by Michael West
edited by
Michael West
Copyright © 2013 by Michael West
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be copied or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise, without express written consent of the publisher or author.
Cover art: Matthew Perry
Copyright © 2012 Matthew Perry & Seventh Star Press, LLC.
Editor: Michael West
Published by Seventh Star Press, LLC.
ISBN Number: 978-1-937929-69-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013934357
Seventh Star Press
www.seventhstarpress.com
[email protected]
Publisher’s Note:
Vampires Don’t Sparkle is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are the product of the author’s imagination, used in fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, places, locales, events, etc.
is purely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
PERMISSIONS
J. F. Gonzalez: “A New Life” ©2013 by author. Originally appeared in Dread, issue #10, January 2000. Reprinted by permission of author.
Tim Waggoner: “What Once Was Flesh” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
Elizabeth Massie: “The Darkton Circus Mystery” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
R. J. Sullivan: “Robot Vampire” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
Gord Rollo: “Beneath a Templar Cross” ©2013 by author. Originally appeared in The Downward Spiral collection, October 2006. Reprinted by permission of author.
Kyle S. Johnson: “The Weapon of Memory” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
Stephen Zimmer : “The Excavation” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
Joel A. Sutherland: “Skraeling” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
Bob Freeman: “Dreams of Winter” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
Gregory L. Hall: “Dracula’s Winkee: Bloodsucker Blues” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
Lucy A. Snyder: “I Fuck Your Sunshine” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
Maurice Broaddus: “A Soldier’s Story” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
Douglas F. Warrick: “Rattenkönig” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
Jerry Gordon: “Vampire Nation” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
Gary A. Braunbeck: “Curtain Call” ©2013 by author. Printed with permission of the author.
For two of the bravest women I have
ever known, Sara and Stephanie.
Promises to keep…
“Here’s what vampires shouldn’t be: pallid detectives who drink Bloody Marys and work only at night; lovelorn southern gentlemen; anorexic teenage girls; boy-toys with big dewy eyes. What should they be? Killers, honey. Stone killers who never get enough of that tasty Type-A. Bad boys and girls. Hunters. In other words, Midnight America. Red, white and blue, accent on the red. Those vamps got hijacked by a lot of soft-focus romance.”
—Stephen King, American Vampire
TAKING BACK THE NIGHT
An Introduction by Michael West
The 1988 concert film Rattle and Hum opened with a familiar sounding tune. Lead singer Bono took the microphone in his hand and announced to the crowd, “This song … Charles Manson stole it from the Beatles. We’re stealin’ it back.” And the band then proceeded to rock a huge arena with their amazing rendition of the classic Helter Skelter. It was a powerful moment—taking something wonderful, something that had been corrupted, and legitimizing it once more.
They made it cool again.
For years now, I’ve had the same feeling about the vampire. That supernatural creature of the night—a dark being who once struck fear in the hearts of mortal men and women—has been corrupted. In movies, in television shows, and in fiction, this fearsome demon has been “defanged.” Instead of viciously preying on the blood of the living, today’s vampires are meek “vegetarians.” They have the gift of limitless power and eternal life, and how do they choose to spend their time? They go back to high school and sit in the same classes year after year; they sulk in corners, brooding and fawning for students who are centuries younger than they are, and in the face of these young, nubile bloodbags, these symbols of raw sexuality, these fearsome killers, these animals are suddenly neutered… weak, more frightened at the thought of going dateless to the prom than a cross or a wooden stake through their black, soulless hearts.
Well, enough is enough.
Stephenie Meyer stole this monster from Bram Stoker. We’re stealin’ it back!
In this anthology, my fellow horror and dark fantasy authors will take you down some very twisted paths, each putting his or her own unique spin on the age-old legend of the vampire. Some of these tales are fanciful, some humorous, and some as black as an endless night. These are stories that will once more strike fear into your heart and make you dread sundown. These are tales to make the vampire cool again.
There is one person who would have loved these stories. Her name was Sara Larson. She was a wonderful writer and an even better friend. Sara was diagnosed with a rare form of breast cancer, and earlier this year, she lost a long and courageous battle against the disease and passed away, but not before all of us that knew and loved her made her aware of just how special she was.
Several months later, my own wife, Stephanie West, was also diagnosed with cancer—a slow-growing tumor that had taken root in her bone. Thankfully, she did not share Sara’s fate, and as I type this, she is cancer free. Others, however, will not be as lucky, and more will become victim to this real-life monster until a cure can be found.
That’s where you come in, faithful reader. By purchasing this anthology, you have made a donation to the American Cancer Society. You have helped to one day win the war against this dreaded disease. And hopefully, one day, we can say that cancer stole away the gift of life for far too long, but we are stealin’ it back.
Thank you!
Michael West
December 7, 2012
CREATURES OF THE NIGHT
“Listen to them - children of the night. What music they make.”
