What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine

by Piers Anthony

  That evening, a fifteen-year-old named Jenny had caught his eye. A sweet young thing in jean shorts and a tank top, Daniel especially liked her long plume of black hair. He had watched as Jenny and her friends sat by the statue of the founder of the park, some degenerate fool who murdered aboriginals to help establish this settlement. He could tell this little morsel had some wickedness in her as she and her friends took turns drinking from a wine bottle, obviously lifted from a parent. Her freckled face blushed after a few sips and Daniel smiled, smitten by her antics.

  And so had he waited by a great oak tree, away from the light of the lampposts that dotted the park. Almost invisible, he stayed like this for forty-five minutes until the teens finally had enough and stumbled off together. He was hoping Jenny would be walking home by herself, instead of being accompanied by her unappetizing friends. It would have been difficult to make a move, as summertime meant there still could be neighbors out, sitting on their porches, downing their cheap swill and smoking their poison. He had known he could only take Jenny if she was alone and at first it hadn't appeared feasible that night as her group looked to be leaving together.

  Daniel had cursed his luck and sadly observed the delicious Jenny, demoralized that the night's hunt had been a waste. As he watched the drunken girls clumsily follow the stone path leading out of the park, a hunger pang had jolted his body. Damn, he had thought. I really wanted her.

  Despite his frustration, Daniel had continued to spy on Jenny, his powerful nose catching a hint of peach schnapps on her breath. It tingled his body and he unconsciously touched his fangs with his tongue, feeling them grow long and sharp. He had pondered making a move for if he was brazen and took her fast, it wasn't like anyone would have been able to catch him. Those few crackpots that believed they could hunt his kind were merely a bunch of old drunks who got lucky once or twice. He could never be slain by one of those stupid oafs.

  He had tensed as Jenny and her friends stopped at the park gate. They hugged each other and waved good night and to Daniel's delight, Jenny had turned away from her friends, going home on her own. Without hesitation, he had leapt into the air, quickly soaring toward the young girl. I have to have her, he thought. Damn the consequences.

  She had gasped as he landed smartly in front of her and before she knew it, she was writhing helplessly against him. He loathed having to take her in the open street like this, but there was no other option. She tried to scream, but he had already clamped his mouth down on her throat, her shriek extinguished and replaced by a painful moan. Her salty-sweet blood had filled his salivating mouth and he drank and drank and drank, finally pausing for a breath as he cradled her inert body.

  What had happened next was anyone's guess. Daniel could have sworn he heard an explosion of some kind, almost like a sonic boom. He remembered dropping Jenny to the sidewalk and scanning the sky with his heightened sight. Were they missiles? It all happened so damn fast...

  Then the entire world ignited. He had felt the wave of searing heat, becoming terrified as he watched the skin and flesh rip from his body. He remembered seeing the neighborhood burning to cinders and looking down at Jenny's body, his beautiful young prey being reduced to a skeleton and then, at last, to ash. And he remembered the pain as he fell to the ground. So much pain.

  And then, of course, the regeneration. He could feel the single cell of blood on his ribcage multiply over and over until he was whole again, his muscles and organs rebuilt, his survival possible because he had fed just before the bombs went off. Fresh blood had given him the ability to come back.

  He remembered being naked, his designer clothes gone and everything around him aflame. It hurt to stand and the question he had asked as he watched the world burn on that Last Night wasn't: What happened? It was: What do I do now?

  Daniel hated coming to the city. The suburbs were where he went to chase easy prey, but the city was where he really lived. He loved the smoggy night air in the summer and the large gleaming skyscrapers that pierced the sky. He even loved the constant automobile traffic and frequent siren whoops. And nothing compared to a hunt in the city on a Saturday night.

