Lust for Life

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “Can you install one in a single day, oh, A/V god supreme of ours?”

  He blushes a little and adjusts his glasses. “Sure. I can try to get the really small cameras that no one’ll see. Otherwise these vampires can just knock them out with a rock or their fists.”

  I hadn’t thought about how high a vampire can jump. I fold my arms over my chest, more to hug myself than anything. “We’re sitting ducks here.”

  “But we’re making preparations,” Shane protests. “We’re stockpiling weapons, setting a perimeter, gathering personnel. We’ll have at least two Control Enforcement agents here at all times, not including me.”

  “Against eight vengeful vampires. Maybe more. It’s not enough, and you know it.”

  “What else can we do?”

  “I don’t know.” I shove my hands in my pockets. My middle finger scrapes against a small, hard plastic object. I pull it out and almost laugh.

  It’s the T from the sign outside Shane’s tribunal hearing room. I never found a place for it on the sign when I turned 2:15 AM, MCALLISTER TRIBUNAL into . . . what was it again? I’LL SCAM A BURNER TIL 2:15 AM?

  That sentence makes a weird sort of sense. I was, after all, a scam artist in my younger years. “Burner” could be short for “burnout,” what Regina would call a “waste-oid.” Or it could just mean “one who burns.” But “burns” as in “They burn other things,” or do they themselves burn up? Heh, like a vampire.

  I’m peripherally aware of the conversation continuing around me: how to fight off the horde of Jim’s progeny who’ll soon be coming for us. How to solve the uncertainty of when they’ll attack, and the problem of their greater numbers.

  I’LL SCAM BURNERS . . .

  But how?

  My con artist’s brain says, soothingly, Start with their weakness. Start with something they love, something they want more than anything in the world.

  Jim.

  I can’t give them Jim. He’s dead. They felt him die, so I can’t pretend he’s still alive.

  What’s the next best thing to having someone you love back in your arms? I imagine Shane dying—no, that’s too painful. I imagine my father dying without my ever seeing him again. What would I want most, other than to go back in time and tell him I loved him? (I really need to write myself a note to do that.)

  I’d want to honor his memory. Pay my respects. Share my grief with both my mom’s and his families. I’d want a—

  “Funeral.”

  David, Jeremy, and Shane stop talking and stare at me.

  Shane comes to me. “What’d you say?”

  “Jim needs a funeral. Or at least, a memorial service or a wake. For all his fans and friends, and for his progeny.”

  “Why would we want his progeny to—oh.” Shane breaks into a grin. “You want to flush them out.”

  “I want to know when and where they’ll appear. If they really love Jim—and based on the stuff he kept, they do, very much—they’ll jump at the chance to pay tribute.”

  “What if paying tribute means killing everyone in the building?” David’s face is full of dread (dreadful? No, not really). “You’d be endangering the public. At the very least, you’d risk exposing the truth about vampires.”

  “Then we don’t tell the public.” Jeremy pats the sleeve covering his inner forearm, something he does when a new tattoo itches but he can’t scratch it. “We could put the word out through vampire channels only.”

  David contemplates this for a moment. “With enough Control presence, no one would get hurt.”

  “This is perfect.” I pull out my phone. “The Control can’t dispatch enough agents to the station every day to keep us safe, but I bet they can do it for one night.”

  Jeremy goes to Lori’s desk and wakes up her computer. “I’ll write the invitation now.”

  “Send me the draft when you’re done. I’ll approve final wording once I get the go-ahead from the Control. This is brilliant.” I dial Colonel Lanham, not caring that it’s my own idea I just praised.

  I reach Lanham’s voice mail and ask him to call me, with no specifics. His line is supposedly secure, but I don’t know who checks his messages.

  As I hang up, I realize that’s not all I don’t know about Lieutenant Colonel Winston Lanham. I don’t know if he’s married or has kids, whether he loves or hates his job, or even where he lives when he’s not at work. For all I know, he sleeps on the couch in his office.

