Twilight Hankerings

by Ronald Kelly

  As the two coupled quietly and tenderly, Tony felt his excitement begin to reach its peak. Pamela Sue seemed to sense his urgency. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, pulling him closer. “I’m ready for you, lover,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m ready to take it all.”

  The girl’s choice of words puzzled Tony. “What?” he asked. But his question came too late to prevent what was taking place. The soft warmth that engulfed him abruptly changed to a searing cold as frigid as a January wind and he knew he had been tricked.

  “Don’t fight it, Tony,” said Pamela Sue. Her pale skin seemed to grow soft, merging with his own, locking him into her steely embrace. “Winners always have to pay a price. Believe me, yours is not so bad.” When she saw the confusion in his eyes, she explained further. “The coach knew what sort of guy you were. He knew that you wouldn’t go through with it, so he enlisted me beforehand, just to make sure that everything went according to tradition.”

  Thoughts of haunted hollows, witches, and vampires flooded Tony’s mind, as well as an obscure term he had learned in Mr. Bailey’s mythology class earlier that year. Succubus. A creature who, through the act of sexual intercourse, drains the most vital spark of life from the souls of its victims.

  Helplessly, Tony stared down at the girl beneath him. “I … I don’t understand.”

  “I believe you do,” explained Pamela Sue, her dark eyes cool and devoid of emotion. “You see, Tony, I lied to you. My last name isn’t Cripps. It’s Eldritch. And I was born in Whorehouse Hollow.”

  Then, as Tony felt the climax of ecstasy travel the length of his captive body, bringing a sensation both wondrous and horrendous, he noticed that the roots of Pamela Sue’s honey-blond hair were actually jet black in hue.

  ~ * ~

  A year had passed since that night in Whorehouse Hollow.

  Tony Frazier stood at the grill of the Lunch & Munch Cafe, flipping burgers and frying onion rings, just as he had for the past ten months.

  Life hadn’t turned out like Tony had hoped it would. A month after the end of football season, Tony had strangely lost all interest in school. He had dropped out and, after meeting a white-trash waitress at the local tavern, got the girl pregnant and ended up marrying her. Now Tony was working two jobs, just to pay rent on the rundown trailer they had moved into and trying to keep their heads above water. During his spare time, he occupied a barstool down at the Bloody Bucket, drinking too much and listening to country songs on the jukebox. Mournful songs about hopes and dreams forever lost.

  Tony didn’t seem to care much, though. His ability to care about how his life had turned out had been wrestled from his grasp months ago. His fellow teammates had suffered similar fates … or worse. Bubba Stewart was in the Tennessee state pen for grand theft auto and Rickey Nolan had driven his pickup truck into the muddy depths of the HarpethRiver only a few days ago. Rickey had, at least for himself, put an end to the apathy that seemed to curse the majority of the menfolk in BedloeCounty.

  Tony didn’t realize that it was the anniversary of his emotional gelding, until the big yellow school bus pulled up outside the Lunch & Munch. The jangle of the cowbell over the door sounded and he turned to find Coach Winters crossing the dining room to the front counter. He held a brown paper bag in his hand.

  “How’s it going, Frazier?” greeted the coach, smiling around the stub of his cigar.

  “Same as usual,” replied Tony with a shrug. He glanced through the plate glass of the cafe and saw the excited faces of that year’s team grinning from the windows of the school bus. “Another winning season?” he asked blandly.

  “Of course,” said Winters. “Are you surprised?”

  Tony remembered the promise the coach had made him and his friends scarcely over a year ago. “No,” he said. “Can’t say that I am.”

  The coach’s tiny eyes glinted beneath his bushy brows. “I heard your wife just had a kid. A baby boy.”

  Tony nodded. “You heard right.”

  “Well, it’s not much, but I bought him a little present,” said Winters. He handed Tony the paper bag. “Could you see that he gets it?”

  “Sure,” said Tony. Reluctantly, he took the gift. “Thanks.”

  “I’d like to stick around and talk about old times, but I gotta go,” said Coach Winters, heading for the front door. “Can’t keep those ladies down in the Hollow waiting, you know.”

