by Ellen Datlow
He laughed. “Don’t worry. Von Sternberg said actors are cattle, but we’re special cattle. We have charisma. We project. We’re immortal. Flies in amber.”
She hooked a thumb at the TV. “That’s more like a dinosaur in a tar pit. Cattle?” She muttered, “Grade A government-inspected beefcake,” glancing obliquely at the screen. Rich, stripped to the waist, was climbing another electric tower. The old actor chuckled and left for his therapeutic walk down the hall and back. Dr. Insomnia watched the tiny man scramble about the tower trying to avoid a huge cockroach.
During the commercial she noticed a spiral-bound notebook on the nightstand. She opened it at random.
I’m outside, running in the rain. Trees—banana, pineapple. (Pineapple on trees?) Screaming noises.
She flipped a page.
The doctor is yelling—she can’t make it. I’m shouting “The hills!”
Another.
… beside some endless translucent film, and a hand begins to push through…
Outside the room, Rich was speaking to a nurse. Inside, in the tube, he questioned a soldier. He was in stereo.
I’m attached by an umbilical IV line to the project machine, swinging the cord like a jump rope. Commander Stone sits in a corner, just staring at me. “Quit it,” I say. “Knock it off.” His eyes are recessed deep under his brow, like Rich’s. The technician sits at the interfaced control—player piano, ragtime. Then he stands and flakes away as sand. The cord begins pulling me into the machine. Commander Stone reaches out and he’s a dust monster, crudely sculpted sand in a Time Seeker’s costume. He reaches out, stops, pulls back his hand, and I’m going into the machine, all gaping darkness …
The new clock radio read 5:33 in luminescent figures. It was set to go off at seven. She hadn’t needed an alarm clock for over a decade. Her skin felt like burning sand. She stretched to find a good position to return to sleep and felt something warm against her back. A body. She was not alone. A dust monster!
She crawled out slowly, anxious not to awaken the quiet life-vampire, then went into the kitchen and put up water for instant coffee. She was afraid to return to bed.
“It’s not a dust monster,” she said, mouth dry with fever. “It’s Sean, it’s got to be Sean. Right?” She was unable to go and check the hypothesis.
The teapot screamed and it was every black-and-white thirty-frames-per-second terrified woman screaming for rescue. It was Dr. Insomnia.
They met in the corridor, doctor and patient both wearing robes and slippers. The walls were the same industrial green as Time Seekers’ headquarters. He held up his IV bottle. “I’m searching for an honest man.”
She hoisted her bottle. “I’ll see your isotonic saline and raise you five percent glucose.”
Voice suddenly full of concern, he asked, “Do they know what it is?” “Not yet. More tests,” she replied.
He said, “I’m being discharged soon. Mind if I come visit?” “I’ll be here.” I’ll never leave. The walk from her room to the nurses’ station and back exhausted her. She lay down and was asleep.
Running across sand dunes toward the electric towers. The dune forms into a hand that grabs my ankle. I fall. Rolling down the dune into more sand that becomes arms grabbing, holding, smothering.. Jason, there is no answer… All time and space depend on you Time. Time is the dust vampire.
As to an afterword—well, I don’t know what to say. In high school my friends and I were vampire buffs; we watched Dark Shadows, read Bram Stoker, slept under Bela Lugosi posters. Since then I’ve changed, realizing that vampires aren’t tall, dark strangers who will rescue you from mundane adolescent angst and introduce you to the hidden worlds of love, power, and cosmic wonder. Now, I guess I think of vampires as the things that keep you from love, power, and wonder—jobs, responsibility, mortality, and all the other baggage we accumulate by growing up. Maybe I was happier before …
On a different note, I wrote the story six years ago, in early medical school. While the jargon is no less accurate than the scientific details in most science fiction, it is a bit embarrassing from my current level of knowledge. But that’s just more accumulations too.
S.N. Dyer
GOOD KIDS
Edward Bryant
I’ve found that giving Ed an assignment is the best way to get him to finish a new story. It’s worked at OMNI, and it’s worked here.
It’s tough for kids growing up in New York City—the world is a dangerous place and so they become tough themselves.
