Vampire Dancing

by J. K. Gray

  Sensing it has its prey right where it wants it, the snake rears itself as high as it can go. Its underbelly is bright yellow.

  Michael readies himself. A bite from a regular snake, no matter how venomous, can't kill him. This, however, is no ordinary snake, and he has no idea what the consequences from a bite might be.

  The snake springs suddenly.

  Michael reacts at lightning speed. He catches the serpent mid-flight - directly under its head – then quickly sets about exerting pressure behind its jaws.

  The snake's mouth is forced open, revealing a set of formidable looking fangs.

  “You call that fangs?” Michael says. “I'll show you fucking fangs.”

  He pulls the snake's body taught then sinks his teeth into it. Foul tasting fluid spurts into his mouth. It brings back unpleasant memories of London.

  He rips a chunk out of the snake then spits it aside. The taste is so bad he almost gags.

  The serpent writhes in his grip for several seconds before going limp.

  He drops its body to the floor then wipes his mouth.

  The Jeff-Thing sits up. Its head rolls forward then connects back onto its spine. It looks straight at Michael. And then it stands up.

  “What's going on in there?” Amber calls.

  Keeping his gaze fixed on the Jeff-Thing, Michael replies: “It's hard to explain, but everything is under control.”

  He's aware he's being optimistic.

  “What did you do to her?” Michael says.

  “What?”

  “Not you,” he calls to Amber.

  He approaches the Jeff-Thing. “I want to know what you did to Amanda.”

  The Jeff-Thing offers no response. It just stands, unmoving, like a statue.

  “I need to know,” Michael says.

  The lights in the car briefly flicker.

  Frustration gets the better of Michael and he strikes the Jeff-Thing square in the face with his fist.

  The Jeff-Thing's head jerks back, but it stands its ground.

  Michael hits it again, this time with greater force. And then he hits it again, and again and again.

  “Tell me!” he roars.

  The Jeff-Thing unexpectedly lashes out at Michael. It's right hand sweeps in a wide arc.

  Michael realizes he can't respond in time, and braces himself for contact.

  Contact happens, but it isn't half as bad as he'd feared. He backs away, touching his face. His fingers are damp with blood, but the wound feels strangely superficial. And then he notices a nearby handrail that's broken in two. Both halves are still connected to their sockets, but are bent and protruding forward - particularly the top half. The creature must have blindly torn through it when it attacked, reducing the effectiveness of its strike.

  The Jeff-Thing lunges for Michael.

  Michael dodges its attack then slams his hands on either side of its head.

  Its mouth opens wide in protest.

  “You had your chance to talk,” Michael says.

  He rams the back of the creature's skull into the protruding upper half of the handrail, then pushes until the end of the pole comes out of its mouth.

  The Jeff-Thing's eyes grow wide and an airy, hissing sound escapes its throat. It reaches back with both hands and finds the rail, then tries to push itself free.

  Michael plunges his hand into the Jeff-Thing's stomach and reaches up. If it has a heart, he'll find it.

  Suddenly, hundreds of small spiders, each of them red and black, come flooding from the creature's mouth.

  Michael's flesh prickles. He's none too keen on spiders - especially ones coming from the mouth of something as fucked as this. His initial instinct is to get as far away as possible, but he stands his ground, determined to remain with the Jeff-Thing until he's ripped its beating heart from its chest.

  The spiders swarm across the Jeff-Thing's blackened torso. They're highlighted only by their red abdomens. Some of them scamper onto Michael's arm and start biting him through his silk shirt.

  Trying his best to ignore the attacking spiders, Michael manages to locate the Jeff-Thing's throbbing heart. He wraps his digits around it and tugs.

  It doesn't move.

  A loud banging sound comes from somewhere behind him. He can't spare a moment to look around and see what it is.

  Hundreds of spiders are streaming up his arm now. Their bites are like a multitude of stinging pin-pricks. At this rate, it won't be long before they're all over his face.

