Blood Lite II: Overbite

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “But I do not eat . . . food,” Vanpirs said. “This is impossible.”

  “Most possible. It is the fat-rich blood of those you are feeding on. Cholesterol deposits itself directly in the altered cells that comprise your flesh. This is a buildup of many years, Herr Vanpirs. Today, with the number of people out there with fatty blood, it’s becoming increasingly common among those of your persuasion.”

  “Fat, in my flesh?” Vanpirs asked, stunned. He had not loosened his belt in three hundred years.

  “Ja,” said Herr Glücklich. “There is only one cure. You must change your diet. I would recommend oat bran under other circumstances.”

  “How can I—”

  “Herr Vanpirs,” the Apothek interrupted. “My advice is to eat more simply. Frequent athletic events and health resorts. Perhaps consider enrolling in a commune of environmental enthusiasts.”

  “Vegans?” Vanpirs said. “That’s—disgusting. Can you not give me a—pill? A shot?”

  Herr Glücklich shook his head. “This has taken years to develop. It will take years of correct eating to rectify.”

  “Ridiculous,” said Vanpirs. “I can’t understand why Herr Kahler sent me.”

  “Herr Kahler is also afflicted by our changing times. He has developed a sensitivity to modern chemical products. I’ve advised him to switch to biodegradable infant laundry soap, among many other changes.”

  “A werewolf using baby soap?” Vanpirs said, laughing. As he buttoned his cuff, Vanpirs noticed with satisfaction that the dent was entirely gone. Perhaps he should feed upon the Apothek. That would teach the smug fellow.

  “I thought you could help me,” Vanpirs said. “But this is absurd. I suppose that I’ve come in contact with some sort of holy water perfume.”

  Herr Glücklich shook his head. “In that case, your lips would have blistered,” he said.

  Vanpirs felt his lips. “It was something like that. I’m certain of it.”

  “Tell me, then,” Herr Glücklich said. “Do you particularly enjoy feeding on those who’ve finished a tasty meal?”

  “Of course,” said Vanpirs. “Do you think I’d prefer some pimpled youth eating nothing but fried chicken?”

  “Ah,” Herr Glücklich said, holding out a business card. “Of course not. Let me give you my card.”

  “I do not need more absurd advice,” Vanpirs said, throwing the card down on the counter. “Or a diet.”

  Herr Glücklich appeared nervous for the first time since the discussion began. He cleared his throat, tapped his fingers lightly on the counter, and said, “You are playing with fire in this matter. Quite literally. This fatty material is most combustible. And unlike your victims, your body is not comprised of seventy percent water, which does not burn. Surely you’ve heard that the percentage of water in the bodies of the obese may decrease to less than fifty percent. In that case, I would not recommend those individuals stay in the sun on a hot day!”

  Vanpirs looked down at his completely flat stomach, then back at the Apothek. “You’re mad,” he said. “I’ve never been fat—”

  “It is the concentrated fat collected in your flesh and not your external size or weight that is of such great risk,” the Apothek said. “Why else do you suppose the old films such as Nosferatu encouraged the myth that vampires burned to a crisp upon exposure to daylight? When too close to little boys with magnifying glasses, some have!”

  “Rubbish,” Vanpirs snapped. Then he smiled, most unpleasantly.

  The Apothek’s voice quavered only a bit as he said, “I should let you know that I am myself a strict vegetarian, and I had a dish of anise bulbs and garlic this morning, as I do every day.”

  Vanpirs’s nose had told him so, and this was the reason he now left without even the tiniest drink of the Apothek’s blood.

  Idiocy, Vanpirs thought as he strode home. Risk of fire, burning like some fat, roasting pig? He was as fit and slim as he’d ever been—why, he’d never even gotten a sunburn and one day stayed out for hours on the beach at Cannes, attracting juicy young women with his slender, perfect physique. He stopped for a moment in an alley behind an oyster shop, waiting for a brief, moist snack. It turned into a bit more than a snack; after leaving the two overfed university students piled neatly beside the restaurant’s trash can, he went home, feeling very much improved, and fell into a dreamless slumber.

  Exchange rates being what they were, Vanpirs decided within a day of his interview with the Apothek that he would join the great numbers of his fellow Europeans in traveling to the West.