“That blood?” said Donnie, appalled. “That’s grossss.”
Angelique was peeking over her shoulder at the lurid paper-back vampire novel. “Don’t draw out your consonants. You sound like a geek.”
“I’m not a geek,” said Donnie. “I’m only eleven years old, you jerk. I get to draw out my esses if I want to.”
“We’re all too goddamned bright,” said Camelia gloomily. “The last place I went to school, everybody just played with dolls or talked all day about crack.”
“Public schools,” Angelique snorted.
Donnie flipped the page and squinted. “Yep, he’s lapping up her menstrual blood, all right. This vampire’s a real gink.”
“Wonderful. So her arching, lily-white swan throat wasn’t enough,” said Cammie. “Oh boy. I can hardly wait til I start having my period.”
The lights flashed and the four of us involuntarily glanced up. Ms. Yukoshi, one of the Center’s three night supervisors, stood framed in the doorway. “Okay, girls, lights out in three. Put away the book. Hit those bunks. Good night, now.” She started to exit, but then apparently changed her mind. “I suppose I ought to mention that this is my last night taking care of you.”
Were we supposed to clap? I wondered. Maybe give her a four-part harmony chorus of “Thank you, Ms. Yukoshi” What was appropriate behavior?
“No thanks are necessary,” said Ms. Yukoshi. “I just know I need a long, long vacation. Lots of R and R.” We could all see her sharp, white teeth gleaming in the light from the overhead. “You’ll have a new person to bedevil tomorrow night. His name is Mr. Vladisov.”
“So why don’t we ever get a good WASP?” Cammie whispered.
The other two giggled. I guess I did too. It’s easy to forget that Camelia is black.
Ms. Yukoshi looked at us sharply. Donnie giggled again and dog-eared a page before setting the vampire book down. “Good night, girls."Ms. Yukoshi retreated into the hall. We listened to the click and echo of her stylish heels moving on to the next room, the next island of kids. Boys in that one.
“I wonder what Mr. Vladisov will be like,” Donnie said.
Angelique smiled. “At least he’s a guy.”
“Good night, girls.” Donnie mimicked Ms. Yukoshi.
I snapped off the lamp. And that was it for another fun evening at the renovated brownstone that was the Work-at-Night Child Care Center and Parenting Service. Wick Pus, we called it, all of us who had night-shift parents with no other place to put their kids.
“Good night,” I said to everybody in general. I lay back in the bunk and pulled the covers up to my chin. The wool blanket scratched my neck.
“I’m hungry,” said Angelique plaintively. “Cookies and milk aren’t enough.”
“Perhaps you want some blooood?” said Donnie, snickering. “Good night,” I said again. But I was hungry too.
The next day was Wednesday. Hump day. Didn’t matter. No big plans for the week—or for the weekend. It wasn’t one of the court-set times for my dad to visit, so I figured probably I’d be spending the time reading. That was okay too. I like to read. Maybe I’d finish the last thousand pages of Stephen King’s new novel and get on to some of the stuff I needed to read for school.
We were studying urban legends and old wives’ tales—a side issue was the class figuring out a nonsexist term for the latter.
We’d gone through a lot of the stuff that most of us had heard—and even believed at one time—like the hook killer and t
he Kentucky Fried Rat and the expensive car that was on sale unbelievably cheap because nobody could get the smell out of the upholstery after the former owner killed himself and the body wasn’t discovered for three hot days. Then there was the rattlesnake in the K-Mart jeans and the killer spiders in the bouffant. Most of that didn’t interest me. What I liked were the older myths, things like keeping cats out of the nursery and forbidding adults to sleep in the presence of children.
Now I’ve always liked cats, so I know where my sympathy lies with that one. Kitties love to snuggle up to warm little faces on chilly nights. No surprise, right? But the bit about sucking the breath from babies’lungs is a load of crap. Well, most of the time. As for the idea that adults syphon energy from children, that’s probably just a cleaner way of talking about the incest taboo.
It’s a way of speaking metaphorically. That’s what the teacher said.
