Monsters in the Midwest ( Book 1): Wisconsin Vamp

by Scott Burtness

  Chapter 14

  By the time the last of the carpet was scrubbed and the spatters of blood had been wiped off the plastic picture frames on the walls, Herb was hungry. Weaving a path through his home like a caged beast, opening and closing the fridge, pacing, opening and closing the cupboards, pacing, opening and closing the fridge, Herb contemplated what to do next. He tried to think objectively about his situation. He couldn’t go to Ronnie’s. Not yet anyway, and what was the use besides? While the thought of a turkey bacon melt and cheese curds or some syrup-drenched French toast and a hot cup of Folgers would’ve made his mouth water a handful of days ago, Herb couldn’t think of a single thing on Ronnie’s not-insubstantial menu that he wanted to eat. Dark, unbidden memories rumbled in his stomach and bubbled to the surface: snapping the goats neck, slinging it across his shoulders and running through a moonlit field, a bead of bright red blood welling up from the cut on Rhonda’s finger, holding a grouse above his head by the feet as he sucked at the gash in its side, the way the side of Pam’s neck glowed in the fluorescent light. Every recollection spurred another rumble in his stomach, and each rumble ratcheted up the volume of the ever-present whispers. Herb could feel the sun making its way around the far side of the globe, drawing inexorably closer to his little abode. If he was going to eat, he’d better do it soon. But what to eat? No, his mind whispered. Not what. Who...

  His first thought when the phone rang was Dinner calling! followed by an immediate wave of guilt. Not trusting himself on the phone, Herb waited for the machine to kick in.

  “Um, hello. You’ve reached the Knudsen residence. Um. The Knudsen, Herb, I mean me, well it’s a recording of Herb. Me. Oh crap. Does this rewind? Uff dah. Aaah crap. Oh, ok. Sorry! Can’t take your call! I’d sure love to, and I hope I can take your call again. Later. When I call you back. Um. Ok den, thanks! So wait for the beep… um, the beep. It should be this one. Oh for chrissakes...” Beeeep!

  “Crap on a cracker, Herby! You really need a new message. Anyway, where you at? Heard you was sick and stuff yesterday, and I thought you’d maybe be feeling better today and figured you’d wanna shoot some pool and grab a couple beers. Pick up. Pick up pick up pick up pick up. Hello? OK, fine. I’ll just grab Stanley. We’ll be at Steinknockers in an hour or so.”

  As if in direct response to Dallas’s invite, Herb’s stomach rumbled with a plaintive growl. Maybe a night out would be just what he needed to help him make sense of all of this. He’d never tell Dallas or Stanley he had recently turned into a vampire, not in a thousand years. Stanley might believe, but Dallas, no way. Regardless, he figured he should get used to the idea before bringing anyone else into the fold. But some time with the guys and a game of pool sounded so normal. After the past couple of days, normal would be a nice change of pace.

  Maybe after bar-close you could grab a little snack, the whispers suggested. Herb turned the thought in his mind, looked it over appraisingly. It seemed like a reasonable suggestion. Not someone he knew, that was for sure, but maybe a tourist. Some Joe-schmo from Michigan or Minnesota, or a little international cuisine from Canada. There were usually more than a few out-of-towners hanging around. He’d just grab a little sip. Just the littlest of sips.

  After a short spelunking expedition into his closet followed by a quick archaeological dig through a few piles of laundry, Herb unearthed a pair of faded denims from his high school days. He used a pen knife to punch a new hole in his belt to make sure the jeans stayed in place, pulled on a Foghat t-shirt and headed back to the bathroom to gussy up. But when he flicked on the light, all that showed up in the medicine cabinet mirror was an empty t-shirt sitting on top of a pair of jeans. Not one scrap of Herb looked back.

  “Crap,” complained Herb. “How the hell am I supposed to comb my hair?” He usually spent more time putting on his socks than fixing his hair, but tonight he felt different. Something akin to self-confidence was starting to poke and prod at his insides. It was just rotten luck that when he finally decided to give a damn about his hair, he couldn’t see it.

