Blood Lite II: Overbite

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Of course, he knew that some poorer fans would be jealous of his new seats. His best Bills-backing bud Frank would be pissed when he learned that he’d been jilted in the upper corner. But Drew decided to phone him up and explain just how kickass his new tickets were. Friends had to understand.

  “Ten years and you’re just gonna up and leave me for better seats?” Frank said.

  Drew heard the jealous Put yourself in my shoes. If you could have tickets to die for, wouldn’t you take ’em?, whiny tone in his own voice already.

  “Come on, dude,” Drew said.

  “I don’t get this. Yesterday you couldn’t even afford to renew the seats you had and now you’ve got the fifty-yard line. What did you do? Sell your left nut to science?”

  “Oh, that’s for me to know and for you to worry about, ha ha ha ha!”

  Drew couldn’t tell his friend the truth, not Frank, who devoured Sylvia Browne and obsessed over the occult. Besides, he had come across an idea and meant to stick by it. Maybe his personality would be auctioned off next. Or his wit and charm. To him, the free enterprise system allowed a man to sell off whatever the hell he wanted.

  “Dude, really, I can make it up to you,” Drew said. “We’ll still tailgate together, so the first box of steaks and case of beer is on me. Sound good?”

  “Least you can do now that you’re friggin’ rollin’ in it.”

  “’Kay then, bud. See you bright and early Sunday morning.”

  He clicked the phone off, kicked back in his chair, and laced his fingers behind his head. This was going to be one hell of a season.

  Bars of sunlight peeked through his blinds the next morning and Drew covered his eyes. Morning wasn’t his friend, but then it seemed like there were so few times a day that he wanted to be up and hopping. Not unless it was Sunday and he was going to a Bills game. Then he had the stamina of a champion. He decided to drag himself out of bed and crawl into work, otherwise his three grand wouldn’t stretch very far.

  When he pulled the covers off of his naked body, he saw that his skin had turned a shade of light green, from head to toe. And he felt slippery to the touch. His stomach was still ivory white, which made him wonder if he would grow gills next and turn into a fish man.

  He leaped out of bed, struggled to catch up with his breathing, but he couldn’t calm himself. How the hell had this happened overnight? He’d only sold his soul, not traded cash for a gypsy curse!

  In the bathroom mirror, he saw that his face had changed for the worst. Dark lines circled his bloodshot eyes, and his cheeks had sunk. His once muscular arms now sagged below the armpits and his tongue had turned black.

  When he checked below his beltline, he saw that his dick and balls had shriveled up like raisins. He threw his hands over his face and tried not to cry. He’d had enough bad luck with the ladies before he’d sold his soul, and it would be worse now that his twig and berries had gone to seed.

  But he refused to believe that this was the result of selling his soul. No, he’d come down with something rotten, something vile, but not something that he couldn’t fix. He’d get some rest, or go to the doctor, but he wouldn’t live with this forever.

  Deep breaths. Nice and slow. In and out. He decided that if he closed his eyes and opened them, it would all go away. The Drew Wilson that he knew and loved would be back to normal.

  So he closed his eyes.

  And when he opened them to see that he still looked like a zombie, Drew knew that he was in serious trouble. There was no way in hell he could go out looking like this. And he sure couldn’t go to work either.

  When he phoned in sick to Walmart, he didn’t know what to tell them. He’d been so consumed by the changes that he hadn’t bothered to try and sound sick.

  He could only imagine what they would’ve said had he told them that he’d sold his soul

  Who the hell would want to buy your soul? he imagined Bonnie, his supervisor, asking, and then maybe laughing.

  But that wasn’t foremost on his mind. How the hell would he get rid of this? Surely he couldn’t just mosey down to the emergency room and ask the doc to give him two of whatever and call him in the morning.

  Frank would know what to do. All that reading had to have armed him with some information on this, even if he didn’t want to admit that it was because he’d sold his soul to Mr. Larry Adams. But if it meant swallowing his pride to make this go away, he would do it.

