Monsters in the Midwest ( Book 1): Wisconsin Vamp

by Scott Burtness

  Burdens deposited, Herb closed the rambler’s front door, checked to make sure it was locked and turned to look up at the night sky. He basked briefly in the memories from the previous few days, and wondered at the strangeness of the world. From the Vulcan mind-trick on old Stein to drinking Helen and having her cling to him like Saran wrap to running the table on those two Vikings wankers like he was auditioning for The Color of Money, this was by and far the best night Herb had ever had in his life. And it wasn’t over yet. There were still easily three hours or so until sunrise. Time for anything to happen. Buoyed by his thoughts, Herb began to jog down the drive toward the highway. Reaching the highway, he lengthened his stride.

  Chapter 20

  The night air was crisp against his face and his red hair rippled. Maybe he couldn’t fly, but damn if he couldn’t run like the wind. Losing himself in the sensation, Herb felt an uncoiling inside. All the years of being average, overlooked, overshadowed were evaporating behind him like the dashed lines stretching down the highway. He knew that no normal human being could run like he was running. Only something extraordinary, something amazing could run this way. And that was him. Finally, finally he was something truly special.

  “Intoxicating, isn’t it?”

  The question hit Herb like a cable stretched across the highway, followed a split second later by a grasshopper splattering across his forehead. Half blinded by grasshopper guts and shocked by the unexpected voice, Herb’s newfound agility faltered, spilling him to the ground. He hit the pavement with a solid, bone-crunching thud, rolled and skidded ass over tea kettle for a good fifteen yards before friction finally trumped momentum and dragged him bleeding and sore to a stop in the road. For a few seconds, all he could think of was the excruciating pain coming from all over his body. Elbows were bloody and torn, his left kneecap felt like it had just taken a clip from an aluminum bat, and blood flowed freely from a gash in his forehead through the remains of the grasshopper down his chin to join the dirt stains on his shirt. But as he took stock of the various pains, he also became acutely aware of their diminishing. Turning his palms toward his face, he watched the gashes mend, leaving unbroken skin beneath a smear of dirt, gravel and blood. He wiped an unsteady palm across his brow and felt unblemished skin beneath a coat of blood and bug guts. He pulled at the tear in his jeans and watched the last bit of a nasty gash close up right before his eye. Like Wolverine, he thought. This is so awesome. I’m an X-man! As he marveled anew at his super powers, he failed to notice the shape moving languidly to position itself just in front of him. A soft clearing of a throat broke through his reverie, and Herb looked up to see,

  “Hey, weren’t you in that movie?”

  “Oh for the love of... No!” The stranger shuddered for a moment before he visibly regained his composure and spat words down at Herb, spraying him with derision. “I swear, I should’ve never consulted on the casting for that infernal film. Do you have any idea how annoying it is to have my intended victims asking me for autographs and photo-ops?”

  As the words intended victims crawled into his ears, Herb’s insides turned to ice while his stomach flipped inside out. It took an immense effort to squeak out a “sorry.” While he cowered before the obviously upset stranger, Herb’s mind whirled in confusion. He was sure he’d never met the man glaring derisively down at him before, but had the distinct impression that he knew him. Like actually knew him, not just he-looked-like-a-movie-star knew him.

  The stranger stood in front of him, staring down his nose and offering no answers to Herb’s unasked questions. His black slacks, black shirt and deep red velvet trimmed black vest blended with the nightscape behind him. A short cape hung from his shoulders to his waist, ink-black and lined with deep red silk, waving in the faint breeze. Dark hair fell languidly around his face, bringing his pale skin into sharp relief. He looked like he had come from an evening at the opera, only there were no opera houses within a hundred miles of Trappersville. Even when the local community theater put on Guys and Dolls, most folks just wore their nicest flannel and cleanest jeans. The stranger obviously wasn’t from town, and probably wasn’t from Wisconsin. He looked exotic. It wasn’t just the formal attire or the fear he instilled with those cold, stabbing eyes. He had just matched Herb stride for stride running at inhuman speeds down the night highway in those fancy clothes and wasn’t even breathing heavy. Neither am I, thought Herb, but that makes sense because I’m a vampire. But this guy... Never the sharpest tool in the shed, it took a moment before the pieces clicked in Herb’s brain and he realized he was looking at one of his own kind.