–Bram Stoker, Dracula
A NEW LIFE
J. F. Gonzalez
J. F. Gonzalez is the author of several novels of horror and suspense including They, The Corporation, Back from the Dead, and Primitive. His latest collaboration with Brian Keene – Clickers Vs. Zombies - is the fourth installment in his Clickers series (with Mark Williams and Brian Keene). His short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies including Shroud, Doorways, Dark Discoveries, Hot Blood: Strange Bedfellows, Dark Arts, Shivers III and IV, and elsewhere. He currently writes a column on the history of horror fiction for Lamplight Magazine.
He doesn’t dig what passes as vampire fiction these days. He prefers vampires from the old school. Therefore, he considers the best vampire novels ever published to be Dracula by Bram Stoker, ‘Salem’s Lot by Stephen King, They Thirst by Robert McCammon, Some of Your Blood by Theodore Sturgeon, Progeny of the Adder by Leslie Whitten, The Light at the End by John Skipp and Craig Spector, Midnight Mass by F. Paul Wilson, Live Girls by Ray Garton, I Am Legend by Richard Matheson, and The Passage by Justin Cronin. He also likes The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova and Fevre Dream by George R. R. Martin, and has a soft spot for Poppy Z Brite’s Lost Souls. He also considers 30 Days of Night by Steve Niles to be the ultimate in vampire comics.
His favorite vampire movies are similar - Let the Right One In, Martin, Let’s Scare Jessica to Death, Nosferatu (both the 1922 silent and the 1978 remake), and Near Dark. He also has a soft spot for the Hammer Dracula films with Christopher Lee.
Those vampires definitely don’t sparkle.
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When Sammy Valentine popped the lock on the door to the large RV at the end of the street he was working he wasn’t even thinking of getting caught. He had been working the Rose Parade and the New Year’s Eve parties along Colorado Boulevard for the past seven years. He had never been caught. There was no reason to think about getting caught now.
The minute the door was open he was in. He closed the door softly behind him, then moved down the cabin toward the kitchen galley. He could tell an RV motor-home was vacant by two ways: for one, no interior lights would be on within the living area, and two, when his rappings on the door brought no signs of life. He had the perfect explanation for the few times people actually answered his knocks: oops, I’m real sorry sir/ma’am. I’ve been celebrating a little too much and I got the wrong RV. Sorry. Then he would move across the street and down the block a ways to make the next hit. It worked every time.
This particular RV was one of those huge monster trailers. Sammy always wondered how people could drive the damn things. They were like houses on wheels. The curtains were drawn in this particular trailer, providing little light, but Sammy had a penlight that he flicked on deftly. He cast its narrow beam quickly through the kitchen galley, moving it over mounds of clothes stacked on chairs. He moved toward the clothes and quickly riffled through them. No wallets or purses here. The back sleeping chambers were the next likely target.
He was just heading down to the sleeping chambers when the door to the RV suddenly opened. Sammy spun around, his heart leaping in his chest at the sudden fright. Dim light from the New Year’s Eve night beyond stabbed into the RV, illuminating the man that had just come in. He looked in surprise toward the rear of the RV where Sammy was standing. “Who the hell are you?” the guy asked.
Sammy held up his hands in surrender. “Oh wow, man,” he said, feigning drunkenness. “Shit, I must have the wrong trailer. I’m sorry… I’m so fucked up…” He made to stumble past the man, cringing slightly as he approached him. This had never happened before, and he thought that quickly reverting to the ruse he used when casing RV’s would work. Not so this time.
The guy grabbed him by the lapels of his denim jacket the minute he tried to squeeze by. “Not so fast, guy.” He leered at him. “You ain’t going nowhere.”
Sammy reacted instinctively, going out of his fake drunken mode to fight-or-flight. He tried to pull out of the guy’s grasp but the guy held on tight. He tried shoving the guy into a closet set along the far wall of the RV, but the guy held fast. The guy grabbed him roughly in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side, and Sammy thrashed wildly. Christ, but this guy was strong for such a skinny runt. Sammy yelled at the top of his lungs: “Let me go you little—”
The guy threw Sammy, sending him sprawling into the opposite wall where he crashed hard, rocking the RV. The blow knocked the breath out of him, and as he sank to the floor, trying to gain his equilibrium, the guy loomed before him with a mad grin on his face. He reached down for Sammy, locking strong fingers around his throat. Sammy tried to fight him off but it was no use. He was out like a light in seconds.
v
He had no idea how long he was out, but when woke up he saw that the RV’s owner had been joined by five others. They were all standing around him in a rough semi-circle, staring down at him as he lay on a bunk that also served as a sofa.
Sammy tried to collect his senses. He must have been placed on the bunk when he was unconscious. It was still dark, and judging from the noise that emanated faintly from outside, the New Year’s Eve bacchanal was still in full swing on Colorado Boulevard. Was it the New Year yet? He had started working around ten p.m., and had only been at it for an hour or so when he was caught. Surely he couldn’t have been out for that long.
