Vampire Dancing

by J. K. Gray

Sheri starts to scream.

  Jack, apparently, still does give a crap. He brushes past Steve and makes for the end door.

  “I told you!” Wiley shouts, and flips open his knife. He takes advantage of Steve's surprise and twists free of him.

  Steve has no idea what to respond to. Too much is happening all at once.

  “Fucker,” Wiley spits, and thrusts his knife into Steve's throat.

  Steve's face contorts. He clasps one hand over his throat and reaches for Becky with the other.

  Becky screams and steps away from Steve.

  Wiley stabs Steve repeatedly in the belly. “You had to play the hero, didn't you, fuckface.”

  Panicking, Becky pulls open the end door and quickly disappears.

  Steve falls to his knees. He's covered in blood.

  “Outta my way,” Wiley grunts, and pushes him over, then, without bothering to check on the fates of Gary and Sheri, follows Jack and Becky through the door.

  Gary's still on the end of the Amanda-Thing's grip and is violently kicking and flailing. Blood is running down his neck from where the creature's fingernails are embedded in his flesh.

  “Let him go!” Sheri yells.

  She steps forward, looks like she's about to engage the Amanda-Thing.

  The Amanda-Thing reaches out with its free hand and clamps its nails into Sheri's face.

  Sheri clutches the Amanda-Things arm and tries to pull herself free. “Get off me!”

  The Amanda-Thing digs its thumbnail and end finger into Sheri's cheeks, gouging flesh and drawing blood. It's index and middle fingers find her eye sockets and sink into them. One eye is displaced and the other punctures, spurting its aqueous humor.

  Sheri's tortured screams flood the car.

  The Amanda-Thing sneers and increases its grip on Sheri's face. This forces the woman's nose flat, breaking it, and fractures the bone below her eye sockets.

  Sheri abruptly falls silent.

  The Amanda-Thing simultaneously releases both its victims.

  Sheri's lifeless body crumples to the floor of the car and Gary lands hard on his back. He starts coughing and moaning. The formidable shape that is the Amanda-Thing looms over him. He raises a hand as a feeble barrier. “Please, I don't wanna-”

  The Amanda-thing plunges one of its hands into Gary's stomach. The man's frenzied wailing is like music to its ears. It reaches all the way in, finds his spine and wraps its digits around it, then gives a powerful yank.

  Gary's body jerks clean off the floor. There's a look of absolute horror in his eyes, and then - snap - his spine breaks and his body goes limp.

  The Amanda-Thing holds Gary suspended for a few seconds, then releases him to the floor.

  Beyond the train's windows, Canal Street drifts silently by.

  *

  01:43 am ...

  Screwball is on his hands and knees and fumbling around in the dark for his hat. There's a sense of urgency to his movements due to his usually none-the-wiser internal voice telling him to hurry the hell up or he's going to be killed.

  He lays a hand on something, but it's not his hat. It's a sneaker. And it's not empty.

  He looks up.

  Jeff is standing over him. He's intermittently highlighted by the external light from the tunnel. And he looks different.

  Jeff stares at Screwball through luminous yellow eyes which feature black elliptical slits. His mouth spreads into an unnaturally wide grin. There's no teeth and gums behind the grin. Only darkness.

  Now what in Jehovah's name is this thing?

  Not since childhood, sitting in front of old re-runs of The Howdy Doody Show on some skanky cable channel, has Screwball felt so completely overwhelmed by fear. That god damn puppet and clown have a lot to answer for.

  The Jeff-Thing utters something - it makes no sense; sounds like an ancient language of some kind - then reaches for Screwball.

  And now Screwball reacts; can be as slippery as an eel when he wants, and the want has never been greater. He draws back quickly into a sitting position then springs to his feet.

  The Jeff-Thing mutters more of its ancient mumbo jumbo then retreats behind a wall of impenetrable darkness.

  Screwball scans the aisle looking for some sign of the Jeff-Thing. “Where the hell'd you go?” Calling the Jeff-Thing out like this is more a sign of nerves than anything else. He curses under his breath and carefully steps back over Len's body.