  When Drew skipped up to Frank’s apartment, he pictured his reaction, and pulled his trench coat over his face. He’d said nothing of his condition when they’d spoken on the phone. He’d only said that he was desperate for help. The years he’d spent teasing Frank for being a grade-A kook he now regretted and he prayed that Frank would know some weird-ass magical cure for him. This was not like a scraped knee, a broken toe, or the clap. Normal medicine meant nothing, he thought.

  When the door swung open, Frank nearly barreled over with laughter. Drew stuck his hand on his hips, forced air out his nostrils, and waited for Frank to pull himself together. At this point, his reaction seemed more vapid than anything.

  Frank held on to the door, sighed, and calmed himself. “Sold your soul, didn’t you? Silly bastard.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Drew said, “dumbass thing to do, I know.”

  “But who’d want to buy your soul? I mean, seriously. Well, unless you want to backtrack in life then maybe I can—”

  “Would you shut up and help me already?”

  He motioned Drew inside the apartment.

  “Wait,” Drew said. “You can tell that just from looking at me?”

  “’Course! Classic zombieism from selling your soul. You’re nice and empty and hollow inside without it, I can see that. Symptoms are usually the same, but everyone has their nuances. Don’t take long for it to kick in.”

  “So, you’re telling me people do shit like this? I mean, exchange their soul for something, then have some bodily change?”

  “More common than you think, my good man.” He slapped Drew’s shoulder. “Happens all the time, just never hear about it. Why would someone admit they’re turning into a zombie?”

  A real zombie? Drew patted himself then knocked on his temple. His brains hadn’t eluded him and he hadn’t felt the voracious appetite for human flesh. How he could be a genuine zombie was beyond him.

  But what the hell was he thinking? That was all assuming that this stuff was for real. But why else would someone buy his soul? Still, he understood that Frank’s advice was his only chance.

  “All right, so I’ve turned into the walking undead,” Drew said. “No soul, no brain, no nothing. But if that’s true, you’ve got to know how to get me out of it.”

  Frank grinned. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? What the hell do you mean maybe?”

  “Why should I help you? After all, you just ditched me in the upper corner for seats on the fifty-yard line. Could’ve been charitable, too, but you and your big bucks couldn’t be bothered to take me with you.”

  Drew almost dropped to his knees. “Come on, man, I’ve gotta get out of this. I’ll do anything. Seriously.”

  “Okay, I’ll take ’er easy on you, dude. One price sounds right to me.”

  “What price?”

  “How ’bout you turn over those juicy season tickets?” Frank yawned and stretched. “Then we’ll talk.”

  And if that wasn’t the sweetest plum. If he had to give up the very seats that landed him in this mess, the cure hardly seemed worth it. Before he decided to sooner be a zombie, he convinced himself to be cured at any cost.

  “’Kay, whatever you want.” Drew wiped his forehead. “Once the ticket book comes in the mail, I’ll turn it over to you. Promise.”

  Frank paused and slanted his eyebrows. “I’m gonna hold you to that. All right, so you’ve sold your soul and you’re practically a zombie. Remember who you sold your soul to?”

  Larry Adams was his name and Drew figured that he’d remember the name until hi
s dying hour . . . or until he became a total zombie.

  “Yeah, so what do I do?” Drew asked. “Hunt the bastard down and steal it back from him?”

  Frank slapped Drew upside the head. Drew curled up and nursed the stinging spot.

  “No, you dumbass,” Frank said, “you can’t steal a soul, even if it used to be yours. It’s all buy, sell, and trade in this racket. No exceptions.”

  “So I go to the guy and tell him I need my soul back so I don’t turn into a goddamned zombie?”

  “Hope to God he’s got a heart, number one. But don’t expect him to sell it back to you at face value, no matter who he is. Any customer wants to make a profit on his investment on resale.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?” Drew asked.

  “This dude could be a soul broker, for all you know. And if he is, he might’ve sold it to someone else by now.”

  “A soul broker . . . now I’ve heard ’em all.”

  “Don’t make fun.” Frank sat up straight. “If he still has your soul, he might charge you a lot more than he paid for it.”

