Jon’s heart pounded in his chest.
This was it: the moment of truth.
William’s ass opened. He thought he was going to snip a yam right there and then. And instead of looking at the coffin he looked at the floor, searching for a suitable place to honey drip the rat.
Jon approached the box, reached into his coat and pulled out a mallet. With the mallet in one hand and the stake in the other, he said, “You open the casket door and I’ll pound the stake in deep. After that you’re free to do as you wish.”
William bit his lower lip, squinted his eyes and nodded his head.
Jonathan, comprehending William’s expression, said, “You can fire your rear thrusters into the casket once the abomination is dead, if you so desire.”
William forced a smile as he put a hand on the coffin. “Very good. Perhaps I’ll drop a sausage down the Count’s throat.”
Jonathan grinned, “Very well, on the count of three. One! Two! Three!”
William flung open the coffin lid and that was it. He couldn’t control his bodily functions any longer. Somehow his brother’s counting made things worse, like the counting was for the legless schnauzer squirming from his doghouse, not for the vampire or the coffin lid or anything else that was relevant. And because of this, his ass opened and he began building a log cabin inside his pants.
“Holy green apple splatters,” William gasped. “Here comes a sea pickle.”
He reached for his crotch with his free hand. His fingers danced around his button and his zipper but luck was not on his side. He was panicking; his fingers were useless. It was like he was trying to remove his trousers with a bushel of bananas. And it was coming. Oh sweet horseshits and hand jobs (No, not horseshits, he thought. Anything but horseshits), he was getting ready to plunk an ass-goblin into his underwear.
He put the candle on the floor and worked both hands frantically until the button on his pants finally opened. After that, the zipper dropped easy.
He grabbed his belt, slammed his pants to his knees, and squatted. A package of fudge cannonballs snaked from his turd-tunnel and plunked onto the floor. They were long and dense, each the size of a cucumber.
Somewhat relieved, he looked at Jonathan and his mouth dropped open.
The ageless vampire was sitting up, holding Jonathan by the shoulder. Its skin was pale and its eyes were blacker than marbles at the bottom of the ocean.
Jonathan screamed as the vampire knocked the stake away, lurched forward, and bit into his neck. Blood splashed across both faces and Jonathan’s hands squeezed into fists.
And when the vampire released his grip, Jonathan didn’t fall to the floor like a bundle of rags; he held his ground and turned towards his brother. His teeth grew long. His heart stopped pounding inside his chest. And his flesh––his terrible, terrible flesh––turned a bloodless white, except where the red fluid was smeared and dripping. In those places his skin seemed almost charred.
Jonathan had joined the army of the undead.
“Brother,” he said. “Come to me.”
A third monstrous corn-eyed butt-snake fell from William’s ass and William stood up, holding a forth cattle-cookie inside. With his pants at his ankles, and the biggest pile of fudge-monkeys he had ever unloaded sitting between his feet, he screamed, “Stay back!”
“But why?” Jonathan asked. “Is it not better if I am the one to drink your blood? Joining us is inevitable, and it’s not too bad. In fact, I like it now. And I’m hungry, my brother. Hungry. Will you not let me feast? Will you not be my first?”
“No,” William cried. “Not you Jonathan! Not you!”
“Yes, me! And there is nothing you can do. So feed me, William. Feed your brother and become one of us! Join us in the brotherhood of eternal life!”
Soulless Jonathan stepped forward and William stepped back as much as he was able, but stepping back was hard. The pants around his ankles restricted his movements, and the meadow muffins he dropped from his crayola box were big enough to trip over.
The Count crept from the coffin and stood beside Jonathan. His teeth were long and white; his eyes were like shiny silver coins. He opened his mouth and released a lengthy high-pitched hiss, and with a reptile voice he said, “Join us, my son. And you shall know the joy of everlasting blood.”
The vampire’s words made William’s skin crawl.
He was in serious trouble; there would be no escape this time. He was too deep in the castle and the night was upon him. The vampires would have their way. Death––or rather, undeath––seemed inescapable. He needed the hammer and the stake. But the hammer was in his brother’s hand and the stake––where was it?
He looked down.
The floor was dark, but he saw something. Perhaps the wooden spear was sitting on the floor in front of him.
He squatted and grabbed it. But it wasn’t the stake.
It was a turd.
He stood up, holding the bald-headed ass monkey in his hand like a weapon. “Back!”
Jonathan laughed. “And what do you plan on doing with that?”
William didn’t know. But he knew one thing: he didn’t want to be a vampire. So he said, “You stay back! I mean it! If you don’t keep away from me you’ll find out what I plan on doing with it!”
The Count said, “There is nothing you can do, my son. So put the bum-brownie down and join us. There is no alternative.”
Jonathan moved in. “Drop it my brother. Drop the moose cluster and join us on the other side. Trust me. It’s easier this way.”
Then it happened: inspiration came, as honest and true as any revelation William had ever known. He knew what to do. It seemed so obvious, so simple. A grin crept across his features and he lifted the cattle-cookie high.
“Back off,” he said, and this time he sounded like he meant it.