  The lights in the car briefly flicker ... and the Jeff-Thing reappears, standing a mere couple of feet in front of Screwball.

  Screwball's heart skips a beat. It's an odd sensation bordering on unpleasant. He cries out and turns for the end door. Despite it being dark, he finds the handle straight away.

  Is that the Jeff-Thing breathing down his neck, or is it his imagination?

  He squeezes himself into the next car and holds the door tightly shut behind him. He peers through one of the glass panels. The lights in the adjacent car momentarily flicker, highlighting the Jeff-Thing standing in the open doorway and staring ahead through its weird reptile eyes. Its mouth opens wide and what looks like hundreds of small insects pour from the black void.

  Not insects, but spiders.

  Screwball gives a panicked cry and holds the door as tightly shut as he can. The only thing he finds more terrifying than Clarabell the fucking clown is spiders. He looks down at the floor. It's too dark to see anything, but he imagines the arachnids have gotten past the gap between cars and are somehow flooding under the door. He rapidly stomps his feet.

  “Stanley.”

  Screwball stops stomping. Someone just said his name from the other side of the door.

  “Stanley, you there?”

  The voice is unmistakeably his father's. But Screwball's father didn't raise no fool, so the obvious question is: how in the hell could Joseph Eugene Jacobs be on the other side of this door when just moments before it was a spider-spewing monster?

  “I ain't lettin' go of this door,” Screwball says. “Whatever you are, it ain't workin'.” He looks through one of the windows. There's no sign of anyone or anything.

  “Stanley, open the door. You gotta let me through.”

  “The hell I do,” Screwball replies. “You ain't my dad, and even if you were, I hate you.”

  “Stanley, you gotta understand, we moved to New York for you. There was nothing for you back home. We gave you a golden opportunity."

  "You didn't gimme shit. You made me and Mom move here because you wanted to be closer to that airline whore you was screwin' - and stop calling me Stanley. You know how I hate it.”

  No reply.

  Screwball looks through the window again. “Hey, you still there?”

  The lights in the car briefly flicker.

  “Screwy, it's Wiley. Open the door.”

  Screwball doesn't so much as twitch.

  “Screwy, open the goddamn door. It's insane out here.”

  “I can't see you - how do I know you're you?”

  “For fucksake, Stan, Amanda is after me. She's not human. She's killing everyone. Now open the fuckin' door or I'm gonna die!”

  “I still can't see you.” Screwball says. “You gotta try and lemme see your face.”

  A few seconds pass, after which, Wiley's unmistakable silhouette appears in the doorway opposite.

  Screwball sighs with relief and pulls open the door. “Man, thank Christ it's-”

  The LCD information and notice displays spring to life and the lights in the car begin to flicker rapidly.

  Screwball's blood turns to ice and his skin goes all prickly. It isn't Wiley standing in the opposite doorway, it's the Jeff-Thing, and it looks like a living abomination. It steps into the car and holds onto either side of the door frame. Its fingernails are now so very long.

  “Do you want to know why your father ran off with a whore?” it says in a baleful tone. “He did it because you were the result of his seed, and he couldn't bear to look at you.”

  Screwball shakes his he
ad and backs away.

  “He did it because he always wanted a little girl, something he could love in his own special way.”

  “You shut the hell up!” Screwball shouts. “My dad is a lot of things, but he ain't no child abuser!”

  “It's why your mother slit her wrists, tried to kill herself. She knew, Stanley.”

  Screwball slams his hands over his ears. “I don't wanna hear this!”

  The Jeff-Thing's mouth drops open and the tip of a black tongue slithers into view.

  By this point, Screwball should be running. He knows it, he's even telling himself it, yet there he stands, strangely hypnotized by the flickering of the lights and outlandish events playing out before him.

  The Jeff-Thing's tongue is now protruding beyond its drooping mouth - only, it isn't a tongue. It's the head of a snake.