  Shane picks up the holy-water pistol from Lori’s desk. They’re made from top-of-the-line children’s toys, the summer yellows and pinks painted over with a dull black lacquer for nighttime camouflage. But in Shane’s careful, expert hands, it becomes as sexy as a Glock.

  I can’t believe I’m getting turned on by weapons. What’s happening to me? Am I so desperate to survive that I’m reverting to cavewoman mode?

  “Shane, can I bring my laptop into the studio tonight and hang out with you?”

  “Sure.” He sets down the pistol and gives me a smile. “You know you’re welcome anytime.”

  “I also know it’s crowded in there with two people, and sometimes I distract you.”

  He takes a step forward, bringing his body close and sliding his fingers between mine. “I like when you distract me.”

  “Get a room!” Franklin yells from his office. “And I don’t mean the studio. We could hear you guys the last time.”

  Shane looks toward Franklin. “Did I leave the mic on?”

  “Yes,” say Jeremy, David, and Franklin in unison. Then Franklin adds, “I can’t wait until you’re a boring old married couple like Lori and David.”

  “Hey,” David says. “We’re not old.”

  “You will be.” Jeremy talks while typing. “Babies make people age faster.”

  Once it was obvious that the older vampires could detect Lori’s pregnancy, she decided to let Jeremy and Franklin in on the not-so-secret secret.

  “I thought kids are supposed to keep you young.” David looks among us. “Right?”

  I shake my head. “Stress, lack of sleep, Chuck E. Cheese’s–induced malnutrition. Not to mention brain rot from children’s music.”

  Jeremy starts singing a Teletubbies song (I assume that’s what it is, based on the high-pitched baby voice and bad British accent).

  “Our kids won’t be listening to that crap,” David tells Jeremy.

  “No, they’ll be listening to They Might Be Giants’ children’s albums, so you and Lori can pretend you’re still cool while you drive around in your beige minivan with the DVD player and four million cup holders.”

  “Don’t forget stain-resistant seats,” Franklin adds.

  David raises his voice. “We won’t have a minivan, and for the record, They Might Be Giants are very cool.”

  “They were very cool,” Jeremy says, “until they started making minivan music.” Without looking at me, he casually holds up his hand for a high-five, which I dispense posthaste.

  Then I notice that Shane hasn’t joined the jocularity. He’s leaning over my desk, going over our weapons inventory for the fortieth time.

  “No point in obsessing over that list now,” I tell him. “The Control will give us more once they approve our new plan.”

  “After my suspension, I can’t touch a Control-issued weapon, so I need to see what’s ours.”

  I’ve been putting his tribunal out of my mind as much as possible. Since we left Control headquarters the other night, he’s spoken very little about his sentencing. When Shane clams up, it usually means he’s upset.

  “They were making an example out of you,” I remind him. “They have to punish every instance of anti-vampire violence, even when it’s justified.”

  “And they should. If someone whacked me the way I whacked—” His chin twitches as he tries to force out Jim’s name. “The way I—the way it happened, I’d want that person put on trial.”

  “Even if you were a homicidal maniac who deserved to die?”

  “Yep.” He p
icks up the holy-water pistol, then aims along the sight at our two-dimensional Eric Clapton. “Justice isn’t only for the good guys.”

  16

  New Slang

  The following Monday evening (Tuesday morning, really) I’m heading toward the DJs’ apartment for a quick snack, when I see Adrian in the booth. I wave to him through the glass and he beckons me inside.

  Entering the studio always gives me a thrill. Most of the DJs other than Shane are territorial about the space.

  Golden Earring’s “Radar Love” is thumping out of the speaker. “I love this song,” I tell him. “But wait, it didn’t come out until nineteen . . . seventy-three, was it?”

  He beams at me. “Good call. Yeah, it’s harder for me to play the newer stuff, but I had to learn. Classic rock stations insist on lots of seventies music, sometimes even early eighties these days.”

  “That’s great that you could adapt. A lot of vampires can’t.”

  “We do what we must to survive.”