  Tony said nothing. He simply nodded and watched as the elderly man left the restaurant and climbed back onto the bus. Soon, the diesel was on its way, first to the tavern for a couple cases of beer, then farther southward along Highway 70.

  When the bus was out of sight, Tony stared down at the sack in his hand, afraid to open it. Finally, he gathered the nerve to do so. For some reason he wasn’t at all surprised to see the article of clothing that Coach Winters had bought for Tony’s firstborn son.

  It was a tiny football jersey. Red and white, with the emblem of the Bedloe County Bears on the front and the word QUARTERBACK stenciled across the back.

  THINNING THE HERD

  Chaney waited until the first, pale hint of dawn seeped over the flat Texas horizon. Then, making sure everything was set, he descended the rusty ladder of the old water tower and made his way to the barn across the street.

  He was the thirteenth in line. When his time came, he stepped up to the landlord’s desk and appraised the man. He was human, that was easy to see. Fat, lazy, willing to bow to those who had taken command of the new frontier. His name was Hector. He had a patch over one eye, a prosthetic leg that needed oiling, and a monkey named Garfunkel who perched like a growth on the landlord’s shoulder and picked lice from his master’s oily scalp.

  Hector eyed the gaunt man in the black canvas duster with suspicion. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before.”

  Chaney’s impatience showed as he reached into his coat for his money pouch. “You gonna flap your lips or rent me a bed for the day?” Gold coins jingled within the small leather bag like the restless bones of a ghostly child.

  “How do I know you are what you say you are? There are plenty of bounty hunters about these days. Doesn’t pay to rent out to strangers, especially when you cater to the type of clientele I do.”

  “Your clientele is going to fry out here if you don’t hurry up and give the man his bed,” growled a customer at the end of the line.

  But Hector was not to be rushed. “I’ll need proof.”

  Chaney smirked. “What do you want? An ID? How about my American Express card?”

  The landlord reached into the desk drawer and withdrew a small, golden crucifix. “Grab hold of this.”

  Chaney averted his eyes, as did the others in line. “Is that necessary?”

  “It is if you want a bed.”

  The stranger nodded and extended a pale hand. He closed his fist around the cross. A sizzling of flesh sounded as contact was made and wisp of blue smoke curled from between Chaney’s fingers. “Satisfied?” he asked in disgust.

  “Quite.” Hector pushed the register toward him and collected the gold piece Chaney had laid upon the counter. The one-eyed landlord noticed that Chaney carried a black satchel in one hand. “What’s that?” he asked.

  Chaney flashed a toothy grin. “A noonday snack.” He shook the black bag, eliciting the muffled cry of an infant from within.

  By the time the first rays of the sun had broken, they were all checked in. The barn’s interior was pitch dark, letting nary a crack or crevice of scorching sunlight into their temporary abode. Chaney found a bed on the ground floor, he removed his long coat, hanging it on a peg over his bunk, and set the satchel close at hand.

  He lifted the lid of his sleeping chamber and scowled. Just a simple, pine wood casket. No silk liner, no burnished finish, and no ornate handles on the sides; just a no frills bunk in a no frills hotel. He wasn’t complaining, though. It would suit his purpose well enough.

  “Lights out!” called Hector, laughing uproariously a
t a joke that had lost its humor years ago. The tenants ignored his mirth and set about preparing for a good day’s rest. Chaney followed suit, taking a packet of graveyard earth from his coat pocket and spreading it liberally in the bottom of his rented coffin.

  When every lid had been closed, Hector stepped outside the barn, shutting the double doors behind him. He took a seat on a bench out front, laid a pump shotgun across his knees, and started reading an old Anne Rice novel he had bought from a traveling peddler.

  The morning drew on, the sun rising, baking the Texas wilderness with its unrelenting heat. The little town moved as slow as winter molasses. Its inhabitants went about their normal business, or as near normal as could be expected after the much heralded End of the World.

  The courthouse clock struck twelve o’clock before Chaney finally made his move. It was safe now; his neighboring tenants were fast asleep. Quietly, he lifted the lid of this casket and sat up. “Snack time,” he said to himself and reached for the satchel.