  “What in the hell,” Screwball mutters. He has no idea what kind of snake he's looking at. All he knows is that he's terrified of it almost as much as he is, spiders.

  The snake drops to the floor with a thud. Screwball stares at it with a mixture of disbelief and horror. He looks up and sees another snake head appear from the widening abyss that is the Jeff-Thing's mouth. This one is thicker than the last, and immediately issues an incensed hiss.

  Somewhere inside Screwball's mind, a decision has been made: enough is enough; it's time to skedaddle. Snapping into action, he turns and sprints along the empty aisle to the sound of his heart drumming inside his head. No more trying to keep this thing at bay. He's going to run and run and run, and, in the meantime, pray to God that something gets in the way of himself and It before he runs out of train.

  *

  01:48 am ...

  A solitary soul standing on the Canal Street platform throws his arms up into the air when it becomes apparent the train isn't stopping.

  Barbara looks worried. “This isn't right. Why isn't the train stopping?”

  “Maybe the driver's dead,” Amber replies. “Took a heart attack at the controls.”

  “Even so,” Barbara says. “The people who oversee all the trains on the different lines can cut the power, stop the train, even re-route it. Why aren't they doing anything? We could crash into the back of another train if this keeps up for very much longer. I know about this kind of thing.”

  Michael can see Barbara is quickly working herself into a frenzy. “Maybe they're trying. Maybe there's something happening that's temporarily beyond their control.”

  “Why don't we just pull the emergency cord?” Wendy asks.

  “Because you're not supposed to,” Michael replies.

  Wendy looks confused. “But isn't this an emergency?”

  “You're not allowed to use it for this sort of an emergency.”

  “He's right,” Barbara says. “You're only supposed to use it if someone gets caught between the doors - or between cars, God help them

  Wendy touches the small metal door in front of the box encasing the brake. “It doesn't make any sense that we can't use it for other stuff.”

  “Please, Wendy, don't,” Michael says. “If you pull it, we'll be locked in with no way out until the cops arrive.”

  “But wouldn't that be a good thing?” Wendy asks.

  “It wouldn't be good for me,” Amber says. “I killed a man tonight.”

  Amber's statement is met with blank stares from both women. Michael, however, has what the fuck written all over his face.

  Wendy starts to giggle. “You're really funny.”

  Amber smiles. She can afford to. Despite Michael's words, she knows the engaging of the emergency brake can't keep either of them on board.

  Barbara clutches her bag to her chest. “Well I don't think it's funny, joking about killing people.”

  “As long as it's just a joke,” Michael says. He throws Amber one of those looks.

  Amber responds with a wink and a smile. “We should keep moving.”

  One by one, they step into the adjacent car. Michael is in the process of helping Barbara safely inside when someone else enters at the opposite end.

  “He doesn't look too happy,” Amber comments.

  The young man in the #44 Yankees jersey comes striding boldly towards the group. “Am I glad to see you people.” He glances over his shoulder. “You won't believe what's been goin' on.”

  Barbara grips Michael's arm. “I think we should go back.”

  Michael gives Barbara's hand a squeeze. “It's okay. Let's hear what he has to say.”

  “What's been happening?” Amber asks.

  “There's ... these things ... look like people but they're not. Girl is called Amanda and the guy is called Jeff. Spiders and snakes come outta Jeff's mouth and he has these real funky eyes – like lizard eyes - and he can pretend to be your friends and family, talk just like 'em.”

  Amber folds her arms. “I'm sorry, that's just way too random for me.”

  “I think this guy's on drugs,” Wendy says.

  “I resent that remark,” the young man says to Wendy. “Booze, I'll yield to, but drugs ... they don't inflate my boat. My name's Stan, but my friends call me Screwball.”

  “Okay, Stan,” Amber says.

  Stan gets somewhat uneasy at the sound of his name. “I insist you call me Screwball - or Screwy, even.”

  Amber leans over to Michael and whispers in his ear. “The parking garage.”

  Michael gives a near imperceptible nod.

  “I think we should all get as far away from here as possible,” Screwball says. “Cuz all your worst nightmares are comin'.”