  He slowed his breathing and tried to concentrate on the mirror, but to no avail. His thoughts kept drifting toward pool and tourists, and his reflection remained M.I.A. Stifling a that figures sigh, he pushed his fingers through his hair, followed by a black plastic comb. Judging by touch that he’d finally pulled most of the tangles out, he parted it in near the middle and patted around his head for good measure. Herb thought briefly about the razor and shaving cream sitting next to the faucet, and weighed shaving without a reflection. Deciding that he’d rather live, he let the stubble stay.

  Stepping back from the mirror, he looked down, pulling in vain to get the wrinkles out of Foghat. Skinny felt weird, like a wallet in the wrong pocket weird, or forgetting your glasses were on top of your head weird. But that insistent little kernel of self-confidence jabbed him hard in the ribs and he smiled. The guys aren’t gonna believe it’s me, he thought with pride.

  “Oh Christ on a stick.” Realization struck like a needle to a balloon. Some things could be explained. Shedding 30-odd pounds in a couple of days, though, not so much. Grumbling about the injustices of the world, he pulled off his t-shirt and replaced his jeans with a looser pair. Next, he took a lumpy throw pillow from his couch and used his belt to secure it where his paunch used to ride carefree above his waistband. Pulling Foghat back over his head, he finished the ensemble with a light flannel over the t-shirt to better hide the belt-cinched pillow. Scoping himself out as best he could sans mirror, he added a few smooshes, tweaks and punches, shaping his torso back into a reasonable facsimile of his former physique. As long as no one wrapped him up for a hug or punched him in the stomach, they’d probably never notice. Probably.

  Chafing a bit at having to hide the new washboard under a pillow, Herb still felt better. And just because he was wearing a pillow under a t-shirt didn’t mean he wasn’t a badass. As he stepped out of his house and turned back to lock the door, a strange elation took hold. Hunting, he thought. I’m going hunting.

  Chapter 15

  Herb pulled up to Steinknockers and glanced around the parking lot. There were a couple of bikers smoking by their Harley’s, but the lot was otherwise void of people. Mondays were always slow which suited him just fine. Herb slid out of his Pinto, realigned his stuffing and glided toward the door, instinctively keeping to the shadows and avoiding the bug-filled pools of amber cast by the few lights illuminating the lot. His ears perked at a variety of sounds; a car backfire far off on the main highway, the feathery swoosh of an owl descending upon a field mouse, the snick of an old Zippo as one of the bikers lit a second cigarette. The scents were even more pronounced: smoke, warm rubber from his car’s mostly-bald tires, a cornucopia of olfactory overload from the dumpster behind the bar and the sharp tang of urine where the occasional patron would let loose in the back when the bar’s bathroom was occupied. Oddly, Herb didn’t find any of the smells to be bad or off-putting. They were just smells, and they painted a picture of the night more vivid than anything he could have ever imagined.

  Having reached the entrance, he quietly cracked the door and peered into the dimly lit bar. A handful of regulars, many of whom Herb had already recognized by smell while he was still in the parking lot, occupied the space. They were clumped up at the far end of the bar by an old TV mounted in the corner. Since the TV didn’t have highly trained men chasing a ball, the regulars were occupied with grumbling to Stein, the grizzled owner of the bar, about bad sinus weather and the best way to clear a jammed-up butterfly valve in a Chevy carburetor.

  Herb’s eyes flicked toward the group and took in the mirror running the length of the wall behind Stein. Panic rose up and strongly suggested fleeing back to the shadows of the parking lot. Without the surefire distraction of a game on TV, Herb wasn’t sure he could make it inside completely unnoticed. But dammit, he wanted to play pool, see the guys. After the past couple of nights, he didn’t think he could handle another night at home. Firming up his re
solve and cinching it into place like the pillow around his gut, he eased forward over the threshold, letting the door swing shut behind him. Another step, then another, each step as careful as walking on thin ice. Please, no one notice me, he thought. Nothing to see here, I’m not the droid you’re looking for. A glance at the mirror showed an empty, floating flannel walking into a bar. The seeds of a joke had just sprouted in Herb’s mind when Stein glanced up. Fear constricted his chest, sharpened his senses, and time slowed to a molasses trickle. Herb saw the stubbly chin of Stein’s broad face start to turn in his direction, skin crinkling at one corner of his mouth, making way for his easy smile. He watched fabric start to wrinkle and bunch as Stein’s shoulder came slowly up, precursor to the inevitable wave and head nod Stein shared with every new patron.