  And so it was quite painful for Daniel to be here now. Those once-mighty buildings were now charred, rusted and barely standing. And the parked cars were melted into the roads, a tar-like residue encasing them. Daniel didn't pay much attention to these sights and after ditching his box at a bone-dry water fountain at some now-useless corporate office tower, he went on a tour of the city, the acrid smell of burnt rubber all around him.

  I wonder if Vincent survived, he thought, as he made his way to a familiar condo building. He smiled at it, relieved that damage from the attack was evident but not catastrophic, although the lofty structure was still a threat to collapse. He squatted down and readied his aching muscles. It was time to test his seldom-used abilities.

  The tendons in Daniel's blood-starved body crackled as he launched himself up the building. The fact that he could still fly even though he hadn't fed for months pleased him and he landed rather easily at penthouse-level, although he had to wait a few moments to rest his taxed body. What a rush, he chuckled as he straightened up.

  Once up on the top level, he realized to his dismay that the penthouse was completely ravaged by fire. Even so, Daniel searched the wreckage for a sign of anything familiar: an antique chair, an expensive painting, a photograph of anyone he knew. Or more importantly, any sign of life. After a while he stopped. If Vincent was alive, I would've run into him by now, he muttered to himself.

  He missed Vincent terribly. Not the most handsome or debonair of his kind, but perhaps the most accomplished, Vincent was cursed with remaining in his current physical shape upon his turning. Still, being saddled with an unattractive and portly shell never seemed to bother the man. In fact, nothing ever really did. And what a teacher! Never hesitant to share the tricks of the trade to an inexperienced whelp like Daniel and always conducting himself as a true gentleman, Vincent was definitely one of the best.

  Daniel peered into the empty swimming pool and was surprised to see the skeletons of what must have been two young females, probably in their early twenties. Poor Vincent had most likely been entertaining when the bombs hit, Daniel thought with a shake of his head. If Vincent had fed on these humans right before detonation, he'd still be around. And then it would just be us, two degenerate blood-suckers ruling the world.

  Daniel mused on this as he strolled to the penthouse ledge. He sighed at the city, his beloved metropolis reduced to a disgusting ashtray. He looked around and finally settled upon on an old subway station, covered with debris from adjacent buildings.

  A wave of happy memories overtook him as his eyes followed the station to the old clubbing district, where there had once been a collection of discos and singles bars. He remembered gallivanting there with Vincent and especially loved his companion's various little quirks while on the hunt, particularly his fondness of a heavy metal rock club that only catered to white skinheads. According to Vincent, feeding on these wretches was sending an important message: Hey Skinheads, no matter how supreme you may deem yourself to be, you are still merely cattle to us.

  Then suddenly, Daniel felt miserable. For all these months, he had been alone, but until now he'd never felt lonely. He took one last look at the penthouse and leapt off the building, but this time he didn't try to fly. He just sank through the heavy air, closing his eyes as he waited to hit the ground.

  He was surprised at how much it hurt. He used to be able to do these things and emerge unscathed. He lay there, feeling his body as it went about the lengthy process to heal itself after his "fall." Paralyzed with pain, Daniel clenched his jaw and sprawled on the cracked pavement, feeling his broken bones set themselves and the scraped skin regenerate. It was because he hadn't fed in so long that his body was slow to react to trauma.

  Finally, the torture ended and when he was able, Daniel stood. He retrieved his box and continued on. He walked through every borough of the ci
ty, dragging his coffin behind. He found himself picking out a stray memory here and there as he passed a men's clothing store, a university campus, and even a deplorable strip joint on the east side, an establishment earmarked for when he and Vincent wanted to go slumming.

  Eventually, Daniel found himself on the outskirts of the city and wandered into a gated community distinguished by so-called posh homes and large plots of land. He stopped at one mansion, a charming Victorian-style building in which the owner, most likely a pompous architect, must have wanted to re-fashion into something he deemed eclectic. Daniel felt drawn to this residence because it was startlingly intact considering the demolition of the rest of the city, and he wanted to explore it.