  The stranger’s lips curled in a mirthless smile at Herb’s dawning comprehension. He extended a pale hand with perfectly manicured fingernails toward him. “Yes, that’s right. Now, please, forgive my manners. Allow me to help you up.”

  The hand looked so fragile, like carefully crafted porcelain, but the grip that closed on Herb’s palm was a vice sculpted from a glacier. The pull that followed would’ve dislocated the shoulder of anyone else. Fortunately for Herb, he’d toughened a bit since the change, otherwise he might’ve ended up the only one-armed bowler in Trappersville. The sharp yank stretched the tendons of his shoulder to near breaking and launched him to his feet, but thankfully his arm remained attached to his torso. He stood massaging his aching shoulder as the stranger scoured him with a disapproving examination.

  “How is it that I don’t know you?” Before Herb could even make sense of the question, the stranger closed the distance between them and two molten spears pierced the flesh of his neck. The sensation defied description. Pain, yes. Pain like he’d never experienced, pain that he was sure couldn’t exist in this world. But there was something beyond the pain. Something greater, something he craved. The pain became an afterthought, a gnat buzzing near his ear. It was there, it was vaguely annoying, but otherwise inconsequential. He moved beyond it, grasping for that elusive thing, desire pulling him further, further...

  The grip relaxed and Herb fell back to the road. Gasping, his hand flew to his bloody neck, and stayed there long after the two holes in his jugular has closed and healed.

  “As disgusting as it is for me to admit it, you’re definitely mine.” The pale stranger turned his head and spat into the dirt, wiping his blood-red lips with the back of his hand. “But where in the seven hells did you come from? I know all of my... creations. Centuries of roaming this pathetic plane, and I know every single soul I’ve condemned and claimed as my own. So how is it that you, you,” the sneer returned to his face as the question trailed away on his bloody lips, “are one of mine?” Rising up, the stranger filled Herb’s vision, blotting out the night sky. “Who are you?”

  Self-preservation finally kicked in, causing him to stammer in response. “Please. I don’t... Please don’t kill me. I’m just Herb. Knudsen. I work at Ronnie’s. You probably, um. Yeah, you might’ve seen me behind the window. Kitchen. Um, the kitchen window. Where the food goes. I put it there when it’s ready.” Desperation poured forth like water from a broken main. “Oh please mister. I’m just a cook. I make French toast. Ever get the French toast? I make pretty good French toast... Please don’t kill me. Please. I’ll... I can... do you like French toast?”

  Herb’s voice ran dry, followed by an eternity of silence. The unexpected laughter that sliced out of the stranger’s mouth cut the tension and the sounds of the night came rushing back. Herb sat, staring up at the man as he laughed a deep, throaty laugh. Head thrown back, mouth stretched wide, two long, gleaming fangs caught the moonlight and glistened in the dark. Blood-red tears began streaming down alabaster cheeks as the stranger started to snort and cough. The laughing fit continued, doubling him over. One hand across his midsection, the other outstretched to ward off Herb’s confused and imploring expression. His terror melting, Herb began to chuckle as well.

  For a few minutes, the stranger huffed and guffawed while Herb chortled and chuckled without getting the joke. Then, as suddenly as it began, the stra
nger stopped laughing, straightened and pierced Herb again with those eyes.

  “Well met, Herb Knudsen who makes pretty good French toast. Well met. But no, I have not been a patron of... Ronnie’s. Perhaps I shall, though. Perhaps I shall.” He smiled before asking, “Is the service good?” Again, that stare.

  Herb shrugged and he drew himself back up to standing. “Sure, um. Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Excellent. Most excellent. Perhaps I’ll partake of the excellent service one day. But back to more pressing matters. You and I, we have much to discuss. Specifically, how is it that I am your Maker and yet I did not make you? Walk with me and tell me all.”