  As Herb and Stein’s eyes connected, someone vacuum-packed their brains together. There was no other way to describe it. All that was Herb and all that was Stein were suddenly sucked in to the same narrow, shapeless space. There was a sound, like surf rhythmically pounding a distant shore. With each pulse, Herb created form from the void. He inhaled and Stein exhaled. He slowly let out his breath and Stein breathed in. As Herb’s brow furrowed, Stein’s gaze went slack. Both men stood motionless, Herb a few steps inside the doorway, Stein with his shoulder still in a half-shrug.

  Please don’t see me! Herb’s panicked thought raced through the void and Stein’s eyes slipped out of focus to stare vacantly toward a spot somewhere above and to the left of Herb’s head. Afraid to move or even breathe, Herb waited, his inner mantra running in loops. I’m not the droid. Please don’t see me. I’m not the droid. Amazingly, Stein turned back to the grumblers across from him at the bar, seemingly unaware that a newcomer was standing in the doorway.

  Mightily confused, but not in the mood to push his luck looking for answers, Herb released a shaky sigh and cat-stepped through the bar to the back room. Herb instantly started to relax as he let the familiar space embrace him. Steinknockers was one of his favorite haunts in Trappersville, second only to the bowling alley. It was an easy place to like because Stein had simple rules. Drink and behave yourself and you could stay as long as you wanted. Drink and misbehave and Stein tossed your ass out. Easy as that.

  Two small pool tables occupied the back third of the bar, framed on three sides by the juke box, bathrooms and the back door where deliveries came in and unruly drunks were shoved out. A couple of guys in purple and white Vikings jerseys with smart-looking mullets occupied one table. Dallas and Stanley leaned against the wall near the other table. Stanley was in the middle of a story that Dallas was obviously not listening to, seeing as how Dallas was actively engaged in surreptitiously watching the Vikings guys play pool.

  Helen arrived with a tray full of beers a moment before Herb walked over, moving first to the table where the mullet twins were finishing another game. She worked the bar a couple nights a week, Nekked’s strip club up the road on the weekends, and, according to Dallas, put the ‘knockers’ in Steinknockers. Herb had heard that she went by the stage name Helen of Troy at the strip club. Trappersville was a land-locked town, so it would be hard to prove whether her face could actually launch a thousand ships. But truth be told, most of those engaged in speculation had probably never looked up far enough to see her face.

  “Look who made it to the party!” Dallas hollered to Herb. “Welcome back to the living. Sounds like you must’a been pretty sick yesterday. The way Ronnie told it, you’d better have had the g’damn Bubonic plague if you still expect to have a job this weekend. And don’t you dare lose your job. I ain’t about to start paying for my meals, no thank you!”

  Stanley’s head bobbed up and down in agreement as he stammered, “You feelin’ better Herb? I sure hope so. I got the shingles once and them-there sh-shingles they had me feeling pretty awful. You don’t got sh-shingles, do ya Herb? You gotta watch out for chocolate and nuts and take a buttermilk bath, which ain’t ch-cheap. No sir.”

  “Uh, thanks Stanley. Nope, not shingles. Had a, um... fever though. Yeah. Uh, a nasty one. But I’m better now. Right as rain.” Herb smiled, politely averting his eyes from Helen’s shapely form as she slid around their pool table like a mermaid at a waterpark.

  As Herb took in more sage advice from Stanley about holistic treatments for shingles and the best brands of shea butter skin creams, Helen deposited two cans of Milwaukee’s Best on the ledge running the length of the wall. “Five bucks. Hey new guy. Lemme know whatcha need, k?”

  Herb blushed. “Oh, um. Hi Helen. It’s Herb. Again. Still. Um. I’ve been here. A lot. I uh...” was about all he could manage while struggling mightily to not look at her cleavage. It felt like Herb’s eyes were made of metal, and someone had placed a really strong magnet in Helen’s shirt. His sense of propriety was still struggling with his hormones when Dallas flourished a crisp ten dollar bill in front of Helen. She moved to take it a few times, only to have Dallas flit the bill to the side, up, over, always just out of reach of her grasping fingers.