  He discovered a travel website that specialized in his particular interest: epicurean tours. He copied down one of their itineraries and made arrangements privately for accommodations at each venue.

  For sentimental reasons, he planned first to visit the Seymour Hamburger Festival. He had spent many pleasant years in Hamburg ensconced in a thirteenth-century flat near the Deutsches Schauspielhaus. The American hamburger fest took place in a small Wisconsin town that was the home of “Hamburger Charlie,” the reputed inventor of the ubiquitous American sandwich. It was also the home of Charlie’s assistant, Emil Wurm, a man whose name Vanpirs found familiar, indeed, reminiscent of one of his former familiars.

  It was difficult for Vanpirs to accommodate to American lodging, but he learned quickly that certain hotels had blackout curtains, as well as the meaning and purpose of the “Do Not Disturb” sign to be hung for the maid. Vanpirs soon learned that if he reversed the sign at the proper moment, he might pick up an extra meal, though disposing of the maid’s body was always a concern.

  As the hamburger festival began, Vanpirs was disappointed to see so many “commercial” meals offered. But the evening hamburger cookoff held much promise. Vanpirs noticed the festival mascots entering and exiting a small building. This turned out to be a retreat for the costumed hamburger bride and groom. The burger costumes were bulky, and the teenaged mascots eagerly took breaks, where they could remove their foam prisons and drink cold cola and eat ice cream. The pair were also served quarters of the contest hamburgers—which were quite gourmet and up to Vanpirs’s discriminating standards.

  The bride and groom were biting into the last of the contest burgers when the winner was announced—a Southwestern-themed sandwich, with pepper-jack cheese, black bean and corn relish, and ancho chiles. As the excitement outside built, Vanpirs slipped into the tent and experienced the full flavor of the festival’s offerings.

  He hadn’t thought he would care for American ice cream, but to his surprise, it was decadently rich and delightful. And the combinations of flavors on the medium-rare, flame-cooked burgers were irreplaceable. The toppings, particularly cheese, whet his appetite for more. Thus inspired, he moved on to the next festival, one dedicated to cheese, conveniently located in the nearby Wisconsin village of Little Chute.

  Vanpirs waited for the festival to begin, amusing himself by watching small, pink children riding the tiki-themed hotel waterslide as well as playing his “Do Not Disturb” sign game with well-fed Wisconsin hotel maids.

  After a few days Vanpirs was perusing the local newspaper in the hotel lobby when he heard guests talking about a reporter from the Green Bay newspaper. She was at that moment interviewing people in the hotel lounge, asking about “maid disappearances.”

  To amuse himself, Vanpirs found the reporter in the bar sipping a Cosmopolitan. He sidled next to her, identifying himself as a Romanian food critic. After pleasantries, he told her that Europeans were constantly amazed at the violence that seemed so common in America.

  “No one ever disappears in Romania,” he told her and agreed to let her take his picture.

  She seemed delighted to snap photo after photo of him, and Vanpirs was pleased to see his comments appear on the Internet within hours, although there was a small note to the effect that the pictures had not come out properly, perhaps due to a lack of sufficient light in the hotel lounge.

  Vanpirs’s exuberant feeding that evening led to a four-st
ate search for the “Festival Cheese Killer.” Soon after her coverage of the triple-homicide of the festival’s first, second, and third-place winners, the Green Bay newspaper reporter obtained both a paperback book deal and an offer for a reality show. The story was especially touching, considering that each victim had achieved a lifelong dream of winning a cheese-off trophy and ribbon, yet before they could fully savor their winnings, each had lost her life by unexplained exsanguination.

  Leaving Little Chute, Vanpirs traveled to Eau Claire, Michigan, for the annual Cherry Festival, which encompassed patriotic fervor as well as a cornucopia of sweets. Vanpirs monitored the evening’s Sit-N-Spit contest with great humor.

  Perhaps because he had been so profligate at the cheese festival, Vanpirs held back at the Cherry Festival, only feeding on the elderly former mayor and his twin brother. The next day it seemed clear to everyone that the duo had succumbed after tying too many cherry stems into knots with their tongues during the day—a family talent—and by gobbling a five-pound cherry pie that evening.