  The Jeff-Thing, still gripping the rail with both hands, manages to push its head forward a few inches. The end of the protruding pole disappears into its mouth.

  “Come on!” Michael cries, and pulls at the Jeff-Thing's heart with every ounce of strength he has left.

  The organ tears free, and to the sound of a shrill, almost deafening cry.

  Michael throws the beating black heart to the floor and starts to frantically sweep spiders from his arms and torso. He rips open his shirt, popping several buttons in the process. His body is covered in stinging red bite marks.

  “Michael.”

  Michael turns. It's Amber. She's standing right in front of him. The banging sound from before must have been her forcing her way into the car. “They're all over me - help me get them off.”

  Amber grabs Michael by the shoulders. “There's nothing there.”

  Michael tries to shrug Amber away, but she holds him steady.

  “It's all in your mind, Michael. Look again.”

  Michael looks at his torso and arms. Suddenly, there's not an arachnid in sight. Not even a single bite mark. “But I saw them ... and the snake...” He looks past Amber. There's no sign of the dead reptile at the end of the aisle.

  Amber has shifted her attention to the impaled body behind Michael. Its eyes are closed and its arms are hanging limply by its sides.

  “What the hell is this thing?” she asks.

  Michael shakes his head. He's almost disappointed it's dead. Now he'll never know what became of the girl, Amanda. “I don't know. I've never seen anything like it.”

  A lie, of course. But now isn't the time to try to explain his previous encounter with the creature. He looks at his hand. It's coated in the strange oily substance. He wipes it on his jeans.

  Amber notices the wounds on Michael's face. “You're hurt.”

  Michael touches the tender area around the deep scratches. “I'll heal. I always do.”

  “Hey, are you sure you're okay?”

  “I'm just a bit shaken.”

  “I was worried for you there.”

  “Worried for me?”

  Amber looks into Michael's eyes. She finds them entrancing. “People like us ... are unique. When you find one, you shouldn't let them get away.” She feels a not exactly unpleasant fluttering sensation in her chest. It's something that scares and excites her in equal measure. “...especially if a connection has been made.”

  Michael strokes Amber's cheek. “And we've certainly done that.”

  “That wasn't the kind of connection I was referring to,” she says flatly. And then she warms to the memory and smiles. “But, yes, I suppose we have.”

  Michael puts his arms around Amber and pulls her close. He can feel the beating of her heart against his chest. Part of him is afraid of this connection they're making. Connections are fragile, and ones like this don't break without causing great emotional suffering. He kisses her; feels the responsiveness in her every movement. She needs this as much as he does. “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

  “Can't it wait?” she says softly, then brushes his lips with her own.

  Michael pulls back gently from Amber. “You're not the only one running from something.”

  Amber looks quizzically at him.

  “Sweet Jesus you gone and killed it!”

  Screwball comes strolling down the aisle. Wendy is with him.

  Amber steps back from Michael. For a moment, she doesn't know where to look. She isn't accustomed to opening he
rself up, and the last thing she needs is an audience.

  “Oh my God, what is that?” Wendy says.

  Michael feels Amber's unease; understands it. He turns his attention to the Jeff-Thing. “That is the one million dollar question.”

  “Don't matter what it is,” Screwball says, making his way past Amber. “It was fucked up and now it's dead.” He pokes a finger at the Jeff-Thing's shoulder and peers into the hole in its chest. “How the hell'd it get all black? Its skin feels like leather.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Michael replies.

  “Where's Barbara?” Amber asks.

  Wendy aims a thumb over her shoulder. “She stayed in the other car.”

  “Wise decision,” Michael says. “This would give her nightmares.” He notices Wendy looking at his chest. It's flattering, but he'd rather he was able to button his shirt. Not much chance of that now his buttons are lying scattered across the floor.

  The lights in the car briefly flicker ...

  Wendy looks at the lights and fidgets nervously with her hands. “I hate when they do that.”

  … and then they go out completely. As do the LCD information and notice displays.

  “Aw shit,” Screwball says.

