The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  The membership of the troupe was not a constant thing. Some came and went, depending on their fortunes, others were fixtures for year after year. Charles had become one of the latter. For all the irregularities, mishaps, poor pay, and often dismal living conditions, he loved his work and the people who worked with him. He could not imagine himself doing anything else with his life.

  Now he lay curled on the floor of the log cabin with most of those people, listening to their laughter and talk, and was thankful not to have to be alone.

  A resourceful lot, some of them had brought extra food supplies, mostly tea, biscuits, and an occasional discreet flask of spirits. The Hamilton sisters were not against drinking, but they forbade it prior to a performance and abhorred drunkenness.

  A search of the cupboards turned up a large cooking pot, suitable for stews and soups. They had no makings for either on hand, but one bright soul had bought a remarkable quantity of beans. When asked why, Raymond Yorke said they represented a fortnight’s worth of eating and had been cheap. As the youngest and newest member of the group, he was often the butt of much ribbing, but was now hailed as the hero of the hour. The pot was scrubbed clean of dust and hung on a convenient fireplace hook. People took turns fetching snow to melt in it. The evening meal would be rather plain, without any salt pork for flavoring, but no one would go hungry.

  In honor of his genius and foresight, Raymond was given the first plateful when the beans were ready. He pronounced them edible and took it upon himself to play server to the others. Plates and utensils were short, but no one minded sharing.

  Charles, still in the thrall of food poisoning, could not bring himself to join them. Raymond noticed and insisted he at least have a cup of tea.

  “You’re very kind, but I shan’t be able to keep it down,” said Charles.

  “You need to flush out your pipe works,” Raymond told him with a grin. “Even if you can’t keep it down, you’ll still get some cleaning done.”

  That had a certain logic to it, and Charles wanted to be rid of the bland taste of the bicarbonate of soda he’d taken. He drank the strong, too sugary tea and resumed his fetal position, quietly alert to the least internal change that would signal the tea’s reappearance.

  About ten minutes later his patience was rewarded—so to speak. He slipped out the door and found a spot away from where the other actors had been digging snow. At the conclusion of his business he felt worse than before, dizzy and heavy of limb, and his head hurt. He dragged back inside the warm cabin, resuming his spot by the door. The drone of his friends’ talk lulled him into a dull doze.

  Though the necessity of roughing it lent an almost festive air to their gathering, the day had been long and hard. Soon after dinner they all fell one by one into slumber. Some snored, but the noise did not disturb the others. Raymond alone sat up, tending the fireplace. Charles woke slightly to see him adding more wood to the blaze, then finally dozed off.

  He woke again some while later, with the groggy feeling that he’d heard something but surfaced too late to identify it. After a moment’s thought he was fairly certain someone had merely passed him going out the door. Another wakeful soul in search of the facilities, no doubt. He noticed the fire was very low, being composed more of deep red embers than flame. Raymond had probably retired long since and was one of the many lumps crowding the floor.

  Charles suppressed a groan as he once again felt the need to hurry outside. He’d hoped to sleep through his nausea, but it was back and decidedly stronger than before. His head pounded as he stood, and he nearly fell over from a sudden swoop of dizziness, only catching himself just in time. He found he had to break every movement down into a single separate action in order to accomplish anything. It was like an acting exercise Katherine Hamilton had taught him. She was elsewhere at the moment, having been in the properties truck with Clarence and the others. They’d be wondering what had happened to the cars by now, worried sick . . .

  Bad word, that.

  Carefully, bracing against the door frame with one hand, he lifted the simple wooden latch. Opened the door. Stepped out. Closed the door. Looked around. Where was that damned outhouse? There. Just follow the beaten trail the others had left earlier.

  Now—walk toward it and try not to fall down.

  The snow had stopped; the wind had died to nothing. His boots crunching through the white drifts made the only sound except for his ragged breathing. His breath hung on the air, almost solid enough to cut. He knocked on the outhouse door, but got no response from within. Perhaps he’d been mistaken about someone preceding him.

  No matter. The nausea was bubbling up in him again along with another cramp. He grabbed at the door handle and hurried in—and only just in time. As the door—which was balanced to swing back into place—shut, he thought he heard yet another sound coming from the direction of the cars. He’d seen that they’d been shrouded with snow, but not badly. The digging out in the morning would not be too arduous. The person who had gone before him must have forgotten some necessary bit of luggage. Charles couldn’t think what anyone would need at such an hour.

  He sat in the cold little house, leaning against its cold wooden side, but strangely unmindful of the chill. He sat and sat and tried very, very hard to think of something anyone would need from the cars. This seemed to take him a terribly long time, but it distracted him from his internal wretchedness.

  What was the time, anyway? Charles fumbled with his coat, trying to find the pocket where he kept his watch. He kept working at it until he realized he was trying to find a pocket that was not there. This struck him as very amusing, and he wanted to tell someone about it . . . but of course he was alone. It would have to wait.

  He stubbornly continued his search, finally opening his outer coat. It was important that he do that so he could . . . find . . .

  . . . his watch. Yes, he wanted his pocket watch.