I can see why adults would want to steal kids’ energy. Then they could rule the world, live forever, win all the Olympics. See what I mean? So maybe some adults do. You ever feel just how much energy is generated by a roomful of hyper kids? I know. But then, I’m a kid. I expect I’ll lose it all when I grow up. I’m not looking forward to that. It’ll be like death. Or maybe undeath.
It all sounds sort of dull gray and drab, just like living in the book 1984.
The thing about energy is that what goes out has to come in first. Another lesson. First Law of Thermodynamics. Or maybe the Second. I didn’t pay much attention that day. I guess I was too busy daydreaming about horses, or maybe sneaking a few pages of the paperback hidden in my vinyl binder.
Don’t even ask what I’m going to do when I grow up. I’ve got lots of time to figure it out.
Mr. Vladisov had done his homework. He addressed us all by name. Evidently he’d sucked Ms. Yukoshi dry of all the necessary information.
“And you would be Shauna-Laurel Andersen,” he said to me, smiling faintly.
I felt like I ought to curtsy at least. Mr. Vladisov was tall and courtly, just like characters in any number of books I’d read. His hair was jet-black and fixed in one of those widow’s peaks. Just like a novel. His eyes were sharp and black too, though the whites were all bloodshot. They didn’t look comfortable. He spoke with some kind of Slavic accent. Good English, but the kind of accent I’ve heard actors working in restaurants goofing around with.
Shauna-Laurel, I thought. “My friends call me SL,” I said.
“Then I hope we shall be friends,” said Mr. Vladisov.
“Do we have to call you ‘sir’?” said Angelique. I knew she was just being funny. I wondered if Mr. Vladisov knew that.
“No.” His gaze flickered from one of us to the next. “I know we shall all be very close. Ms. Yukoshi told me you were all…” He seemed to be searching for the correct phrase. “… good kids.”
“Sure,” said Donnie, giggling just a little.
“I believe,” said Mr. Vladisov, “that it is customary to devour milk and cookies before your bedtime.”
“Oh, that’s not for a while yet,” said Angelique. “Hours,” chimed in Donnie.
Our new guardian consulted his watch. “Perhaps twenty-three minutes?” We slowly nodded.
“SL,” he said to me, “will you help me distribute the snacks?” I followed Mr. Vladisov out the door.
“Be careful,” said Angelique so softly that only I could hear. I wondered if I really knew what she meant.
Mr. Vladisov preceded me down the corridor leading to the playroom and then to the adjacent kitchenette. Other inmates looked at us through the doorways as we passed. I didn’t know most of their names. There were about three dozen of them. Our crowd—the four of us—was pretty tight.
He slowed so I could catch up to his side. “Your friends seem very nice,” he said. “Well behaved.”
“Uh, yes,” I answered. “They’re great. Smart too.”
“And healthy.”
“As horses.”
“My carriage,” mused Mr. Vladisov, “used to be pulled by a fine black team.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Nothing,” he said sharply. His tone moderated. “I sometimes slip into the past, SL. It’s nothing.”
“Me,” I said. “I love horses. My dad says he’ll get me a colt for my graduation from middle school. We’ll have to stable it out in Long Island.”
Mr. Vladisov didn’t comment. We had reached the closetlike kitchenette. He didn’t bother to turn on the light. When he opened the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk, I could see well enough to open the cabinet where I knew the cookies were stored.
“Chocolate chip?” I said. “Double Stuf Oreos?”
Mr. Vladisov said, “I never eat… cookies. Choose what you like.”
I took both packages. Mr. Vladisov hovered over the milk, assembling quartets of napkins and glasses. “Don’t bother with a straw for Donnie,” I said. “She’s not supposed to drink through a straw. Doctor’s orders.”
Mr. Vladisov nodded. “Do these things help you sleep more soundly?”
I shrugged. “I ’spose so. The nurse told me once that a high-carb snack before bed would drug us out. It’s okay. Cookies taste better than Ritalin anyway.”
“Ritalin?”
“An upper that works like a downer for the hypers.” “I beg your pardon?”
I decided to drop it. “The cookies help us all sleep.”
“Good,” said Mr. Vladisov. “I want everyone to have a good night’s rest. I take my responsibility here quite seriously. It would be unfortunate were anyone to be so disturbed she woke up in the early morning with nightmares.”