  “So what else is there to it?”

  Might as well buy something worthless and sell it for ten times more, Drew thought.

  “Nothing, man. Just hope to God this guy is in a giving mood.”

  “Wait.” Drew stood up and pointed at Frank. “I just forked over my season tickets to hear something that simple? You’re a fucking crook!”

  “Take it or leave it, dude. You wouldn’t be anywhere without the info. Besides, I’m not the one who’s gonna be feeding on human flesh to live before long.”

  Drew sent one email after another to Mr. Lawrence Adams, telling him that they needed to talk, and that it was urgent. Hell, he’d practically begged for an audience with him. He’d left his phone number in every email and waited by the phone. If this dude really bought, sold, and traded souls, surely he knew that would happen to him, Drew thought. Worse still, he probably didn’t give a rat’s pitoot.

  Finally, the phone rang, and Drew scrambled to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  A cracked-sounding voice asked, “You Drew Wilson?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lemme guess what this is about. Want your soul back, huh?”

  “Gee, how could you guess?”

  “They always think they’re smart as shit when they sell it, but they always come crawling back within days. Hell of a racket for me, though.”

  “Okay, okay, dumbass decision and I’m paying for it like crazy. Would you just spare me the petty bullshit and sell me my soul back?”

  “Can’t do that, boss.”

  Drew made a fist then let his fingers uncurl. “Why the hell not?”

  “Already sold it to someone else. Like I said, good market if you can break in, and souls sell fast . . . guess you know all about that, though.”

  Drew fought the urge to say, Listen, you son of a bitch, just get me my soul back or, so help me God, I’ll reach through that phone and pop you one!

  “Mr. Adams, listen. I’m desperate. Isn’t there any chance you can help me get my soul back?”

  Adams paused. “Always a chance there, boss. Money talks and bullshit walks, though. If you’ve got enough of the dough-ray-me, the dude I sold it to might be willing to hear you out. Remember, I said might.”

  If he’d had a nickel to spare, Drew knew that he wouldn’t have sold his soul in the first place, but he hoped to God that he could bluff this guy.

  “Okay,” Drew said, “tell me what to do.”

  “Hookay, all right, normally I wouldn’t break customer confidentiality for anything but, hey, I’ve come to have a soft spot for losers like you. The dude who bought your soul was a guy named Daniel Remington.”

  Adams gave him Remington’s email address but he refused to disclose his phone number. That was fine by Drew, as his shaky hand would hardly allow him to jot down the email address. Drew then hung up on Mr. Larry Adams without so much as a thank-you, a good-bye, or a kiss my ass.

  Before he fired the email off to Remington, Drew decided to go for broke and be honest. His final draft made very clear the fact that he had no money to buy his soul back, but that he would gladly be his best friend, his bodyguard, or do the dirty work if he wanted someone killed if he would just have mercy. He clicked send and hoped to God that this Remington dude had a heart.

  An hour later, an email from Daniel Remington appeared in his in-box and Drew nearly knocked his laptop over in his rush to open it. The seconds the email needed to load felt like an eternity. But instead of a regular email, he saw the Miami Dolphins logo load, inch by inch. Its little eye taunted him, as it did two Sundays every year.

  Below it, he found a message that read: HAVE ANOTHER GREAT SEASON IN BUFFALO, SUCKER!!!!!!! DOLPHINS RULE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  The Close Shave

  MIKE RESNICK AND LEZLI ROBYN

  It’s two thirty in the morning, and The Close Shave is starting to fill up. Which figures. After all, how many places can you go for a trim and a shave in the middle of the night?

  Basil is in the chair now. I knew him back before he changed, when he went to bed after the eleven o’clock news like normal people, when he howled at a pretty girl it was because all the guys did. But that was, oh, maybe five years ago—before that mangy-looking dog bit him.

  Otis is reading the newspaper. I knew him back in the old days, too. I can remember when he’d pick up a paper to see if the Geldings had finally drafted a linebacker, or if Can’t Miss was running the next day, or if the Pharoahs’ cheerleaders had been arrested for indecent exposure again—important stuff like that. These days—well, these nights—all he reads are the obituaries.