  When he did draw it free he had to stare at it awhile, trying to remember how to open the thing. He knew he’d done just that thousands of times, but then he’d not had to pause and think about the action. Everything was so much more difficult when you had to think about it.

  He was ready to give up when he recalled the matter of the tiny catch on one side and pressed it. That was much better. He angled the timepiece to catch a stray slice of outside light and got a fleeting glimpse of the watch face. It was either ten after midnight or two in the morning. He couldn’t be sure about the minute and hour hands; his eyes weren’t focusing too terribly well.

  That accomplished, he wondered why it had been so important to know the time. In retrospect, it had been singularly unimportant. He snorted in disgust and spent several minutes putting his watch away.

  Through it all, a small part of him was aware that something was quite wrong. It knew that sitting out in such cold for so long was dangerous, and he most likely had a fever. It told him—over and over and with growing alarm—to wake up and go back to the cabin before he froze to death.

  But he was still sick, and couldn’t bring himself to move just yet. He dozed off, a very light doze, because his eyes were still open. He was cold, but still did not really feel it. The danger, the frantic voice inside said, was when he started to feel warm. Well, that hadn’t happened yet, so he was all right. Quite all right, thank you very much.

  RAYMOND Yorke finished his work on the older of the two cars, making sure it would take some hours before any members of the company could bring it back to running order again. He wasn’t stranding them forever, just long enough to prevent their being a nuisance.

  He wiped grease from his hands with a rag and quickly pulled on his gloves. It was damned cold, but that would also help him. Since the company was twenty miles out in the middle of nowhere and uncertain where they’d left the main road, no one would be too anxious to try walking to find help. Besides, if the properties truck ever reached Elkfoot Flats, Katherine Hamilton would raise a royal stink about coming back to find her sister and the ot
hers. A minor hardship for them and too bad, so long as things worked out in his favor.

  Still, he knew he faced a hellish risk, trying this stunt with all the snow. Farther down the road it could be drifted up too high for the car to get through, but such a golden opportunity might never present itself again. He was willing to take advantage of it. He’d been waiting and waiting for the right moment to come, and now that it was here he would not pass it up.

  Raymond walked back to the cabin, easing quietly inside, though it was unlikely any of them would wake at this point. The dose of morphine he’d stirred into the pot just before serving had them all ready to audition for the part of Rip Van Winkle tonight. All he had to do afterward was tend the fire and wait. It hadn’t taken long; he’d been very generous with his portions and the drug. The only hard part had been to keep a straight face as he watched them dropping into dreamland one by one.

  He stepped carefully over their sleeping forms to get to the fireplace, and built it up to have light to work by. That done, he started at the far end of the small cabin, going to each man and woman, emptying the contents of their grouch bags into his own. Worn around the neck and under one’s clothing, the old theatrical tradition was an excellent way of keeping your valuables intact—so long as you were conscious to defend them.

  This job’s haul was especially large. The receipts from the Toronto performances had been their best since he’d joined the company, and tonight he had the luck to snag most of their earnings before they could spend it.

  And that didn’t even count the watches and jewelry.

  Once he got back to the States and sold the stuff to connections he’d made in New York, he’d have more than enough to keep him in fine style for the next year or so. By then, the hue and cry would have cooled down and he could plan for his next little party.

  Happy almost to the point of humming, Raymond collected it all, from Mr. I’m-such-a-great-artist Cornelius Werner, to Miss I-invented-Shakespeare-myself Bianca Hamilton, and all the rest in between. He did not forget to take the car keys from the snoring Henry.

  “Raymond?”

  He froze. Absolutely, completely froze at the sleepy, inquiring voice. It was Bianca’s.

  “Raymond? What are you doing?”

  “Just making sure everyone’s tucked in.” Christ on a stick, was that the best he could think up? He turned slowly, wearing a guileless smile.

  Bianca sat up, rubbing her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything’s all right, go back to sleep.” For some people morphine was unpredictable. They could hold a lucid conversation, eyes wide open, and still be asleep, not remembering anything when they woke later. He hoped that held true for Bianca.

  She did not take the suggestion, and struggled to her feet, shedding her blanket. “No . . . you’re doing something. What are you—”

  He quickly covered the few steps to get to her—one fast clout to the jaw would take care of her nicely—except she had time to scream, and she managed to duck. It was more of a fall out of the way than a controlled movement, but it served. She screamed again, calling at the others loud enough to break through to some. Cornelius stirred with a sleepy grunt and squinted around, confused.

  Raymond had to nip this in the bud. He reached down for Bianca, who was trying to crawl away, slapping a hand over her mouth and another around her throat. She fought him frantically, still trying to call out, kicking, beating, and scratching at him. This was too much. He lifted her—she was a small woman—and slammed her head against the edge of the fireplace flags. That stunned her. She instantly went limp.

  Cornelius was his next problem, and far more formidable. He may have been complaining and fussy, but he had size and thirty years ago had been an excellent rugby player. He tackled Raymond bodily and started hitting hard. Their scuffle carried them into others, rousing them.