“We all sleep very soundly,” I said.
Mr. Vladisov smiled down at me. In the dim light from the hall, it seemed to me that his eyes gleamed a dusky red.
I passed around the Double Stuf Oreos and the chocolate-chip cookies. Mr. Vladisov poured and distributed the glasses of milk as solemnly as if he were setting out communion wine.
Cammie held up her milk in a toast. “We enjoyed Ms. Yukoshi, but we know we’ll like you much better.”
Mr. Vladisov smiled without parting his teeth and raised an empty hand as though holding a wine glass. “A toast to you as well. To life everlasting, and to the dreams which make it bearable.”
Angelique and I exchanged glances. I looked at Donnie. Her face was saying nothing at all. We all raised our glasses and then drank. The milk was cold and good, but it wasn’t the taste I wished. I wanted chocolate.
Mr. Vladisov wished us a more conventional good night, then smoothly excused himself from the room to see to his other charges. We listened hard but couldn’t hear his heels click on the hallway tile.
“Slick,” said Angelique, nibbling delicately around the edge of her chocolate-chip cookie.
“Who’s he remind me of?” mused Cammie. “That old guy—I saw him in a play once. Frank Langella.”
“I don’t know about this,” said Donnie.
“What don’t you know?” I said.
“I don’t know whether maybe one of us ought to stay up all night on watch.” Her words came out slowly. Then more eagerly, “Maybe we could take turns.”
“We all need our rest,” I said, “It’s a school night.”
“I sure need all the energy I can get,” said Cammie. “I’ve got a geography test tomorrow. We’re supposed to know all the capitals of those weird little states west of New Jersey.”
I said, “I don’t think we have anything to worry about for a while. Mr. Vladisov’s new. It’ll take him a little while to settle in and get used to us.”
Cammie cocked her head. “So you think we got ourselves a live one?”
“So to speak.” I nodded. “Metaphorically speaking …”
So I was wrong. Not about what Mr. Vladisov was. Rather that he would wait to get accustomed to how things ran at Wick Pus. He must have been very hungry.
In the morning, it took Donnie forever to get up. She groaned when Cammie shook
her, but didn’t seem to want to move. “I feel shitty,” she said, when her eyes finally opened and started to focus. “I think I’ve got the flu.”
“Only if bats got viruses in their spit,” said Cammie grimly. She gestured at Donnie’s neck, gingerly zeroing in with her index finger.
Angelique and I leaned forward, inspecting the throat.
Donnie’s brown eyes widened in alarm. “What’s wrong?” she said weakly.
“What’s wrong ain’t pimples,” said Cammie. “And there’s two of them.”
“Damn,” said Angelique.
“Shit,” said Donnie.
I disagreed with nobody.
The four of us agreed to try not to get too upset about all of this until we’d had time to confer tonight after our parents dropped us off at the Center. Donnie was the hardest to convince. But then, it was her throat that showed the pair of matched red marks.
Mrs. Maloney was the morning-shift lady who saw us off to our various buses and subways to school. Mr. Vladisov had gone off duty sometime before dawn. Naturally. He would return after dark. Double naturally.
“I’m gonna tell my mom I don’t want to come back to the Center tonight,” Donnie had said.
“Don’t be such a little kid,” said Cammie. “We’ll take care of things.”
“It’ll be all right,” Angelique chimed in.
Donnie looked at me as though begging silently for permission to chicken out. “SL?”
“It’ll be okay,” I said as reassuringly as I could. I wasn’t so sure it would be that okay. Why was everyone staring at me as though I were the leader?
“I trust you,” Donnie said softly.
I knew I was blushing. “It’ll be all right.” I wished I knew whether I was telling the truth.
At school, I couldn’t concentrate. I didn’t even sneak reads from my Stephen King paperback. I guess I sort of just sat there like a wooden dummy while lessons were talked about and assignments handed out.
I started waking up in the afternoon during my folklore class.
“The thing you should all remember,” said Mrs. Dancey, my teacher, “is that myths never really change. Sometimes they’re garbled and they certainly appear in different guises to different generations who recount them. But the basic lessons don’t alter. We’re talking about truths.”