  Morton just comes to hang out. I mean, there isn’t a hair on his whole body, or any skin either, now that I think of it. He’s just bone as far as the eye can see. Looks kind of like a refugee from Halloween. He never bothers anyone—I think he’s just lonely—and to be honest the main reason I let him sit there is the hope that sooner or later he’ll buy a can of pop from the machine I keep in the corner and I’ll see where it goes once it passes through his . . . let me see, lips is the wrong word, and he hasn’t got any gums either. Through his teeth, I guess.

  Harold comes by once a week, maybe a little more often, usually for a shave. While he’s here he always asks for a shampoo. I keep telling him that I don’t shampoo snakes, and although he claims they’re perfectly harmless, that they like soap and water, the one time I sat him in the chair and leaned him back and got ready to shampoo some of the slime off the snakes, one of them gave me a great big reptilian smile, and it had teeth—sharp teeth—and from that day to this I don’t give shampoos to male medusas (or female medusas either, though none has asked yet.)

  “Take a little off the top, Sam,” says Basil.

  “Right,” I say, brushing it out a bit to make it easier to cut.

  “And the sides.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  “And the chin.”

  “That’s a shave,” I say. “It’ll be an extra five-spot.”

  “I thought we were friends, Sam,” he says in a hurt tone.

  “I am your friend all day long,” I respond. “But when I open up The Close Shave at ten o’clock at night, I am your barber for the next eight hours, and never the twain shall meet.”

  “Okay, trim the mustache and beard,” says Basil with a shrug. “And maybe the neck and the forearms and the backs of the hands.”

  I just stare at him.

  “All right, just a trim and a shave.”

  I lay out my equipment, because Basil’s hair isn’t like most people’s (which figures; it’s been a long time since anyone mistook Basil for a people) when suddenly he lets out a howl that damned near shatters my front window.

  “Come on, Basil,” I say. “How can I have cut you? I haven’t even started working on you yet.”

  This is followed by another, more plaintive howl.

  “Basil, w
hat the hell is it?”

  He points through the window to Hepzibah McCoy’s second-floor apartment across the street.

  “She’s getting undressed and she forgot to pull her shade down again!” says Basil, emitting a third howl.

  “You’re a werewolf,” I say. “Can’t you just wolf whistle?”

  “Oh, the litters I could have with her!” says Basil.

  “Maybe she doesn’t like the hairy type,” offers Morton, who is all bone and as unhairy as a billiard ball (and less colorful as well.) Otis keeps telling him that he should wear pants, but I cannot imagine why, and neither can Morton. Besides, I figure his waistline comes in at a quick three inches. Do you know how hard it is to find a belt that size?

  “You guys are so normal,” says Harold in bored tones. “A girl with gazongas like that, if she’s still on the loose and living alone, maybe she wants something a little unusual.”

  Three high-pitched voices say “Absolutely!” “For sure!” and “You betcha!” and I look around to see who is talking, but I don’t spot anyone.

  “Who said that?” I demand.

  “Me and my two pals,” says one of the purple snakes that is growing out of Harold’s head. “Wanna make something of it?”

  “Harold,” I say, “your hair is talking to me.”

  “It talks to me all the time, mate,” he says with a shrug as his mild Australian accent comes through. Then he adds, “Except when I comb it. Then it just screams bloody murder.”

  Well, his hair starts arguing amongst itself about which of them Hepzibah McCoy would most love to run her fingers through, and I pick up my scissors and go to work on Basil, and everything is going along nicely when suddenly he turns his head.

  “She has gone into the bathroom for her shower!” he announces to the room at large. And a second later he makes another announcement, which is “Ouch!”

  “I am sorry, Basil,” I say, “but I am not very sorry, because you are an adult and you know better than to make sudden movements when someone is working your mane over with a scissors. I will get a styptic pencil, or a bandage, or some concrete mortar, and you will be good as new in just a minute.”