The Fanciers & Realizers MEGAPACK

by Phyllis Ann Karr

  Spinning around to the nearest champagne pocket, he plunged his suffering hand into ice water, and softly used the worst words he knew until the swelling went down, by which time his nostrils had unplugged, too.

  The dragon approached shyly on all fours, sat up beside his leg, and patted his calf with her forepaws as if trying to comfort him. He noticed that she had not been able to shed her belts, either, and they looked as much too tight as her last ring.

  “Well, Aurea, they may have started out as costumes, but now we know they got imprinted ... somehow…all the way down.” Maybe it was just as well. How could they have stripped her original sequin dress off at this stage? Skin her? Or Skipper’s costume…that poor kid was already skinned.

  Aurea whined again. She had probably seen the problem with his “Just Take the Costume Off” theory a long time ago.

  “Okay. Look, maybe when we get out of this crazy place, that’ll break the spell.”

  Like an overgrown and spiky green dog, she sat up higher and pawed the air.

  “Fine. Right. First, should we get the rest of this stuff off you? Uh, do you want it off? Assuming I can ...” Cautiously, he touched the backs of her necklaces with one fingertip, then laid his palm down on the entwined mass. Gold didn’t seem to be a problem. He felt one or two thin, hot threads—must be the strands of silver—but he thought they were small enough for him to manage.

  Meanwhile, Aurea was nodding gently but eagerly.

  He started undoing clasps. When he reached the silver ones, he found that he couldn’t handle them long enough, after all. Fortunately, using quick motions, he could break them. They didn’t look that fine, either—it must be the vampire strength again. He was careful to use both hands, pinching in two spots and yanking apart, rather than risk hurting her with a one-handed snatch.

  After the necklaces: the belts. And then the pins and brooches she had worn on her bodice, which now left tiny puncture holes through the apparently nerveless edges of her scales. Soon all these larger pieces of jewelry lay in a heap on the floor.

  “Want us to take them alone?” he asked, looking around for wherever she must have left her rings.

  For answer, she turned and dealt the heap an angry swat with her tail. Necklaces, belts, and brooches went scattering over the flagstones. The golden owl ended up decapitated or badly twisted against one tableleg.

  Covering her right forepaw with her left, Aurea ground down visibly on her last remaining piece—the stubborn ring—and whined again.

  “All right, let’s get out of here!” But he paused, picking his cape up from the floor and shaking off one or two pieces of jewelry that had landed in its folds. “As I recall, there were drafty places on the way ...”

  He started swinging the cape back around his bare shoulders, but his glance fell on Skipper’s body.

  “Oh, my—Lord, Skipper! For a minute I ...”

  Three or four strides brought him to the bloody corpse. He knelt, trying to figure out where a paramedic might begin.

  Hopeless. There were no signs of life at all ... no way to imagine life remaining in the mangle of exposed organs and blood so coagulated that it no longer stirred October’s appetite, even despite his growing hunger.

  Rodney and the others hadn’t even closed the staring eye—hadn’t even done as much for Skipper as they had for October. He closed it now, hand trembling, then shakily gathered up the length of intestine Succuba had yanked loose and gently stuffed it back into the abdominal cavity. Something to bandage it in with? The tablecloth? No, that was paper ...

  From across the room, the dragon, hunkered down with eyes screwed shut, whined a wordless question at him.

  “Because,” he explained, “if we can get out of reach of whatever made our costumes go real on us ... if we can change back…than Skipper may come back to life.” Spreading his cape on the floor, he moved Skipper onto it and rolled it as tightly as possible. It was an awkward process but, thanks to his new strength, less difficult than it might have been. He hitched the cape high enough to wrap the poor, torn-up head. The cheap costume cape not being very long anyway, the legs mostly dangled out uncovered; but below the crotch area, which was so gouged away as to leave Skipper’s gender still a mystery, the legs were in fairly good condition. Spotting rope among the equipment in the torture corner, October used a few lengths of it to tie the cloth around the corpse.