  As he left Eau Claire, Vanpirs struck on the idea of purchasing a motor home, which afforded him reliable daytime privacy and darkness, and which also opened up the entire landscape of great American food festivals.

  In the coming weeks in his Coachmen Epic, Vanpirs attended International Pancake Day in Liberal, Kansas, the Oakhurst Chocolate Festival in northern California, and the Star of Texas Barbeque and Pig Out at the Park. These last two featured pork product competitions, much like the Pomeranian Schlachtfest.

  By the following spring, Vanpirs had sampled regional specialties across America. A dim awareness in the criminal justice system had begun to flicker, however, because the FBI had begun to track the “food festival killer,” and Vanpirs had chuckled to see mention of the pattern of killings on MSNBC.

  Vanpirs left Texas for Florida in early March. His destination was Orlando, although he was quite certain that the food at the Disney resorts was dreadful. He had no intention of visiting those locations: he was headed straight for the Pillsbury Bake-Off.

  The quintessential American food event took place in a massive convention hall in which no natural light ever entered, thus qualifying it as a culinary paradise for Vanpirs. Acres of blissfully cool, sun-free indoor real estate was packed with food displays, demonstration booths, and in the contest hall, one-hundred identical cooking stations for the contestants.

  Less appealing was the fact that the Pillsbury Bake-Off, as a commercial event, had been overtaken by contemporary ideas of “healthy eating.” After several low-fat chicken and tofu demonstrations and a teeth-gritting low-sodium, high-fiber, fat-free blended horror of Lovecraftian proportions, Vanpirs wandered into the contest hall to watch the intricate preparations for the Bake-Off. This was simple, for he carried a digital camera and a slightly altered set of press credentials that identified him as a critic for the glossy European publication Epicurean.

  His urges to feed ebbed and flowed, but he willed himself to wait for the contest dishes to be prepared and tasted, telling himself that victory would be his following the announcement of the one-million-dollars winner that evening.

  As the long day wore on, Vanpirs’s head felt light and strange. Perhaps, he thought, it was the great number of warm bodies in the convention center overwhelming him. He rested for a moment by the red, white, and blue balloon arch through which the hundred Bake-Off contestants would run on their way to their identical cooking stations. After a moment Vanpirs found himself sharing space with the Pillsbury Doughboy.

  “Do you like hamburgers?” Vanpirs asked in an effort to make light conversation.

  “No, man,” the Doughboy said. “I’m vegan.”

  “Ah,” Vanpirs said, which explained the repulsive, weedlike odor of the Doughboy’s sweat.

  Vanpirs watched the contestants enter to great fanfare, greeted by the Doughboy. He took photos, and toured the kitchens of those who were preparing main dishes; American desserts were simply too sweet for his European palate.

  A cherubic brunette with flashing eyes preparing a chicken casserole was absolutely divine. Vanpirs watched, smiling, as she chopped ginger, then garlic, then spooned an entire can of cream of celery soup into a bowl and began to mix. He wanted to lick her neck.

  Vanpirs leaned ever closer to her tempting, moist neck when he was overcome by a strange, keening wail that filled the convention hall, pulsing and threatening to burst his eardrums.

  “I smell smoke!” he heard.

  “We’re all going to die!” someone else shrieked.

  Terrible, brilliant lights flashed. Vanpirs grimaced and lowered his head.

  The brunette had dropped her spoon and was speaking to him.

  In misery, Vanpirs uncovered his ears.

  “Sir, your leg is smoking,” she said.

  Vanpirs looked down. Twin streams of smoke were curling up from the cuff of his carefully pressed Euro jeans.

  “How can this be?” he asked.

  “There are a lot of ovens on around here. It wouldn’t be hard to—”

  “That man is on fire!” screamed a blond woman, pointing at him.

  All at once every contestant save the kindly brunette threw down their utensils. A nearby judge went down, shrieking, as Bake-Off cooks, friends, relatives, and sundry hangers-on stampeded toward the balloon arch.

  They enveloped the Doughboy. Vanpirs caught glimpses of his collapsed white form as the crowd parted, then coalesced in waves.

  “Come on,” said the brunette. “Let me help you.”