As if reading his mind, one of the new people that had shown up to peer down at Sammy answered his question. “It’s almost two a.m. Now maybe you can tell us something.” He leaned forward. It was an older man, probably in his mid-fifties, grizzled and bearded, long gray hair tied back in a pony-tail hanging down his back. He spoke in a smooth voice, like an FM disc jockey. He was dressed in biker leathers and boots. “Who the hell are you?”
Sammy swallowed, and decided to try his first ruse. “Look, man, I didn’t know this was your RV. I-I-I was partying a little too heavy out there, and I was trying to find my trailer and yours looks a hell of a lot like mine and—”
The woman standing next to him raised her foot and nudged him with it. She leaned forward, her piercing eyes hooking his. “Try to come up with something better than that. Gus told us everything.”
Sammy looked at her, taking her image in; she appeared to be roughly the same age as the man, standing about five foot two, her voluptuous figure clad in a black leather jacket. She was dressed in tight blue jeans and a T-shirt with a Harley Davidson logo on the front. Her hair was wavy, blonde, and cut to the shoulders. Was this the older guy’s wife? “Listen, man, I’m telling ya the truth.”
“Why did you go through our stuff then?” This came from one of two other men, both of whom appeared to be in their mid-thirties. The guy that asked him this was tall, bearded, with light brown hair and gray eyes, wearing a black leather jacket, blue jeans and a chambray shirt. The second was clean shaven with long black hair that fell to his waist with a hoop earring dangling from his left ear.
How the hell did they know I went through their stuff? Sammy thought. As if in answer to this silent question, the last of the five newcomers answered him.
“We could tell you went through our stuff because it’s placed differently than it was when we left it.” Sammy turned to this fifth person, a young woman who appeared to be in her early twenties. Tall, her body clothed in what resembled a blood red evening gown that clung to every curve of her body like a second skin, she had a fair complexion, long black hair, full red lips, and wide dark eyes that held him entranced. There was something about her that seemed familiar. Had he seen her before? Perhaps he was entranced with her because she was the most beautiful woman Sammy had ever seen.
They stared at each other for a moment, Sammy and the woman, the others staring back at Sammy. The older man broke the spell by nodding at Gus, the guy who had caught him. “We’re done. Let’s head out.”
Gus nodded and headed toward the cab of the RV. He started the engine.
It took all of his effort to sit up, but Sammy did it. He tried to ignore the five crowding around him, especially the young woman. “Listen, everything’s cool, I didn’t take anything, okay? I’m just gonna walk out of here right now and let you guys go on your merry way.”
“You’re staying right here.” The command was barked by the older man, who held him with his fiery gaze.
Despite trying to hold his ground, Sammy was scared to death inside. He felt a chill race through his body. “Come on, man, it’s cool.”
The older man turned to the two younger men. “Take him down.”
The two younger men were on Sammy in a flash, pinning him down to the bunk. One of them produced a coil of rope, and within minutes they had trussed him up tight. Sammy’s arms were pinned to his sides, held fast by the coarse rope. Likewise, his legs and feet were tied together, rendering escape impossible.
The RV pulled away from the curb and began cruising slowly down the residential street, heading north toward the 210 freeway.
Sammy tried to remain calm but it was hard to do with his heart beating so fast. He watched them as they took seats on the make-shift sofa/bunk opposite him, and along the chairs in the dining area. Their eyes were on him as Gus piloted the large RV down the residential street, braking slowly as he came to the intersection.
Th
ey were silent for a moment as Gus made a right turn down Walnut Street and then waited at the intersection of Walnut and Allen to make a left, which would take them to the 210 freeway. Sammy’s mind was spinning, trying to think of something to say that would help him get out of here. He didn’t want to piss them off, but he also wanted to get the hell away from them as soon as possible. He had first taken them to be another mid-western family that had driven out to view the parade like the hundreds of other tourists that descended to Pasadena, California every New Year’s to camp out along the parade route to view the spectacle. It was those people—and the thousands that drove out to camp out along the sidewalk on Colorado Boulevard in their sleeping bags—that Sammy preyed on every year. New Year’s Eve along Colorado Boulevard was like a mini Mardi-Gras, with drunken revelers doing their best to ring in the New Year. As a result, people let their guard down more, and for Sammy it was a thief’s paradise. Long an expert pick-pocket and sneak thief, Sammy had perfected the job. He could be in and out of an RV in under thirty seconds, and he could rifle through an unattended sleeping bag and make off with whatever cash was in a discarded purse or wallet in half that time. He had never been caught, and the financial returns on returning to Pasadena year after year were greater than the few risks involved. He could average fifteen hundred bucks over New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day alone, and he could always count on every other year of hitting somebody unwise enough to guard their jewelry or cash more stringently. The most he had ever made was a cool five grand.
This was certainly the first time that a would-be victim had turned the tables on him. He thought about this as Gus made a left on Allen and headed north toward the 210 freeway. He swung the huge vehicle up the east-bound on-ramp. Why would these guys risk being charged in felony kidnapping over being pissed off about a guy committing misdemeanor breaking and entering?