  For a moment, no one says anything. Amber finds the silence immediately overbearing. “When we get out of here, I think I'll take up smoking again.”

  “Those things'll kill you,” Wendy says.

  “Highly unlikely,” Amber replies.

  Just then, Amber feels someone brush past her – or, at least, she thinks she does. She turns and bumps into Michael. “Sorry.”

  “Everything okay?” Michael asks.

  “I thought someone came past me just then.”

  “Wasn't me,” Screwball says. “Haven't moved an inch.”

  “Me neither,” Wendy adds.

  All of a sudden, the lights in the car come on. So, too, do the LCD displays, informing them that the train's next stop is a station they've already passed. They're then told over the loudspeaker to stand clear of the closing doors, despite the fact they never opened.

  Referring to the lights, Wendy says: “I hope they stay on.”

  “It doesn't matter,” Michael replies. “It's time we got out of here.”

  Barbara is standing at the end of the aisle. As always, she's clutching her bag.

  Michael steps in front of the Jeff-Thing, blocking it from Barbara's view.

  Amber approaches Barbara. The woman looks tired and frightened. “Are you okay?”

  “I got scared,” Barbara replies. “I saw something.”

  Barbara saying she 'saw something' intrigues Amber. She places a reassuring hand on the woman's shoulder. “What did you see?”

  The woman hugs her bag tightly to her chest. She looks reluctant to say. “I think I saw a ghost.”

  “A ghost?” Amber says.

  “It ran straight past where I was sitting. When the lights went out.”

  “Can you tell me where this ghost came from?”

  “From here,” Barbara says. “This car.”

  Amber ponders Barbara's words. Is it just coincidence this woman claims to have saw a ghost around the same time she, herself, believes someone brushed past her? Possibly. It's not as if the current climate on the train isn't the perfect brew for paranoia.

  Barbara peers past Amber and sees the others talking.

  Amber wonders what's in Barbara's bag; what could be so valuable for her to guard it the way she does. “I can't help but notice the way you hold your bag.”

  “I mustn't lose it,” Barbara responds. “Never.” She looks straight at Amber. “My Harold is in here.”

  “Huh?”

  “His ashes,” Barbara explains. “They're in a jar. In my bag.”

  “Oh ... right.” Amber says.

  “It was probably his ghost I saw before,” Barbara goes on. “He used to work here, on the trains. This was his shift, the late shift, and on this line. That's why I'm here. He loved his job, lived for it. I like to bring him back every so often.”

  Amber feels a wave of empathy wash over her. She knows the feeling of deep loss; the kind loss you never seem to get over. And yet, in time, you do. But Barbara doesn't have the kind of time she needs. Not because she's old, but because there are some losses that take more than one lifetime to come to terms with.

  “I'm sure it was Harold,” Amber says. “Come to show he hasn't forgotten you.”

  Barbara eyes fill with tears. She nods and smiles, and hugs her bag as if it was Harold himself.

  Just then, the door at the opposite end of the aisle opens and Wiley enters the car.

  Screwball's face lights up. “Oh my God, look who it is!” He hurries over to Wiley.

  Wendy exchanges a look with Michael. This friend of Stan isn't looking so hot.

  “Jesus,” Screwball says, taking a better look at Wiley, “what the hell happened to you? Your eye's all fucked up and you're covered in blood.”

  “My eye...” Wiley says. He raises a hand to the missing eye. His eyelid twitches and a small red and black spider scuttles from the blood encrusted empty socket.

  “Jesus,” Screwball says, pulling back.

  Michael turns to Wendy. “Go. Now.”

  Wendy doesn't need telling twice.

  Amber's hurrying in the opposite direction. “Wendy, take care of Barbara.”

  Wendy nods and continues past Amber.

  Joining Michael's side, Amber says: “The parking garage. He's one of them.”

  “He's more than that now,” Michael replies.

  The Wiley-Thing reaches up with its left hand and grabs Screwball by the throat. It draws back its lips and forms a black sneer. It has no teeth or gums.