  After a few unsuccessful swipes, Helen’s fist dropped to a shapely hip as she glared up at Dallas from under long lashes. “Cute, Dal. You ever heard the expression, ‘Just pay the lady?’”

  In response, Dallas flourished the bill one last time before plunging it down the front of her strained V-neck t-shirt into her ample cleavage. As Helen stepped back in shock, Dallas winked and flashed a wicked grin.

  “Ever heard the expression ‘Pay to play?’ Whadaya say, sweetums? Wanna play with old Dallas?”

  “Sorry hon. I’m not real interested in Little League. Although the next time you push something down my shirt uninvited, I might just take a swing at a couple of balls,” Helen growled, her voice all honey-dipped razor wire.

  “Oh c’mon now. We’re just playin’ is all, ain’t we Herby?” laughed Dallas.

  Oh crap. Herb turned to look at Helen, acutely aware that she still hadn’t taken the folded bill out from between her bosom. Eyes, eyes, eyes. Look in the eyes. Not down, look up. Good! Ok smile. Smile. “Uh, s-sorry Helen. Um, I’ll make sure Dallas behaves.” As Herb spoke, he looked straight into Helen’s eyes. They’re hazel, he though. Huh, never knew she had hazel eyes. His gaze went deeper into the liquid pools flowing around night-black pupils. Glints of light caught, flashed and disappeared, minnows catching the moonlight, swirling and drawing him into, around, through Helen’s mind. He was vaguely aware that time had that molasses-slow quality again, like when Stein saw him walk in. He could detect the movement of the world in his periphery vision: Stanley’s finger crawling inevitably toward his nostril, Dallas’s mouth stretched mid-laugh, over his shoulder one of the Viking mullets was in the process of drawing back his pool stick. Herb acknowledged, pondered and dismissed these minutiae. Ants crossing the sidewalk carried more significance. Of sole and tantamount importance in this infinite moment of time was the quivering candle flame of Helen, wavering in the steadily building gale of his attention. A single puff and she’s gone, he thought. Gone, she sighed in agreement, her thoughts the purr of a post-coital lover wrapped deep in the covers, drifting down to satiated sleep and warming dreams.

  It’s all right, his thought a warm blanket enveloping her, holding her close. “It’s all right,” he heard a strange voice say, a voice he almost recognized as his own, gently plucking the ten dollar bill from her cleavage and pressing it into her palm. “You’re doing a fine job here, that’s a sure thing. A gem like you shouldn’t be bothered by the likes of him, isn’t that so?” Helen returned the slightest of nods. “Tell you what. I’ll have a bloody Mary.”

  A flush had crept across her chest and up her cheeks and her breath was coming in shallow gasps. “One bloody Mary coming up,” Helen sighed. She blinked a few times, pushed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. Smiling, she turned and wove a lazy zig-zag between the tables back toward the bar, casting surreptitious glances back toward Herb as she walked. Herb watched her go and slowly fell back into himself. Two sharp points of
pain in his lower lip brought him suddenly back to his senses. Snapping his hand up over his mouth, he whipped his attention back to Dallas and Stanley. Neither was paying any attention to him. Stanley was surreptitiously picking his nose, while Dallas was not-so-surreptitiously watching Helen’s swaying behind.

  “God almighty I gotta hit that again. You know we hooked up, right?” Stanley’s attention strayed from whatever was in his nose to Dallas and Herb shrugged. Sure of an attentive audience, Dallas’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yeah, it was after homecoming, junior year. I’d just thrown over 220 yards for three touchdowns. I didn’t even have a chance to hit the showers, she just grabbed me as I was coming off the field and pulled me into the equipment shed. Coming off the field indeed!” Dallas guffawed. “Holy hell, that was a night.” Dallas sighed, lost in a memory you’d never find in the front room of the video rental store. Herb nodded politely but his attention was still on the curious sensation of having fangs. Suddenly Dallas turned his attention to Herb.