  So after dropping his box off by the front door, Daniel quietly entered, a thrill of excitement coursing through him. He first made his way to the ruined kitchen and began to rummage through the few cupboards that remained upright, finding nothing but expired cans, most likely fruit cocktail or dog food. For a wild moment, he considered opening one and blindly consuming its contents, but thought better of it. It'd probably make me deathly ill, he reminded himself. I can't eat human food.

  He continued to search the house, poking through every drawer and closet he could find. He did this often when he came across an interesting dwelling, although he detested feeling like a lowly scavenger. He reconciled this by noting it was just curiosity as he rarely kept anything he found.

  After awhile, Daniel found himself in the master bedroom, a high-ceilinged chamber laden with wooden beams, perhaps to showcase a rustic look. He tested the bed and coughed as a puff of dust whorled into the air. He then pulled off the covers, surprised to see the mattress was still relatively clean. How had this place survived a nuclear attack? Without hesitation, he laid his tired body down and peered over to the only window of the room, concluding that if he did fall asleep, the sun would narrowly avoid him. I'll just lay here for a second and catch my breath, he sighed wearily. It's been a long night.

  Then Daniel heard something. It was a kind of frantic rustling downstairs, which caused him to quickly sit up and focus his senses. Someone was making their way up to the second floor and Daniel, who had only heard his own noises in the last year, was suddenly very frightened.

  To compensate, he slowed his breathing to calm his nerves and quickly leapt to the ceiling, hiding next to one of the beams. He concentrated so that he could relax. What was there to fear? He had done this sort of thing so many times.

  Letting his senses do the work, he surmised that the person was a child, based on weight and movement. As he sniffed the air, a mental image of a small person began forming in his mind. Definitely female, he smiled to himself as the hibernating thirst slowly reawakened in him.

  He closed his eyes and listened as the girl climbed the stairs. Anticipation almost overcame him as she entered the room. How lucky he was that out of all the rooms in this house, she had chosen the one in which he waited for her.

  Her movements were quick and almost hyperactive, but Daniel didn't make much of it, as she was probably half-crazy from a world gone awry, just as he was. He figured she was unaware of his presence, and he wanted to bide his time and do this just right.

  She finally stopped, resting almost directly beneath him and he felt his dormant fangs go long and sharp. It had been a long time since they had last come to life and he was relieved that they still could.

  I can't wait any longer, he thought, as he felt the sweat on his hands. The hunger wracked his body, but he welcomed the pain.

  Without hesitation, he dropped from the ceiling, his eyes tightly closed, and savagely fed. He clamped down with all his teeth, the blood filling his mouth, the kill better than any he could remember. He even became feral for the first time in his life, eagerly ripping at the flesh with his fingernails as his prey collapsed and died noiselessly. He continued to suck hungrily and kept his eyes closed as to further savor this meal that he had waited so long to find.

  Eventually, Daniel stopped, exhausted by the effort. He sprawled on the floor, feeling giddy as he felt the blood travel to his stomach. This had always been the best part―the anticipation of the supernatural strength that a new feeding would give him.

  Then suddenly he recoiled, as if he had swallowed a vial of acid. He painfully retched and vomited until his meal was completely expelled from his body. He continued to vomit long after his stomach was empty and the dry heaves wracked his body and wrenched his guts.

  Finally his spasms subsided. Weakly, he opened his eyes, expecting to see a prone human girl, and what he saw instead shocked him. Once he saw it, he wished he hadn't.

  The cockroach was immense, mutated by radiation. It lay dead in a puddle of black blood and yellow ooze, although a spindly leg still kicked out furiously. Looking at this slaughter horrified Daniel and he felt like vomiting again, but his body had nothing left to expel.

  Instead, he wiped his mouth and groaned, frantically brushing his face to remove all of the insect's remains. Then he rose, swayed a bit, and desperately stumbled out of the house and into the nuclear aftermath that was the night.