  “Hmph.” That’s a line I’ve told myself a lot the last several months. “Hey, how was Hair? Did Franklin love it?”

  “He hated every minute. The food was terrible, too.”

  “That sucks.”

  He shrugs. “We left early and went back to my place.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t suck.”

  Adrian lets out a warm, melodious laugh. “It’s not what you think. A long talk and a kiss good night is all we had.”

  “That’s a start. I guess he told you about Aaron.”

  “Yeah. I can relate. After almost fifty years as a vampire, I’ve had to watch a lot of loved ones die.”

  “I’m sorry.” I think about this for a moment, wondering if I’ll even outlive my parents, much less Lori and David and other friends my age.

  “Speaking of passing on,” Adrian says, “Regina told me that Jim’s memorial service is a week from tonight.”

  “Yep, the twenty-second.” We thought the anniversary of JFK’s assassination would add a macabre appeal that Kashmir and Company couldn’t resist. “We’re holding it at Crosetti’s Monuments, the headstone maker off Raleigh Avenue.”

  “The place with the little fake graveyard, across from the church with the little real graveyard?”

  I nod. “Mr. Crosetti used to be one of Jim’s donors. He’s probably looking for a new vampire to donate to. You should talk to him while you’re there.”

  “I don’t know if I’m going.” He traces the stack of LPs on the table, which I just realized are Jim’s. “It might be too painful.”

  “I think it’ll be a good way for us all to get closure. I’m sure there’ll be lots of music, especially the psychedelic stuff he loved so much.”

  “That music was a lot like him.” Adrian’s brown eyes droop at the corners. “He was always on the edge of madness. That’s why he was so brilliant.”

  “No. He was brilliant in spite of his madness. Think of what he would’ve accomplished if he hadn’t had to battle that.” My ire rises at the thought of Jim’s instability. “I can tell you, his so-called madness wasn’t inspiring or romantic. It was terrifying and destructive. And annoying. That’s the reality of crazy. You can dress it up any way you want, but in the end it’s a sickness, and most sicknesses are gross.”

  Adrian stares at me, looking much younger than his twenty-seven years. I’ve struck something soft inside.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Sort of.”

  “It’s all right.” He lowers his gaze to the Jefferson Airplane record in his hands. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I guess we all want to believe that our heroes are better than perfect.”

  Better than perfect. I’ve never heard that phrase before. I think I like it. Either that or it frightens me.

  “Yeah” is the best I can offer. “So, do you have a signature sign-off song? Monroe’s is ‘Never Get Out of These Blues Alive.’ ” I don’t mention that Jim’s was “It’s Only Rock ’n Roll (But I Like It)” until the very end, when he changed it to “Gimme Shelter,” the song I can never hear again.

  Adrian nods. “I do have a signature sign-off song.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see, at five of six.” Adrian gives me a sweet, gentle smile. “It’s a message.”

  “For who?”

  “Everybody. It’s one we all need to hear these days.”

  The cynic in me wants to roll my eyes, but he’s so earnest. I never got the feeling that Jim believed in the hippie philosophy. Like the temporary sixties’ DJs we’ve had working over the summer and fall, he was more infatuated with the trappings of the times. The openhearted acceptance was an excuse for excess and hedonism.

  But Adrian really believes. Either that, or he’s a better actor than all the others combined.

  I wish him luck and head to the apartment for breakfast.

  That night I keep the radio turned up while I work at my desk, studying market share reports and choosing a new merchandise producer. (Sometimes I wonder if they wonder why all our swag orders are placed in the middle of the night. They must think we are very dedicated workers.)

  Adrian’s show shares none of Jim’s lurking, psychedelic darkness. It’s all peace, love, and flowers in rifle barrels. The music has a purity of belief and faith in the goodness of human nature and the future of the world. How can a vampire be the source of such sunshine and delight?

  At 5:55 a.m. he signs off his show with a farewell message: “Thanks for hanging out with me on this beautiful November morning. I appreciate all the calls with your requests and good wishes. It’s nice to know I’m not just talking to myself. So, everyone out there: Today, be good to each other. ’Cause we’re all we’ve got.”