  He opened it. The first thing he removed was the rubber baby doll. He laid it on the barn floor, smiling as it uttered a soft “Mama!” before falling silent again. Chaney then took a .44 AutoMag from the bag and began to make his rounds.

  He didn’t bother to pull the old “stake-through-the-heart” trick. To do so would be noisy and messy and net him only a small fraction of the undead he had come there to finish off. Instead, he used the most state-of-the-art anti-vampire devices. He placed Claymore mines at strategic points throughout the barn’s interior. But they were not ordinary Claymores. He had replaced the load of ball bearings with tiny steel crucifixes and splinters of ash wood.

  After the mines had been placed and the timers set, Chaney knew it was time to take his leave. He walked to the barn doors and, cocking his pistol, stepped out into the hot, noonday sun.

  Hector was snoozing on the job, of course. The landlord’s head was resting on his flabby chest, snoring rather loudly from the nose. Chaney stood before the man and loudly cleared his throat.

  The fat man came awake. Startled, he stared up at Chaney. “Hey,” he breathed. “You ain’t no vampire.”

  “No, I ain’t,” agreed Chaney.

  “But I saw your hand burn when you touched the cross!”

  Chaney lifted his scarred left palm to his mouth and peeled away a thin layer of chemically-treated latex with his teeth. “Special effects,” he said.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Chaney brought the muzzle of his .44 to the man’s forehead. “That you shall be… traitor.” Then he painted the barn wall a brilliant red with the contents of the man’s disintegrating skull.

  The bogus vampire walked to where his primer-gray van was parked near the water tower. He got in, started the engine, and cruised slowly down the empty street of the town. He checked his watch, counting the seconds. “Five… four…three…two… one…”

  The Claymores went off first. Their metal shells split under a charge of C-4, sending thousands of tiny crosses and toothpick-sized stakes in every imaginable direction. The projectiles penetrated the caskets, as well as their sleeping occupants. Then they traveled onward, piercing the walls of the makeshift hotel. The old structure, already weakened by time and weather, could take no further abuse. It collapsed in a dusty heap, burying fifty dying tenants beneath its crushing weight.

  Chaney watched in his side view mirror for the coup de grâce. It came a moment later. A glob of wired plastic explosive belched flame, splitting the steel reservoir of the water town in half. A cascade of water crashed down upon the collapsed barn, drenching the jagged timbers and whatever lay beneath it. The significance of that crowning touch was that the water was holy. Chaney had blessed it, using a prayer he had bought from a convent across the Mexican border, before he had set the timer and joined the others in line.

  “Filthy bloodsuckers!” said Chaney as he headed for the open desert. He pushed a tape into the cassette player and rocked and rolled down the long abandoned highway toward the sweltering blur of the distant horizon.

  ~ * ~

  “You sure you don’t want something to drink?” the bartender asked Stoker, who sat alone at a corner table.

  “No,” replied the bearded man. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? Beer, whiskey? Some wine, maybe?”

  Stoker stifled a grin. “No, thank you.”

  The hefty bartender shrugged and went about his business. The tavern, named Apocalypse After Dark, was empty except for Stoker and the barkeep. A wild-eyed fellow had been playing the slot machine and hour before, but the geek had left after his tokens were depleted. Ghoul, Stoker had thought to himself. Probably rummaging through the death pyres right now, looking for warm leftovers.

  But Stoker had no interest in cannibals that night. At least not the kind that sneak around in shame, feeding off disposal plants and graveyards.

  He sat there for another hour before he heard the sound that he had been waiting for. The sound of motorcycles roaring in from the west.

  Headlights slashed across the front window of the saloon. Engines gunned, then sputtered into silence. Stoker tensed, wishing he had ordered that drink now. His hand went beneath the table, caressing the object he wore slung beneath his bomber jacket.

  He watched them through the front window as they dismounted their Harley Davidsons like leather-clad cowboys swing from the saddles of chromed horses. There were an even dozen of them; eight men and four women. Another woman, naked, sat perched on the back of the leader’s chopper. She was chained to the sissy bar, a dog collar around her slender throat keeping her from escaping.