  About Jagjiwan Sohal

  Born and raised near Toronto, Canada, Jagjiwan Sohal holds a BA and MA in Political Science, but upon graduation, he (to his parents' chagrin) entered the world of film and television. Now an up-and-coming screenwriter, he spends his time bombarding his agent with new material and is currently developing all kinds of projects, including cartoons, sitcoms and films. "Wandering Daniel" is Jagjiwan's first stab at horror fiction. http://www.facebook.com/jagjiwansohal

  NEXT TIME YOU'LL KNOW ME

  by Ramsey Campbell

  Not this time, oh no. You don't think I'd be taken in like that now, do you? This time I don't care whose name you use, not now I can tell what it is. I only wish I'd listened to my mother sooner. "Always stay one step ahead of the rest," she used to say. "Don't let them get the better of you."

  Now you'll pretend you don't know anything about my mother, but you and me know better, don't we? Shall I tell everyone about her so you can say it's the first time you've heard? I will tell about her, so everyone knows. She deserves that at least. She was the one who helped me be a writer.

  Oh, but I'm not a writer, am I? I can't be, I haven't had any of my stories published, that's what you'd like everyone to think. You and me know whose names were on my stories, and maybe my mother did finally. I don't believe she could have been taken in by the likes of you. She was the finest person I ever knew, and she had the best mind.

  That's why my father left us, because she made him feel inferior. I never knew him, but she told me so. She taught me how to live my life. "Always live as if the most important thing that ever happened to you is just about to happen," she'd advise, and she would always be cleaning our flat at the top of the house with all her bracelets on when I came home from the printer's. She'd have laid the table so the mats covered the holes she'd mended in the tablecloth, and she'd put on her tiara before she ladled out the rice with her wooden spoon she'd carved herself. We always had rice because she said we ought to remember the starving peoples and not eat meat that had taken the food out of their mouths. And then we'd just sit quietly and not need to talk because she always knew what I was going to tell her. She always knew what my father was going to say too, but that was what he couldn't stand. "My dear, he never had an original thought in his head," she used to affirm. She was one step ahead of everyone, except for just one exception—she never knew what my stories were about until I told her.

  Next you'll pretend you don't see how that matters, or maybe you really haven't the intelligence, so I'll tell you again: my mother who was always a step ahead of everyone because they didn't know how to think for themselves didn't know what my ideas for stories were until I told her, she said so. "That's your best idea yet," she would always applaud, ever since she used to make me tell her a story at bedtime before she would tell me one. Sometimes I'd lie watching my night light floating a
way and be thinking of ways to make the story better until I fell asleep. I never remembered the ways in the morning and I never wondered where they went, but you and me know, don't we? I just wish I'd been able to follow them sooner and believe me, you'll wish that too.

  When I left school I went to work for Mr Twist, the only printer in town. I thought I'd enjoy it because I thought it had to do with books. I didn't mind at first when he didn't hardly speak to me because I got to be as good as my mother at knowing what he was going to say, then I realised it was because he thought I wasn't as good as he was the day he told me off for correcting the grammar and spelling on the poster for tours of the old mines. "You're the apprentice here and don't you forget it," he proclaimed with a red face. "Don't you go trying to be cleverer than the customer. He gets what he asks for, not what you think he wants. Who do you think you are?" he queried.

  He was asking so I told him. "I'm a writer," I stated.

  "And I'm the Oxford University Press."

  I laughed because I thought he meant me to. "No, you aren't," I contradicted.

  "That's right," he stressed, and stuck his red face up against mine. "I'm a second-rate printer in a third-rate town and you're no better than me. Don't play at being a writer with me. I'm old enough to know a writer when I see one."

  All I wanted to do was to tell my mother when I got home, but of course she already knew. "You're a writer, Oscar, and don't let anyone tell you different," she warned. "Just try a bit harder to finish your stories. You ought to have been top of your class in English. I expect the teacher was just jealous."