroidery at the shoulders. It’s interesting, that choice of dragons. As she walks across her room the robe drifts behind her, flowing in her passage. She never bothers to tie it closed. With winter, I wonder if she will. So then, with the tantalizing gaps within my viewpoint made larger by the season's passing, I might see less instead of more. That would be rich irony. But I believe she will not allow that to happen. Perhaps she'll close the window to retain the warmth.

  I discovered her by accident, one day as I sat on the edge of my bed, leaning down to tie my shoes. A flutter at the limits of my vision drew my gaze. It was only a brief flash, but it was enough, enough to draw me to the window's edge. I stood, using a finger to open the curtain a fraction so I could look across the street. I kept my face hidden by the frame and
watched. The room was dark, but I could see her movement, her blonde hair a lighter patch within the colourless space. I noted it and put it from my mind.

  Later that same night, again by accident or so I thought, I saw that flicker, that movement once more. This time the light was on in her room. Bathed in yellow, she walked from one side of the bedroom to the other, arranging things, folding clothes. She wore the red silk robe. As I watched, only glancing at first and then transfixed, she stood in the centre of the room where I was afforded a clear view; then she dropped the robe from her shoulders. Naked, she stood upon her bed as she reached for something on a shelf above.

  Her form was milk-white, svelte. Though distance separated us I could see the contours of her shape, the movement of her muscles beneath the skin, and as she turned, the fine blonde down below her belly. Her body arched as she reached above her, a gentle curve. I became nervous then, guilty for watching, but I could not help myself. She moved to face me, placed her hands upon her hips and stood there, framed in wood and glass. Did she not see me? Unknowingly, I licked my lips. My heart was racing. A pause, and then she reached across and drew the curtains closed.

  I watched the illuminated shadow play for half an hour or more, but eventually the light went out. Someone walked by on the street below and I pulled back from the window, feeling ashamed of what I was doing. I sat on my bed just thinking, well into the night, savouring the way my heart had raced, the thrill of discovery and the inner conflict about the morality of what I'd done.

  Who was I? Who was this woman that I could invade her privacy like that? I put it from me, deciding that the brief sweet glimpse had been nothing more than chance.

  Two days later, in the morning this time, I saw her again. I was at my window, looking at the state of the world, considering the weather and what I might wear for my day when I glanced across. She stood barely masked by her open curtain. She trailed a towel across her breasts. She rubbed it back and forth, flicked her hair back. Then she dropped the towel, trailed a hand across her belly and turned. I caught my breath, not believing that this could be happening. She was facing away from me now and, unable to help myself, I stepped closer to the glass. She lifted her arms to run her fingers through damp hair and I marvelled at the arch of her back, the curve of her hip, the firm roundness of her buttocks, the slight dimples above them. My breath fogged the small patch of glass and I stopped myself from breathing, allowing the place to clear. Slowly she leaned down; then just as slowly she dressed, unhurried in her movements as if she had forever. At the last, she moved to the window and drew her curtains closed.

  The way her hand lingered, the way she looked out onto the street before dragging them shut set me wondering.

  I soon established the pattern. Three times a day she would be there and before long I had narrowed it down to particular times of the day. I knew when she rose. I knew when she came home. I knew when she went to sleep. I became a sentinel at my window, hovering in the shadows and waiting for her to appear. Once or twice she would break the schedule and leave me disappointed. It only made me want her all the more. The first time she didn't appear I waited in place for more than an hour, until my eyes played tricks and conjured vague movements in the darkness. I could barely sleep that night, feeling as if at any moment she might reappear, that perhaps I had misjudged the time.

  She was back the next morning, the barest hint of a smile upon her lips. Yet still I did not know whether she knew I was standing there, watching and waiting. I could do little more than suspect. But the suspicion grew, for always there was that lingering pause, the barest glance, before she drew the curtains shut again.

  Some time later she went away. For two weeks she was gone, her room hollow and empty. The chequered curtains fluttered mournfully in the breeze, ballooning into the shadowed room before flowing out. I was there waiting for her, morning, evening, and late at night, but for two full weeks she failed to appear. My vigil was in vain.

  The way I stood, holding my curtains slightly parted for more than an hour at a time took its toll, for that was when the pain started in my arm. It was only a slight pain––dull, running from my shoulder to my wrist. When at last I would give up for the night, I would flex my arm, try to stimulate some feeling and banish the annoying twinges that were becoming more and more regular. The discomfort was slight beside the knowledge that she wasn't there and I thought nothing more of them.