  At last, once more aware of his own naked chest and shoulders, he found his shirt. It had been a pretty good one. It was bloodstained now, with half the buttons ripped off, but he put it on nevertheless and fastened the remaining buttons, figuring this was better than nothing.

  His stomach growled. Having recovered from completely emptying itself of everything, including Skipper’s blood, it was starting to demand new nourishment. If it didn’t get any, he might start losing his strength, which was one of the few things they had going for them.

  If he were still a normal human being, tonight’s sights, smells, and sounds would have killed his appetite for he didn’t like to guess how long. Becoming a vampire must have taken away his squeamishness ... if not from his mind, at least from his stomach. Unfortunately, some powerful guiding instinct told him that neither dry nor coagulated blood would serve his needs.

  Searching the table, he found some raw hamburger balls among the canapes he had scattered from the chrome tray. He sniffed cautiously. They were highly seasoned, but it didn’t seem to be with garlic, so he put one in his mouth and sucked. It didn’t turn his stomach, but the blood content, though reasonably fresh, was cold, as well as less than pleasant from the added salt and pepper. Feeling totally let down, he spat out the burger solids and let his gaze be drawn back to the blood on the dragon’s fingers, where she had scraped off her rings. Not yet scabbed over, it should still be fresh, even warmish.

  “Uh ... This is going to sound sick ... really sick…but would you mind if I ... uh ... sucked your fingers? I’ll promise not to bite down.”

  As if acting before she could think about it, she dug her right talons into her left foreleg and held it up to him, blood oozing out from between the scales.

  * * * *

  The subbasements of Hellmouth Park descended in a huge spiral, like a giant, rounded parking ramp around an elevator shaft. The corridor was about three meters wide, the rooms—all opening off the outermost wall—unevenly spaced, but regularly numbered. 1A through 1Z, the guide had explained, comprised the first subbasement, 2A through 2Z the second, and so on down. The type of flooring changed, some levels having corridor tile, some flagstones, some—like Level 7—carpeting. There were no other division markers between levels. Nor were there any stairs. Making the floor itself serve as a long ramp satisfied fire safety guiderules…according to the guy in the demon suit.

  As if fire safety could be possible down here! October reflected bitterly, looking up at the spiral from the doorway of 7D. Yes, climbing all those stairs—they would surely have needed at least three or four flights per level—might be even harder and slower than running up the corridor. But could anyone outrun a fire down here? And what if you found the fire somewhere above you, blocking the corridor? Well, it might—might—be better than roasting alive trapped in the elevator, but that was about the only favorable thing he could find to think concerning the fire safety provisions down here. Not that he said it aloud for Aurea to hear.

  Wasn’t fire what Hell was all about?

  He hoped the fireproofing was as good as advertised.

  A hundred and sixty rooms between them and the ground floor, if his mental arithmetic was accurate. He didn’t say that aloud, either, but it was going to be a long climb. How long? What if they didn’t make it out till daybreak? And if just getting out didn’t turn them back to normal? Wasn’t sunlight supposed to incinerate vampires or make them sick or something?

  But, hey! The night couldn’t be that far gone, could i
t? Heck, it was only midnight when this whole thing started, and nights were longer than days this time of year. Probably just felt like a century since he had drunk Skipper’s ... No, not Skipper’s blood! he told himself firmly, hoisting the body as if he could make it more comfortable. Skipper’s costume’s blood. Anyway, face the sun problem when and if it arose.

  More to the point, what about the people they might meet between here and the exit? Almost certainly would meet, on the ground floor if nowhere else. Park employees…how many of them were in on this ugly little joke? Other guests…there had to be more private parties going on in some of those hundred and sixty rooms. Had the turn-into-your-costume thing happened to them, too? Or had the group in 7D received special treatment?