  And so it was that Herb found himself walking alongside the oddly dressed stranger with the dangerous eyes and wicked fangs, telling without hesitation or omission his tale of the past week. The mosquito bite that felt like a pterodactyl got a piece of his neck, the bowling alley, the bloody ice cube and the dog at the gas station. The freaky flickering of his image in the security camera screen, the bake sale at the First Lutheran that nearly set him on fire, his reflection’s refusal to act like a normal reflection and his growing suspicion that something wasn’t quite right.

  He told of his research, his improvised kung-fu and ill-fated attempt at flying. He told about how he woke up among the remains of a farmhouse slaughter in his living room, minus 20 or 30 pounds, but with new night vision. About meeting Dallas and Stanley, putting the whammy on Stein and seducing and sucking on Helen. Like a Chatty Cathy with an endless string, he spoke of hustling pool, driving the guys back to Dallas’s place, running across the countryside to get his car, getting hit by a grasshopper and scared shitless by a stranger running at warp speed alongside of him…

  “Yes, yes. That’s quite enough, thank you Herb. As you may recall, I was present for those most recent bits, but your attention to detail is quite astounding.” The stranger had stopped walking and looked askance at Herb. He reached out, grabbed the back of Herb’s head and twisted his neck, causing Herb to yelp in surprised pain. The stranger pushed Herb’s lanky hair aside to get a clear look at the back of his neck, where a small dot of skin showed stubbornly red against the surrounding white.

  “Will wonders never cease? Truly delightful, to be my age and still surprised. A mosquito?” His eyes took on an inward look for a moment while he brought his nose down to the back of Herb’s neck and snuffed. “Ah, yes. Yes, I recall. That was a lovely meal. I barely even noticed the pest was sharing. Amazing that it not only survived, but was able to carry it on to you. Truly, truly amazing. Although why you’d swallow a mosquito that bit you is quite beyond me. And yet, I’m the monster,” he huffed indignantly.

  The stranger turned Herb back to face him, placing both hands squarely on Herb’s shoulders like twin blocks of granite pushing him into the ground. His eyes bored relentlessly into Herb’s once again, while a dangerous smile touched the farthest corners of his mouth.

  “Listen well, Herb Knudsen who works at Ronnie’s and makes pretty good French toast,” each syllable came out clipped to razor sharp edges. “You are a mistake. You should not be. I would never have knowingly, willingly given this immeasurable gift to such a pathetic creature as yourself. I would not have even considered you an appetizer. Rats that have fed on syphilitic sailors would be preferable to drinking from you. I swear I can smell Krispy Kremes and cheese curds oozing from your every pathetic poor.” The stranger paused, a calculating look in his ancient eyes. “Be that as it may, I have a whim.”

  The stranger drew even closer, until his Aquiline nose bifurcated Herb’s vision like a knife and the faintest smell of roses and decay and raw meat filled the millimeters between them. “I can see you, Herb Knudsen. I know you now. Mediocrity is drawn to you like a moth to a consummate loser’s sputtering flame. I see this in you, and I despise you. But Fate has plucked a thread and that thread has found itself looped, however unlikely, around you. You.” Again, the sneer followed by a resigned sigh.

  “You have received an unintended gift whose value you will most likely never appreciate or understand. For the fortunate children I choose to sire, I give guidance, even love if you can believe me capable of such. But you,” again, that calculating stare summed up all that was Herb and deemed it worthless. “No, I cannot, I will not give you that. I will, however, give you life. You are more than you should have ever been, Herb Knudsen. Do with it what you will, and perhaps I’ll be amused. And now, you may go.”

  Herb’s eyes pulled back into focus and all his breath rushed out of his lungs. He sagged and found himself resting against the rust-spattered side of his Pinto, the Steinknockers sign casting weak shadows across the parking lot. Of the stranger, there was no sign. Herb pushed a shaky hand through his hair, fished his keys out of his pocket, and drove home, his mind carefully blank. The sun was painting the pre-dawn sky with soft, ominous colors when he pulled into his front drive and killed the Pinto’s engine. He moved through his home to the cellar stairs, down to the hole he’d dug before. Peeling off the remnants of his stained shirt, releasing the belt that still held the pillow lopsided against his midsection and sliding off his torn and blood smudged jeans, Herb stretched out in the hole in the basement floor. Moments before his eyes closed and the sun broke free of the night’s shackles, he exhaled a tremulous breath. “Holy shit.”