  Raymond punched back, but with little effect. He managed to roll the groggy actor toward the fireplace, flailing out for a weapon. His hand closed on a piece of firewood. He heard the crack and felt the impact go up his arm without realizing what it meant. Only after Cornelius suddenly collapsed did Raymond understand. Blood ran down the side of the old man’s skull. A lot of blood.

  One of the girls who had been sleeping near Bianca cried out. Stan Parmley was stirring, nearly awake, mumbling questions.

  It was too much. Robbery was one thing, but they’d never let him get away with this. He had to think, but they weren’t going to let him think. If they’d only just shut up a minute . . .

  The girl opened her mouth again. Raymond lashed out, using the piece of wood like a club. It proved to be very effective at making her quiet. He whirled on Stan. The first swing was a glancing blow, the second far more solid.

  Then came the third, the fourth, the fifth . . .

  Just to be sure.

  He had to be sure.

  And he had to be sure about all of them.

  It took an amazingly short time to finish the task.

  NOISE. Not too distant. Sluggishly surfacing from his daze, Charles eventually identified it as the cabin door slamming shut. Someone must be in need of the facilities. He’d have to leave.

  Easier thought of than accomplished.

  He was still not cold, but very stiff from sitting in one place for so long. Shifting himself sparked off lots of painful clamorings from his joints and especially from his legs. The pins and needles marking the return of circulation to them slowed him down.

  Another sound came to him: that of a car motor starting up. What a good idea. A good idea to start it so it wouldn’t freeze up and fail to run in the morning.

  A state that was likely to befall him if he didn’t get up and move around soon. As he forced himself along, he noted with some confusion that the sound of the car was gradually fading. That couldn’t have been right. Perhaps his fever was distorting things.

  Pushing on the door put him back in the snow again, in the utter stillness. Not one whisper of wind now stirred the surrounding trees, though in the distance he could just catch the determined rumble of the car. Certainly one of their Fords, for only one remained in the yard. Showing clear in the pristine snow were the tracks and ruts where the driver had turned the second vehicle and taken it away.

  Why? Had some of the members decided to leave once the storm was past? That hardly made sense—unless it was to find the properties truck and let the people with it know the rest of the company was all right. Bianca might sanction such a trip. She and Henry must have taken off, since the missing car was the newer one Henry always drove.

  Charles trudged toward the cabin, feeling frail and sick, though not so bad as before, and very, very tired. He wanted to sleep for a few months. And later, take a very hot bath. And never, ever have another sausage sandwich as long as he lived.

  He quietly let himself in, noting that someone had built the fire back up. It was very warm inside and now that he had something to compare it with, he realized how truly cold he’d become, after all. He picked his way carefully over to the fireplace, afraid of waking those he passed. None of them stirred, though. He sat in front of the blaze and thawed out his hands. His feet were icy as well. He’d have to go with Cornelius to find extra socks for himself if this kept up.

  God, but it was so still in here—as though for some reason everyone held their collective breath. The last time he’d felt anything remotely similar had been in the aftermath of his first battle. The only sound had been his own heartbeat and the only movement were the flocks of ravens come to feed on the dead.

  He pushed that thought out, as he always did. The war was past and done, and he was free to forget its horrors. He’d seen to his patriotic duty and survived.

  And yet it was so bloody quiet. Had Stan Parmley forgotten how to snore? He was so infamous for it that none of the other men ever wanted to share a room with him.

  Charles turned from the fire, peering about, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. As his attention shi
fted to the others, additional details emerged: some of them weren’t lying in a normal manner, arms were raised above their heads, or flung out to their sides, resting on those next to them. Nothing really alarming, just odd. But there was a smell in the air, like rusted metal, and very strong beneath it the stink of urine and feces . . . just like that damned battlefield. When death took the soldiers their bodies relaxed and . . .

  No. He was imagining it. His fever was bringing back one of his really bad memories and casting it upon his friends here.

  Then his gaze was finally drawn to Bianca, who lay just a few feet from him. She often played the doomed Queen Gertrude when they did Hamlet and always died quite well in the arms of the young prince. Now she seemed to have achieved a similar stillness, that same slight arch of torment to her body. But Bianca always closed her eyes for that scene. However dramatic an open-eyed death might be, sooner or later you betrayed yourself to the audience by blinking.

  This time, however, Bianca did not blink. Charles stared at her a full minute, waiting.

  He gave up and looked away, not wanting to understand what was before him. He turned toward Cornelius, who lay on his stomach, his head pressed against the bare floor in what must be an uncomfortable position. He usually played Polonius, but never did he die at the hands of Hamlet in such a pose. He usually sank slowly down, managing to instill even that action with a hint of comic pomposity. He never just gracelessly dropped.

  Then Charles saw the blood, saw that it was everywhere, on everyone, on every single one of them—and the dread comprehension he’d refused to accept broke upon his numbed mind like an avalanche.

  HOURS later in the too bright light of morning, the properties truck lurched into the yard and paused next to the remaining Ford. Clarence Coldfield got out and went around to help Katherine Hamilton down. They’d left Elkfoot Flats at dawn to search for the lost members of the company, and Clarence had spotted tire tracks coming out from a side road that cut into the woods. Being the only available clue, they decided to follow it and it had unexpectedly paid off.