  If it had happened to other guests, how would they meet you? As friends or enemies? Looking back at his own group, October guessed it would depend on their costumes ... maybe a little on their personalities, too—as dragon and vampire, he and Aurea still seemed to be comparatively harmless, inoffensive types—but you could usually gauge costumes at a glance. Personalities could be harder to figure out. And if the other guests were still normal, did he explain what had happened and ask for help, or just try to pass himself and friends off as a bunch of especially realistic costumes? In any case, what about Hellmouth Park employees?

  Considering the silence that reigned all around them, both up and down the corridor, why was he even worrying about other people? It felt as if they were in more danger of going stir-crazy from loneliness than of a brushing into other people before they got out.

  The dragon padded across the corridor, her claws snagging in the deep-pile carpet, and sat up on her haunches to scrabble questioningly on the elevator column. After a ridiculous mental debate about whether or not to close the door, October left it open and joined her.

  The control panel showed the elevator’s location with a schematic in colored lights of a long green coil. The turns along the right-hand side were labeled 1A, 2A, and so on. A black arrow a little below 7A pointed out “You Are Here,” and a bright pink spot like a bubble marked the elevator as resting about midway down level 8.

  October shook his head. “I think we should try the climb. Rather than risk being stuck in the elevator. Think you can make it?”

  Whining, she lifted her right forefoot from the elevator column and touched Skipper’s leg.

  “Oh, Skipper’s a featherweight—doesn’t seem any heavier than a pillow to me. Vampire strength, remember. I can make it if you can.”

  She nodded and dropped to all fours.

  Her claws kept catching in the carpet’s deep pile, which looked like burgundy over orange sherbet beneath the soft-harsh glow of the ceiling lights. Otherwise, at first, they made pretty good time. Even so, it seemed much too long until they got to the next door up, 7C. If 7D was really that long a chamber, shouldn’t its curvature have been more apparent inside? Were the room’s inner walls squared off, or was there a lot of dead space between rooms? Maybe. Wasn’t dead space supposed to be excellent soundproofing?

  The door to 7C was shut. They paused to listen a few seconds, but either the room must be empty, or the soundproofing absolute. He did not try the handle, although for just a moment his hand itched to reach out for it. Some deep-seated death wish? Or plain old curiosity?

  When they eventually reached the door to 7B, and found it also shut, he strode right on past, though the dragon hesitated as if willing to stop again. They were proceeding in silence now, partly for stealth and partly because keeping up a one-sided conversation began to wear on October’s already strained nerves.

  The next door was just around the bend. This one poured extra light into the corridor—lurid light, marking a trapezoid of carpeting in which the orange glared almost pink and the burgundy streaks turned the color of catsup.

  October slowed his pace, Aurea following suit, ready to halt or even retreat. But the only thing pouring out of Room 7A seemed to be light. No sounds, not of partying, not of anything else. Only the sick light and a kind of…tension ...

  And then a scream. A long, echoing, wailing shriek. Scarcely human, but October guessed there had been times this evening when he must have sounded scarcely human himself. He put down Skipper’s body and then pelted forward, Aurea scrabbling at his heels, leaving a trail of loud snags.

  He reached the open door, caught his balance by seizing the doorpost, and stared inside. Behind him, Aurea skittered to a stop and gave a long, roaring wail.

  Halfway into the room, a woman’s naked body lay in pieces. She had just been drawn apart—not by horses—by huge, hairy devils in harness. Both arms and one leg had been yanked completely off. The torso lay half hanging, still attached by one leg to the harness. The woman stared up unseeing, her face frozen in helpless agony.

  Almost the worst of it was that October’s stomach found the scene…appetizing. Until it sank in that, bloody as the limbs looked, they weren’t actually spouting any blood out onto the room’s bare stone floor. The air held a tang almost like blood, but not quite ... like artificial sweetener and cheap coffee whitener in a cup of ersatz compared to sugar and dairy cream in a cup of fine, gourmet fresh-brewed, as he remembered from when he could drink coffee. The devils stood as frozen in their poses as the woman, as apparently oblivious to the witnesses in the doorway. And that not-quite-human scream ... now he thought back, hadn’t it sounded a bit mechanical?