  Vanpirs nearly fell against her as she took his arm. Gratitude and terror mixed in equal parts in Vanpirs, along with the insistent desire to bite the woman, even as she tried to help.

  “There is no . . . help for me,” he gasped, remembering the Apothek’s warning. He should change his diet—it was the endless fat, the grease, the oily blood of all those he’d tasted for so many—why hadn’t he listened?

  Most of the crowd had headed toward the arch, while there was another exit sign flashing only yards from it, and she led him toward it.

  “I—I have to rest,” he said. Perhaps the fire would go out. And how had it started? There were over one hundred stoves in the hall and all of them turned to high heat. Had it been a spark from a stray gas lighter? A fiery crackling of burned cake from a contestant’s humiliating failure? It could have been any of these, for Vanpirs’s body had long since been comprised of more highly flammable cholesterol than long-dead bone and sinew.

  Vanpirs’ helpmate bit her lower lip as he sat heavily in a chair by the exit.

  “It’s getting worse,” she said. She began patting at his leg with the hem of her apron, which produced nothing but an even more concentrated jet of smoke curling from the cuff of his jeans.

  She lifted the cuff to see the source of the smoke and blinked.

  “Oh, my,” she said.

  “What is it?” Vanpirs asked in alarm.

  “Why, I can see—” she said. She found herself unable to tell him that she’d seen a rapidly darkening bone, roasting and crackling along with a big patch of oily flesh, just like a barbecued beef rib on the grill. She bit her lower lip and said, “Oh, gosh. I think I should get some help.”

  Vanpirs’s head was spinning with the need to bite, and he almost did not notice the small silver cross hanging around her neck. “Please do,” he said in a small voice as he pulled quickly away.

  “You stay right here,” she said, wagging her finger as if he were a naughty child. “I’ll be back.”

  She needn’t have warned him, for neither of Vanpirs’s legs would move any longer. It was exactly as it had happened in Stralsund, only ever so much worse. He noticed with terror that smoke had now begun to rise from his other ankle.

  He rolled up one of his sleeves and watched the skin darkening, even crinkling here and there. Before his eyes, it burst into flame.

  “No!” he cried.

  But it was, of course, too late for Vanpirs. The f
lames were already inside of him. And though he could not feel pain, he could feel the flames feeding, as flames will do upon finding a great deal of combustible material such as concentrated human cholesterol, all in one place.

  • • •

  The Orlando firefighters were reluctant to immediately enter the building, so it was therefore several hours later when, out of direct reach of the facility’s sprinklers, a pair of waxy white feet clad in expensive French leather loafers were found resting beneath a chair near the exit. Upon the seat of the chair was a pile of greasy black ash, in the midst of which was discovered an odd set of dentition containing a matched pair of long ivory teeth.

  The Ghoul Next Door

  NANCY KILPATRICK

  He’s a ghoul all right, but he ain’t the only freak in this neighborhood. That’s a fact. Take my word for it.

  There’s hairy old Jack down the block, for instance. Raise the dander on anybody’s neck, though come to think of it I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him lately. And the Laveaus at the corner? Bunch of deadbeats, if you ask me. Him and the wife cement themselves to the front porch all night long every summer, guzzling some concoction she brews, staring off into space. How they manage the payments on their “crypt” as they call it, that’s the question. Lucinda Varney next door—face of an angel and that’s where the connection to heaven ends. Don’t get me wrong. I love that girl dearly, as if she was my own daughter—if I had a daughter, which I don’t—and I was her natural mother, but I’ve watched her suck in more than one fellow, wearing skirts up around her . . . But I guess you wanna hear about the ghoul.

  He come to our neighborhood last year, ’round the time the lake swallowed up the Francis girl. Let me see . . . It was Halloween, All Saints’, some of them ’round here call it.

  The ghoul—his name’s Henry, just so we all know who we’re talking about—didn’t bring much, only a heavy-looking flesh-colored backpack. No suitcases, boxes of pots and pans. You know, no household things. ’Course, it’s only a room he’s got, at Liz Nedrob’s. Lets the one at the back. Not much bigger than a broom closet, but he was alone, far as I could tell, though I’m just a wrinkly, so what do I know.