“What are you going to do?”
The Count was nervous now; it was easy to see. He hissed, “It’s the curse of the blind eel!”
“This is your last warning,” William cautioned. “Back off brother, or I’ll make you wish you did.”
Jonathan lunged forward with his mouth wide. He was ready to bring his brother into the world of the undead, whether William wanted it or not.
William squeezed the chocolate cigar, creating a root beer float through his fingers. Then he slammed the cooked beans against his neck. The colon cobra smudged along his chin and snicker-bricks bounced off his chest.
His neck was covered.
His fingers were covered.
He rubbed the anus espresso along his face and into his hair, screaming, “OKAY! I’M READY! COME AND GET ME!”
Jonathan stopped his attack.
Horrified, he looked at the Count with his eyes wide and his nose crumpled. He said, “I’m not going to bite him. He’s covered in gob-jobbers!”
The Count put a hand to his mouth, looking like he might be sick. “He smells like he’s been swimming the brown river for a week!”
“Here’s my neck!” William said, arrogantly. “If you don’t mind the taste of a toilet turkey, come get a bite!” William extended his neck and stepped towards his attackers.
Both Jonathan and the Count drew back.
“What’s a matter? Don’t want any? Turtlehead pudding isn’t as bad as you think, and I’m right here! I’m gooooood eatin’!”
“No,” Jonathan said. “I don’t want any. I’ve lost my appetite.”
The Count agreed. “You’re free to go, and take your rectum warriors with you. Just don’t tell others how you escaped or––”
“Or what?”
The count gasped, truly horrified. “Or all of Transylvania will be bathing in bottom barf! Is that what you want?”
William considered the Count’s words and decided he was right. Nobody wanted to live in a world where people smeared themselves in clam-crunchies on a nightly basis. So he never told a soul how he escaped, and for that the vampires were grateful.
They never bothered him
again.
* * *
About the Author:
James Roy Daley ~ is a writer, editor, and a professional musician. He studied film at the Toronto Film School, music at Humber College, and English at the University of Toronto. In 2007 his first novel, The Dead Parade, was released in 1,110 bookstores across America. In 2009 he founded a book company called Books of the Dead Press, where he enjoyed immediate success working with many of the biggest names in horror. His first two anthologies, Best New Zombie Tales Volume One, and Best New Zombie Tales Volume Two, far exceeded sales predictions, leading many of the top horror writers in the world to view his little company as one worth watching. 13 Drops of Blood is his first collection.
* * *
Preview of:
GARY BRANDNER’S - THE HOWLING
1
The September heat lay heavy on Los Angeles. In the condominium community called Hermosa Terrace all the windows were tightly closed. The only sounds were the hum of exhaust fans and the muted growl of a power mower.
In the living room of Unit Two, Karyn Beatty stood on tiptoe to kiss her husband, Roy. Lady, their miniature collie, wagged her approval from the sofa. It started as a casual husband-and-wife first-anniversary kiss, but it quickly became something more. Karyn drew back her head and looked into Roy’s clear brown eyes.
“Are you trying to start something?” she said a little breathlessly.
“Darn right,” Roy replied, taking her in his arms.
Roy pulled her close, his big, gentle hands warm through the thin material of her summer dress. He kissed her neck where the blond hair curled forward below her ear.
“Won’t Chris be here soon?” she said, her lips close to his ear.
“We won’t answer the door.”
“You couldn’t do that to your best friend. Especially after we asked him to come by for an anniversary drink.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Roy admitted. “Anyway, he won’t stay long. He has a date.”
“Anybody we know?”
“A new one, I think.”
“Doesn’t Chris ever get serious about anybody?”
“Who knows? I think he’s secretly in love with you.”
“You don’t mean it?”
“Why not? All my friends have good taste.”
* * *
Max Quist shut off the power mower and took out a soiled handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face. He watched as a young couple in sparkling tennis whites climbed out of a sports car and ran laughing across the lawn. They didn’t pay any attention to Max. Nobody living in Hermosa Terrace paid any attention to Max. He was like another piece of shrubbery to them.
No, he thought, not even that much.
Max hated these people. He hated them for having all the things he would never have. He would quit this lousy job in a minute if it weren’t for his parole officer. Just once he would like to show the smug sons-of-bitches that Max Quist was somebody.
* * *
The telephone rang in Unit Two. Roy Beatty picked it up and frowned as he listened to the voice on the other end. He spoke briefly and hung up.
“Anything wrong?” Karyn asked.
“I’ve got to go to Anaheim. Deliver some books.”
“On Saturday? On our anniversary?”
“Dammit, it’s my own fault. I promised to drop off a set of inspection manuals at Aerodyne yesterday. Had them in the trunk of the car and forgot all about it. I don’t know how it slipped my mind.”