  Screwball holds onto Wiley's outstretched arm and tries to pull himself free. “Help!”

  Michael motions to aid Screwball, but Amber takes hold of his arm. “Is he worth it?”

  Michael just stares at Amber.

  “These people are no good,” she says. “We can just go. This is our chance.”

  Screwball continues to cry out and wrestle with the Wiley-Thing's grip.

  “I can't leave him to this,” Michael says, and pulls his arm free.

  The lights in the car flicker, and, briefly, Michael sees something completely inhuman standing in place of Stan's crazed friend; a tall, muscular, dark-skinned figure with eyes like a serpent and a mouth that's illuminated red. It flicks the tip of a long, black tongue across silvery, jagged teeth.

  Stan must have caught sight of it, too, because he's shrieking like a little girl.

  Michael hurries over to the Wiley-Thing and tries to pry its fingers from Screwball's throat.

  The Wiley-Thing prepares to lash out at Michael with its other hand, but its attack is intercepted by Amber.

  She seizes it by the wrist.

  The Wiley-Thing looks at Amber, then addresses her in the voice of a young woman: “My name's Julie, and you let me die.”

  Amber freezes.

  “Don't listen to it,” Michael says.

  The Wiley-Thing unexpectedly releases Screwball.

  Screwball drops to the floor and clutches his throat. He scrambles away from the situation, coughing, then points at the Wiley-Thing. “He's the God damn Devil!”

  Michael turns to Amber. Her hold on the Wiley-Thing has fallen away. She has the look of a woman haunted by the specters of past mistakes.

  He shakes her. “Amber.”

  The Wiley-Thing talks to Amber again. This time with the taunting voice of a man: “Bad girl, bad girl, watcha gonna do? Watcha gonna do when I come for you?”

  “Shut up!” Michael shouts. He shakes Amber again - “Snap out of it" - but it's no use. She's in some sort of trance.

  Michael strikes the Wiley-Thing in the face with his fist.

  The Wiley-Thing barely registers the blow. It leers at Michael, then grabs him by the shoulders and begins to squeeze.

  Michael cries out. His chest feels l
ike it's going to cave in from the pressure being exerted on it. He tries to raise his arms, but they feel numb and heavy.

  Amber turns, as if in a dream; turns and watches Brian from Interstate 10. He's running down the aisle, trying to catch up with Julie with the car trouble.

  Death is trailing at his heels.

  He's going to kill her again. Unless ...

  Amber snaps to her senses in time to catch a glimpse of Screwball exiting the car. She can't allow him be alone with Wendy.

  … But she can't leave Michael.

  She makes for the nearest full-length handrail and pulls with both hands. It refuses to break loose of the sockets holding it in place. She glances back at Michael. He's struggling to keep his head upright and his knees are starting to buckle.

  “Come on!” she yells, and pulls again at the rail. This time it breaks free. Without delay, she lifts a knee and brings the pole down over it. It dents. With it weakened in the middle, it doesn't take much effort to break it in two.

  She discards one half and approaches the Wiley-Thing. “Here I come, fucker.”

  The Wiley-Thing looks straight at her.

  Amber grips the metal bar with both hands - “That's it, take a long, hard look” - then swings it to her right.

  She lands a ferocious blow to the side of the Wiley-Thing's skull.

  It releases Michael and stumbles to one side.

  Staying within range of The Wiley-Thing, Amber then swings the bar in the opposite direction. This time she connects with its face.

  The Wiley-Thing's head whips back and it falls to the floor.

  Amber hastens to Michael's side and helps him to his feet. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he replies. “What took you so long? Another second and it was going to squeeze the pips right out of me.”

  Normally, this would've raised a smile from Amber, but not this time. “Michael, you need to deal with this on your own.” She hands him the metal bar. “I have a bad feeling about Stan. I need to catch up to him.”

  She turns to leave, but Michael takes hold of her arm.

  “Hey,” he says, “promise me you won't get hurt.”

  Amber pauses before responding. She knows promises can be hard to keep.

  “I promise,” she replies.