  “Dummies!” he exclaimed. “It’s a damned waxwork exhibit!”

  Squeezing past him, Aurea charged into the room, sniffed at the central figure, opened her jaws, and spewed out a stream of orange flames that singed the victim’s wig in a flash and sent the wax face rolling away in heavy drops.

  “My G-—! Aurea!” October rushed in beside her, caught her by her red horns, and tried to pull her back. “Do you want to roast us alive? We’re a hundred and sixty rooms underground! Do you have any idea what a fire would do to us and anybody else who might happen to be down here?”

  She whined, shook her head free, and cowered, forepaws clamping her jaws shut as if promising never to do it again. Tears flooded down from her closed eyes.

  “All right…all right ... There, there!” (God, he thought, what silly noises! She’s a grown person, with a grown-up human mind, and here I stand chucking to her as if she were a baby or an animal just because she’s trapped inside a damned, trumped-up, fire-breathing dragon costume.)

  The dummy’s head was a mess of melted wax over a metallic framework holding glass eyes and, no doubt, the mechanism that had operated the jaws and produced the scream. The wax was already rehardening. He couldn’t find any remaining sparks or fire danger. If the floor hadn’t been stone, if there had been any wood or other flammable material nearby, even if the devil figures with their overload of fur had been closer, they could have been in trouble. (In trouble? Here I am, trapped inside a cheap Dracula costume, and look at poor Aurea! And Skipper!)

  “Okay. We got away with it this time, and we’ve only got a hundred and fifty-six rooms to go, not a hundred and sixty. I forgot to subtract the ones we’ve already come to. Only, please, Aurea, please don’t ever do that again!”

  Still weeping, she nodded.

  He looked around for the door, thinking it might be a good idea to close it on the damage. There wasn’t any door. Not even any hinges. He noticed now that the doorway was arched, with the metal figures “7A” screwed on the highest part of the curve. The waxwork tableau was meant to be seen by everybody who used the corridor instead of the elevator. Maybe remote-control treads in the floor activated the scream whenever anyone came close enough from either direction. He wondered how far the activation went—did they stick the victim figure together again and treat anyone who got there fast enough to the spectacle of the demon figures drawing it apart, or did it lie there permanently dismembered? He hoped the latter. He didn’t like the thought of park employees coming alo
ng too soon and finding their trail. The property damage aside, he didn’t think they could trust any Hellmouth Park employees.

  “We’d better be prepared,” he remarked finally, turning his back on the dummies, getting out of the room, and retrieving Skipper’s body. “They’ve probably got a lot more of these horror chambers along the way. Tourist attraction for the folks who walk down. Maybe one at the beginning of each level, and a random sprinkling in between. Really makes you feel like you missed getting your money’s worth, coming down by elevator. They brought you down on the elevator, didn’t they?”

  Aurea nodded.

  “Yes, of course, or you’d have known about the Madame Tussaud stuff already. Am I babbling?”

  She touched his forearm gently with one paw, as if to reassure him that it didn’t matter, she understood.

  Maybe she’d rather have him talking to her than striding along in silence, even if she couldn’t join the conversation.

  On the other hand, might it not be better to keep quiet? Just in case somebody else was around? Not only could he and Aurea be in danger from park employees, but other paying customers could be in danger from him. The little snack Aurea had given him wasn’t much more than a strengthening appetizer, and the way his stomach started growling and his mouth watering at that stage-bloody waxwork scene had him worried. Granted, he didn’t have fangs—hadn’t The Pascal said something about that being a popular misconception or exaggeration anyway?—but he could see himself all too easily using his vampire superstrength to wrench off somebody’s head and drink directly from the fountain that way.

  It was a waking nightmare of a thought, but it made him even hungrier.

  The carpeting ended and they were on flagstone, her talons clicking, his soles slapping. The echoes sounded loud, like the only noises anywhere in the world after the falling of the final bombs.