  “Poor angel,” whispered Stoker. He was going to enjoy this immensely.

  The batwing doors burst open and in they came. Bikers; big, hairy, ugly, and ear-piercingly loud. They wore studded leather with plenty of polished chains, zippers, and embroidered swastikas. On the back of their cycle jackets were their colors. A snarling wolf’s head with flaming eyes and the words BLITZ WOLVEN.

  “A round for me and the gang before we do our night’s work,” bellowed the leader, a bear of man with matted red hair and beard. His name was Lycan. Stoker knew that from asking around. The names of the others were not important.

  The bartender obediently filled their orders. Lycan took a big swig from his beer, foam hanging his whiskers like the slaver of a rabid dog. He turned around and leaned against the bar rail, instantly seeing the man who sat alone in the shadowy corner. “How’s it going, pal?” Lycan asked neighborly.

  Stoker said nothing. He merely smiled and nodded in acknowledgement.

  “How about a drink for my silent friend over yonder,” the biker said. “You can put it on my tab.”

  The bartender glanced at the man in the corner, then back at Lycan. “Told me he didn’t want nothing.”

  “What’s the matter, stranger?” asked a skinny fellow with safety pins through each nostril. “You too good to drink with the likes of us?”

  “I have a low tolerance for alcohol,” Stoker said. “It makes me quite ill.”

  “Leave the dude alone,” said Lycan. “Different strokes for different folks, I always say.”

  The skinny guy gave Stoker a look of contempt, then turned back to the bar.

  “It takes all kinds to make a world,” replied Stoker. “Especially a brave, new world such as this.”

  “Amen to that,” laughed Lycan. He downed his beer and called for another.

  “Blitz Woven? Does that have a hidden meaning? Are you werewolves or Nazis?”

  Lycan’s good natured mood began to falter. He eyed the loner with sudden suspicion.

  “Maybe a little of both. So what’s it to you?”

  Stoker shrugged. “Just curious, that’s all.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” sand an anorexic chick with a purple Mohawk. “Or bat or rat… depending on what supernatural persuasion you are these days.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, dear lady.”

  “Well, enough
of this gabbing, you freaks,” said Lycan. “Time to get down to business.” They left the bar and walked to the far end of the tavern where a number of hooks jutted from the cheap paneling. Stoker watched with interest as they began to disrobe, hanging their riding leathers along the wall.

  “What is this?” he asked. “The floor show?”

  “You know, buddy,” said Lycan, his muscular form beginning to contort and sprout coarse hair. “You’re whetting my appetite something fierce. In fact, you might just be our opening course for tonight.”

  Stoker sat there, regarding them coolly. “I’m afraid not, old boy. I’ve got business of my own to attend to.”

  They were halfway through the change now. Faces distorted and bulged, sprouting toothy snouts and pointed ears. “Oh, and what would that be?” asked Lycan, almost beyond the ability to converse verbally. He stretched his long hairy arms, scraping the ceiling with razor claws.

  Stoker stood up, stepped away from the table, and brought an Uzi submachine gun from under his jacket. “I’ll leave that to your brutish imaginations,” he said and opened fire.

  The one with the pins in his nose began to howl, brandishing his immortality like some garish tattoo. Then he stopped his bestial laughter when he realized the bullets that were entering his body were not cast of ordinary lead. He screamed as a pattern of penetrating silver stitched across his broad chest, sending him back against the wall. He collapsed, smoking and shriveling, until he was only a heap of naked, gunshot humanity.

  “Bastard!” snarled the female werewolf with the violet Mohawk. She surged forward, teeth gnashing, breasts bobbing and swaying like furry pendulums.

  Stoker unleashed a three-round burst, obliterating the monster’s head. It staggered shakily across the barroom, hands reaching up and feeling for a head, but only finding a smoking neck stump in its place. The werewolf finally slumped against the jukebox with such force that it began blasting out an old Warren Zevon tune with a boom of bass and tickling of ivory.