  Chapter 21

  Herb’s eyes opened, gummy and raw. The nightmare faded into the cobwebs dressing the corners of his home’s dark root cellar. He remembered people, mobs of faceless, screaming people pounding to be let in, words unintelligible but intent clear. Nothing would satisfy but the destruction of the demon within. Despite his impending demise, Herb remembered laughing. Mouth stretched, head back, the moon shining on his brow while the flicker of firelight reflected on his chin. Laughing as they banged on the door below, a rhythm of hatred, a drumbeat of retribution...

  *Knock, knock, knock*

  Herb sat up so quickly he spilled forward onto his hands and knees. He listened again, just to confirm he wasn’t still in the fog of a dream.

  *Knock, knock, knock*

  Nope. Not a dream. Someone was definitely at the front door. Which was weird, since no one in Herb’s side of the woods lived close enough together to make door-to-door visits very practical. Even the local Girl Scouts just set up shop in front of the grocery store instead of pedaling guilt and sugar door-to-door. Besides, Herb mused, it wasn’t Girl Scout cookie season, was it? If it was, what could I get? I love Tagalongs, but are they just going to make the trip back up as soon as I swallow? Too bad they aren’t meat Tagalongs. Raw meat Tagalongs. That would be awesome. Dipped in blood, too. Oh heck yeah! Meat Tagalongs Girl Scout cookies dipped in blood. Or maybe just Girl Scouts...

  *Knock, knock, knock*

  Herb hadn’t even realized he had closed his eyes and reclined back down into his dirt bed. He jumped up, reached for the clothes he’d had on last night. He was half-dressed before belatedly realizing that answering the door in dirty, torn and blood-caked clothes might not be a great idea. Wearing only his boxers, he climbed the stairs and wove quickly into his bathroom. Judging by the angles of the sunlight slivers slipping through the cracks in his window coverings, it must’ve been about three in the afternoon. He wrapped himself in Scary Terry, tied the cloth belt firmly around his mid-section, mussed his hair and crept to the front door as the visitor outside knocked again.

  Putting a squinted eye to the peephole, Herb surveyed the front stoop. A middle-aged man stood with his back to the door, looking out across Herb’s property, then turned back toward the door as if to knock one last time. Herb’s heart plunged into his bowels. Jerry, Herb’s neighbor from a mile or so down the main road, paused before rapping knuckles on wood. Instead, he reached into a backpack slung over a shoulder and pulled out a photocopied flyer. Herb couldn’t see the contents of the flyer, but in a leap of intuition he envisioned a picture of Lady, Jerry and Pam’s dog. Before he could think better of it, Herb twisted the doork
nob and swung it open, hissing softly in automatic response to the light from outside.

  “Jerry, hey. Hi. Um, how are you?” Herb managed with forced nonchalance, squinting first one eye then the other in an attempt to look at Jerry despite his sweltering eyeballs.

  “Oh, hi Herb. Gosh, I’m sorry. I saw your car and figured you were home. I didn’t mean to wake you up. I, ah, I do the same thing when I’m on the road and staying at hotels.”

  “Huh?”

  Jerry gestured toward the living room window beside the door. “The windows. Sometimes I need to black out the windows too, or I can’t get any sleep.”

  “Black out the windows?” Herb was trying to concentrate, but the glaring light and guilt of eating Jerry’s dog were making it a little hard to focus.

  “Oh. Sure. Lots of folks do, I guess. But, look. I am sorry I woke you. I just, well. It’s just that our dog, our pug Lady’s been gone since Sunday night and Pam and the girls are devastated. She was outside and we don’t usually bother to tether her. I mean, she’s never run off before. But she wasn’t there Monday morning and didn’t come home last night. So I just, well I took the day off work and I was just going around this side of town to see if maybe anyone’s seen her. The girls, oh man. They loved that dog and they’re just devastated. Anyway, I know you know what she looks like, but here’s a flyer anyway. Pam helped the girls make them.”