Karyn smiled. It was very unlike Roy to forget anything. He was always thoroughly organized, like one of the technical manuals he edited. When she had first met him she had thought Roy Beatty was as stodgy as a church deacon. However, she had soon discovered his warm sense of humor, an open-minded willingness to listen, and a depth of intellect that was not apparent in his All-American good looks. Karyn had been working as a convention hostess for the New York Hilton at the time. Roy was in the city for a gathering of engineers. For the first time, she had broken the hotel rule against socializing with the guests. Roy had stayed on for a week after the convention, and they had been together constantly. When he had returned to the Coast he had said he would be back for her on his vacation. She had not expected him to come, but he had. That was when she had finally admitted she loved him.
“Don’t be long,” she said as he stood at the door. She kissed him and watched him walk down the winding path through the neatly trimmed shrubbery. Karyn could not imagine how she could be happier. She had Roy and she had an excellent job with a hotel near the airport where she was in line for convention manager when her current boss retired. Tonight she would give Roy her special anniversary gift––the news that he was going to be a father. Yes, her life was just about perfect.
* * *
Max Quist watched the blond young man come out of Unit Two and stride down the walk past him without a flicker. Max might as well have been invisible. The woman stood in the doorway watching him go. Good-looking cunt. Too good-looking. Both of them. Like people in a magazine ad. Young, beautiful, healthy, rich. Max spat on the cropped grass. How he wanted to show them what it’s like to be hurt. Hurt them. Yes… hurt them.
* * *
Karyn was in the kitchen putting the lunch things away when the doorbell chimed. Chris was early, she thought. She dried her hands and walked out through the living room to the door. She did not bother to look through the tiny viewer. She never did. There was no danger here. This was Hermosa Terrace, not East Los Angeles.
Karyn opened the door and the heat pushed against the cool inside air. The man in the doorway was not Chris Halloran. He smiled at her.
“Yes?” Karyn said when the man did hot speak right away.
He had thick black hair that was poorly barbered. His cotton work-shirt was dark with perspiration under the arms. He seemed vaguely familiar.
“I’m supposed to check the pipes in your bathroom,” he said.
“There’s nothing wrong with our pipes.”
“It’s in the apartment next door. Their shower don’t drain right, and it might be plugged up where your drain pipes come together.”
Something in the way the man spoke was wrong. The short speech sounded rehearsed. Something about the man himself was wrong. He continued to smile.
“You’d better come back when my husband is here. He knows about those things.”
Without making any sudden moves the man had somehow come through the doorway and was standing in the living room. He was still smiling, but it was a different smile. “That’s okay,” he said. “We won’t need your husband.”
Over on the couch Lady raised her neat little head and pricked her ears at the strange male voice. After a moment she put her head back down on her paws, but remained watchful.
“I’m sorry, but I’d rather you didn’t come in now.” Karyn fought to still the tremor of fear in her voice.
“But I am in,” the man said. He reached behind him and closed the door. Without taking his eyes off Karyn he turned the small knob, shooting the dead-bolt lock into place.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Karyn wanted her voice to be angry and strong, but the fear was in her now. She could not hide it.
“You know what I’m doing,” the man said.
“I–I don’t keep much money in the house. You can have what there is. And my jewelry.”
“I don’t want your money or your jewelry. But you know that, don’t you? You know what I want, and you’re going to give it to me.” He reached out suddenly and squeezed her breast.
Karyn jumped back as though from an electric shock. “Please, leave me alone!” The sour smell of his body was sharp in her nostrils. “M–my husband will be home.”
“No he won’t. He just left. We have all the time we need.”
She took a careful step backward. The man’s eyes traveled over her body, probing at her. His hands shot out and seized her wrists.
“No!” she cried.
“Relax,” he said
. “You’re going to like it.”
“Please… you can’t…”
The man pulled Karyn against his body and mashed his mouth down on hers. Karyn clamped her jaws together as his tongue pushed in past her lips. He tasted of stale cigarettes.
“Where’s the bedroom?”
Karyn shook her head from side to side, afraid to trust her voice.
With a sudden movement the man twisted one arm up behind her back, forcing her to walk in front of him. He marched Karyn into the hallway that opened between the living room and the room Roy used for a den. She stumbled along in his grasp past the bathroom to the open door, through which they could see the bed.
All the things she had read about rape tumbled through Karyn’s mind. All the advice for women. Fight back. Don’t fight back. Scream. Stay calm. Blow a whistle. Run. Reason with the man.
Lovely advice, all useless. Fight the man? He was at least seventy pounds heavier than she, and certainly stronger. Scream? Who would hear? Hermosa Terrace Townhomes were proud of their soundproofing. Reason with him? Reason with an animal?
They were in the bedroom now. The man spun Karyn around and pushed her backward onto the bed.
The thinking part of her mind shut off and instinct took over. She crossed her arms protectively over her breasts and drew back her feet to kick out at the man when he came at her.
The man laughed at her efforts and batted the kick aside with an easy swipe of his hand. He grasped her by the ankles and forced her legs apart. Karyn writhed on the bed, helpless against his strength.
The man grinned down at her, showing large, strong teeth. Droplets of sweat stood out on his forehead and upper lip. His eyes moved down to her crotch. Karyn felt open and exposed with the thin velour pants pulled tight between her legs.
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