  The door at the end of the aisle opens and a man enters the car.

  Screwball instinctively steps back. “Aw shit.”

  “That's our worst nightmare?” Amber says. “A guy in a sweater?”

  Wendy giggles.

  “It ain't funny,” Screwball says. “He killed my friends.”

  The man remains motionless at the other end of the aisle.

  Still clutching her bag to her chest like it's the most precious thing in the World, Barbara says: “I don't like this. I don't care about their stupid regulations and rules. We should pull the emergency cord.”

  “That's a good idea, lady,” Screwball says. “But first we gotta make some space between us and It.”

  Michael looks to Amber for guidance on the matter, but she can offer no good reason as to why these people shouldn't isolate themselves from a potential threat.

  “But it's just a normal guy,” Wendy says.

  Screwball makes his way past Wendy. “That is anythin’ but a normal guy. And why the hell's he just standin' there? I'm tellin' you he ain't normal.”

  The man suddenly makes strides towards the group.

  “Okay, he's movin', but he still ain't normal,” Screwball says.

  A wave of gooseflesh erupts the length of Michael's body. There's something about the person approaching them ... an unmistakeable feeling the passing of decades can't wash away. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

  Amber looks quizzically at Michael.

  “There's no time,” he tells her. “We need to move.”

  Screwball exits quickly through the end door. Barbara and Wendy closely follow.

  “Go,” Michael says to Amber. “I'm right behind you.”

  Amber touches Michael's arm in a show of affection, then leaves.

  The door closes over behind her.

  ... Daniel ...

  Did Michael just hear that? A name he'd used some time ago, spoken like a whisper in his head?

  Of course he did.

  He steals one last look at the approaching figure. Part of him wants to remain, to confront the enigma head on. There's questions he desperately wants answered; one in particular that has burned at the forefront of his mind for decades, and he dare not let the opportunity pass. However, he never ignores his instincts, and, currently, they're telling him to retreat and reorganize. If not for himself, for the sake of the others.

  He turns to follow Amber … and the
n it happens: somebody, somewhere on the train, employs the emergency brake.

  Unprepared for the sudden jolting of the train, Michael lurches to one side. The cacophonous sound of the air-brakes floods his ears.

  The lights in the car flicker then remain on. The LCD information and notice displays also illuminate.

  Michael lunges for the door.

  There's a click.

  The electronic locking system has engaged.

  All doors are now sealed shut.

  NINE

  December 29th, 1940; London, England

  The landscape was awash with flame.

  Daniel had never seen anything like it. The bombing raids had been running for the last few months now, but the damage done this evening was altogether on another level. If the Germans kept on going like this, he feared there would be little of London left to salvage.

  He cast his gaze skyward.

  Another wave of planes, only barely caught in the sweep of inadequate searchlights, flew overhead. Their collective engines made a sound like the relentless drone of angry bees, and almost entirely drowned out the intermittent rattle of anti-aircraft fire.

  There came a loud explosion in the distance.

  This was the music of madness.

  Daniel made his way through the swirling smoke phantoms which haunted London's largely empty streets. He'd passed St. Paul's Cathedral not ten minutes ago (it had still been intact, although he very much doubted it would survive the night), but was finding it increasingly difficult to pin-point his location. In part, this was down to him being a relative stranger to London, but mainly it was because of the sheer magnitude of Germany's incendiary assault. It was disorienting, to say the least.

  A lorry came speeding into view. It stopped outside a burning post office. A small group of men got out and hurried around to the back. Moments later, they reappeared, and began spilling sacks of sand onto the burning premises.

  Daniel wished them success with that.

  Instinct propelled him to continue in the current direction he was heading. Surely some recognizable landmark would catch his attention soon. He crossed the road and continued with haste down a dark, narrow street. His long woolen coat flapped behind him. He had to get back to Nellie as quickly as he could. She was his godsend in surroundings largely unfamiliar, and would be all alone, and certainly full of concern - more for his safety than for her own. She was like that, bless her.