  A distinctive, languorous guitar and soft drum trickle from the speaker. The gentle harmonies of the Youngbloods’ “Get Together” implore us all to love one another, not tomorrow or next week, but right now.

  Can it be that simple? Can a bunch of mutual smiles change the world? My twenty-first-century sensibility says no way.

  But I know the power of music in all its forms. It’s sustained me and so many others in our darkest hours. Shane’s voice singing my song brought me back from the dead, and it kept me free when Colonel Petrea tried to control my mind.

  So I suppose, for five measly minutes every other day, I can believe.

  • • •

  “Now, to send a text, simply open your flip phone . . .”

  I stare at my Contemporary Awareness instructor, then at the sample phone on the desk in front of me.

  “This has to be a joke.” I pick up the phone, feeling whisked back to 2001. Admittedly, it is nice and light compared to my current phone, a portable computer that doubles as a people-calling device and can triple as a blunt weapon, especially with the oversize long-life battery strapped to the back.

  Agent Detwiler has us open a new message to her. Then she demonstrates how to press the phone-pad keys multiple times until we find the letter we want. It takes most of the class nearly a minute to write Hi!

  I raise my hand. She calls on me.

  “Yes, Agent, um . . .”

  “Griffin. I’m new. Really new. I just wanted to point out that most smartphones these days have QWERTY keyboards.” I hold up my own and slide out the hard keyboard. “See, it’s like a mini-typewriter for your thumbs. Faster and more accurate than scrolling through three letters, then pausing before going to the next.”

  “Ooh, can I see that?” asks the teenage-looking agent next to me. I hand it to her, wondering which decade she’s from. It’s hard to tell with Control vampires, since CAD training keeps them current on today’s fashion and slang. “Wow, that’s, like, totally gnarly!”

  Current, except when they get excited.

  The other six vampires in the class gather around. Agent Detwiler tries to control the chaos.

  “This is, of course, the latest in technology,” she calls out, “but I thought we’d start with something more basic for trainin
g purposes.”

  “Why, if this is easier?” asks Valley Girl Vamp. “Oops, I think I just messaged a text.” She hands the phone back to me. “Sorry.”

  I check my screen to discover she just sent duuuuuuuuuuude to Colonel Lanham. Fabulous. “You guys should know, a pullout keyboard like this is getting rarer. Most phones now have it only on the screen. But they’ll have to pry my hard keyboard out of my cold, dead hands.”

  That sounded funnier in my head. Also, less pathetic. Only six months old and already I’m attached to the technology I’ve been using for the past two years. I resolve to start using the touch-screen keyboard.

  The class finally ends, after much thumbing and clicking and cussing.

  “That’s all the time we have.” Agent Detwiler slaps shut her ancient phone. “For homework, I want you to text me once a day telling me about a story you heard on the news. This will enhance not only your technical skills but your comprehension of current events. Next week we’ll continue our discussions of twenty-first-century technologies. I’ll also introduce you to something called ‘reality television.’ And yes, it’s as oxymoronic as it sounds.”

  I’m the first one out the door, and not just because the class is causing me physical pain from all my eye rolling. I don’t want to be late for coffee with Anca Codreanu-Petrea.

  This time of night, the café in the Control headquarters building is always crowded. The human agents working night shift need the caffeine to keep going, and the vampire agents starting their own “day shift” need the camaraderie to remind them why they work here (and the caffeine doesn’t hurt).

  I find Anca near the coffee’s condiment stand. She’s coating the foam of her cappuccino with cinnamon that matches the color of her hair.

  “Agent Griffin!” She sets down the shaker, then reaches for the nutmeg. “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

  Way to set me on edge from the beginning. “I’m not late, am I?” I take a cup from the dispenser and pour myself a large French roast. I drink it black, since I can no longer taste milk and sugar.

  “No, I just worried you wouldn’t accept my invitation, after . . .”