  The two weeks passed, and that night my heart leapt as I saw the light flick on in her room. The pulse was loud in my ears, almost deafening. I felt as if I could feel the blood flow within my veins. My mouth was dry, my breath coming in short shallow gasps. She had returned. I leaned against the window frame, relief mixed with excitement, and watched. She was back and she wore the red silk robe. I had been right to wait, to stand vigil for her return. She opened the curtains wider and ran fingers through her hair. The action was just for me.

  That was three weeks past. The pain in my arm has not left, but she is back, still here. That is what truly matters.

  She is in her room again, and I am in my place, half-obscured behind my curtain. She wears the red silk robe, shiny, the golden dragons catching and sparkling in the light. For the first time I notice they have green eyes made from small polished stones that seem to shine. I frown, wondering why I have never noticed this before.

  She steps towards the window and looks out across the street, directly at the place where I stand. Her robe hangs open, exposing the marble curve of breast and belly. My arm is throbbing but I banish the sensation. She presses up against the window, and just for a moment, I swear I can see the gilded dragons move and writhe upon her shoulders.

  She looks at me. I can feel her looking. And then I know she sees me. With that sudden knowledge, a deep and thrusting pain stabs in my chest.

  I frown again. With one hand I keep the curtain in place, slightly open so I can see her, but with the other I knead at my chest, trying to banish this pain that has sprung from nowhere. Instead of bringing relief, it intensifies, hot and burning, blossoming inside me. The strength of it makes me gasp.

  She lowers her face, watching me still, her hair hanging to one side like a fine silk curtain. My vision is slightly blurred now and those gentle curves seem larger than they should. I can feel her leaning forwards at her window, as if straining, waiting for something. She passes her tongue over her lower lip.

  Pain, beating inside me. The edges of my vision are fluttering with blackness. My legs are growing weak, barely able to support me. And still the hurt tears through me––wave after wave.

  The darkness and blunt-edged pain flower like a hard jewel inside and finally I feel my knees give way. As I slip to the floor, I see her face, watching still, wreathed with her smile and golden hair. Surrounded by red silk and dancing dragons, I can see her eyes. They're deepest green and filled with light––the colour of an impossible ocean.

  Lover’s Triangle

  COLLEEN ANDERSON

  It was so cold I expected the ozone grids that waffled the sky to hiss from the rain. They continued to glow a false green. Their reliability didn’t matter much; rad couldn’t get through with the weather so shitty. The rain wouldn’t matter anyway, once inside Fundamental Glue.

  I saw the garish orange even in the deluge, and ran to the door. Wiping water out of my eyes, I palmed the door and entered Fundamental Glue. Warm ecstasy. It was dark inside, and my eyes gradually adjusted to the diffused wraith-lights that bobbed above each table. Inside was nearly as garish as the front with long diagonal stripes of green, blue and red that covered the kylar plastiplate walls. Keg had taken no chances and had made Glue impervious to almost all types of razing, except for old world bombs, which no one was fool enough to use. No one in their right minds, but we had long ago lost that perspective.

  I walked into the din and pushed through the crowd, close as maggots, to the bar. The place would soon writhe in gyrations of bliss when Bore Hunter started playing. I searched through
the mix of humans and Wireheads for Sharman and Claxon but couldn’t see them. Turning back to the bar, I yelled at Keg. “Hey, Keg, Brosia please. How’s biz?”

  Keg, lean, angular and with a hooked nose, glowered under bushy eyebrows as he filled glasses with coolants. “Not bad, Agate. You gonna read futures tonight?” He plunked the can in front of me.

  I patted my coat’s pockets. “I’ve got the decks. Wasn’t planning to but maybe I will for a while.”

  “Please do.” He turned away to the far side of the bar and yelled back, “Quiet spot’s at the back.”

  I squeezed by three Wireheads whose eyes sheened with a silvery metal. Probably housed special optics––unnerving to look at them. I bit back an old curse at such unnatural use of flesh. At least it was their bodies, not mine. I sat at a table scarred with initials and faced the stage.

  I rooted into one pocket and felt the reassuring presence of stiletto and wand. The decks lay wrapped in silk in the opposite pocket and I pulled one out. The Romany Wanderer. I shuffled through the Gypsy patteran––symbols––and decided to use the Mythic deck instead, with its strong traditional images for the Emperor, the Fool, Death, etc.

  I laid a piece of red silk patterned with black sickles and roses upon the table, and began shuffling the cards. Eyes closed, I concentrated, centering myself to the earth, letting the sounds of the Glue drift away. Once inner calmness blanketed me, I opened my eyes, feeling connected to the symbolism of the cards. The portents and messages swirled within me, waiting to be released into sequence. I let out a long breath and sipped the Brosia.