Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales

by Norman Partridge

  "You're not serious."

  Jones chugged beer and gobbled fries and stripped a chicken wing clean in one bite, little bones scrapping between his store-bought choppers. He pointed at the tilting old mortuary at the foot of the hill. "Maybe I'm not serious, but that guy down there...he's serious. And I'm talkin' pure-D."

  Bird swore. His stomach growled. The hunger was really bad now, bad enough to drive him to extremes much worse than grave-robbing. He stared up at the rising moon and scratched his skin raw with fingernails that were one inch, then two inches, then —

  "Mayday!" Jones shouted, spitting beer and laughter. "Mayday!"

  The Lord of the Night watched the men. One swilling liquor. The other capering madly in the moonlight, as if invoking pagan gods.

  The fools. Mere peasants, emboldened by drink, come to take the monster's head. He feared such men little. Had he not faced other maddened villagers in his travels? Had he not destroyed them through the power of his iron stare?

  Yes. Just as he had vanquished the man with the silver gauntlet.

  The Lord of the Night told himself that this was so. Still, he could not help staring at the coach that waited on the edge of the property. Dark and sleek it was, stealthy and fast as a winged demon. He could abandon this place at a moment's notice, leave these men behind.

  No. That was the coward's way. The Lord of the Night was a creature of power, and he would not —

  The capering man in the old cemetery dropped to all fours and howled at the moon.

  The Lord of the Night swallowed hard.

  "Sure, you track just fine, Bird-Dog. You got us here, all the way from Vegas, one straight line through two hundred miles of sand and dust. Our gangster client is gonna be real happy to get his girl back before the Feds accuse him of doing something nasty to her all by his lonesome, and we'll probably get a bonus for doing the job real quick-like, thanks to your nose. But I'm the fellow who fills in the blanks, and don't you forget it."

  Bird's eyes were little coals. It wasn't easy talking around the sharp teeth that sprouted from his gums, but he'd had lots of practice over the last few years. "Fill, then."

  "Well, folks talk in a town like the one up the road. Funny little burg. Kind of Mayberry meets Peyton Place. Anyway, I stopped in and had a talk with the dentist, had him check out my store-boughts. Just a hunch I had. Anyway, dentists likes to gab. They're lonely people, mostly. Have a high suicide rate. So he tells me all about a strange fella who put in an order for a bridge. Fella lost a couple of teeth in a fight, and he wanted 'em replaced with fangs. And get this —the fella would only make his appointments at night."

  "All that means is the guy's a nut."

  "Add it to the rest of the picture. Remember the people we talked to in Vegas? The bartender?"

  "Guy was a rummy."

  "Well, he saw the whole damn thing. He saw the guy grab the girl. Said the guy was done up in a black cape, tuxedo, and top hat."

  "Guy was a near-sighted rummy."

  "Said the guy talked like he was from Transylvania."

  "A near-sighted, deaf rummy."

  "Shit. He heard well enough, and he damn sure saw well enough. Saw the girl's bodyguard tussle with the guy. He said that he spotted a silver knuckleduster on the bodyguard's hand, saw it glinting in the moonlight. Saw broken teeth on the ground after the bodyguard laid into the kidnapper."

  "Chrome. The knucks were chrome-plated."

  "Whatever they were, they knocked out a few of the kidnapper's teeth. The bodyguard figured he had the guy. He left him there in the parking lot and started toward his own car with the gangster's girl in tow."

  "And then the kidnapper ran him over with a VW bug," Bird said. "Now, that's not supernatural. It's not even menacing. It's just straightforward German engineering. The front bumper broke the bodyguard's neck and the right rear tire popped his skull like a melon, and the kidnapper grabbed the girl for keepsies. We've been over this."

  "It all happened in the middle of the night. Bird. When the living dead rise from coffins lined with unhallowed earth — "

  "This moron isn't a vampire." Bird sniffed the night air. "He stinks, all right, but not near bad enough."

  "He's havin' a dentist make him a new set of fangs. Bird. He wants to suck him some serious blooooood...."

  "Me too," Bird snarled. "You were supposed to bring me a hamburger. A rare hamburger."

  "You sent me to town. You knew the risk."

  Bird's eyes were red things nestled in a hairy face. "Damn right I knew the risk. I can't count on you for the littlest thing. All I wanted was some red meat, and you bring me fairy tales."

  "It's night now. Bird. I'll bet he's out of his coffin."

  "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

  "Of course. Hell, this is going to be good. First Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man. Then The Robot vs. the Aztec Mummy. Now Bird-Dog vs. the Vampire Kidnapper. I tell you, man, I can't wait to see you huff, and puff, and blow this bloodsucker's house down. I think I'll have to get out my camera. I gotta have a picture of that one."

  The werewolf growled. "Give me a break, Jones." He pointed a claw in the direction of a battered VW sitting at the side of the ruined mortuary. "Can you picture Bela Lugosi driving that?"

  Jones whipped out a bowie knife. "You want me to carve a stake for you. Bird?"

  "Steak." The werewolf's stomach growled. "Damn."

  Down below, the Veedub coughed alive. The little machine shuddered, put-putting into the night like a scarab beetle that was shy three or four legs.

  "Better hurry. Bird, 'fore he works up a head of steam."

  The werewolf loped through the cemetery, his mouth watering.

  Jones chugged beer. "Surf's up, compadre," he yelled, staring up at the moon. "And it's one mean night-tide."

  The Lord of the Night slapped the reins, but the team of stallions could run no faster. He had put five miles between himself and the town, but, even so, he knew that he was far from safety.

  Behind him, he could hear the howling.

  And then, quite suddenly, he could feel the thing's breath, hot on his neck, and he turned and saw that the creature was racing at his side, keeping pace with his dark chariot, and all he could think of was a scene from one of those old Universal Studios monster movies —he couldn't remember which one — the Wolf Man, Lon Chaney, Jr., grabbing Bela Lugosi as the latter transformed himself into a bat, both of them plummeting into a dark ocean, lost forever, together, in the cold tides of eternity.

  The Lord of the Night had always admired Bela Lugosi. He had long emulated the most famous Dracula. If things were to end — here and now —he would find a way to take this hellish opponent with him, just as Lugosi had done in that aged film.

  There were a couple of problems with his plan.

  First off, he didn't have the slightest idea how to turn into a bat.

  Second, the nearest ocean was two hundred miles away.

  This was the desert.

  The werewolf slammed against the Veedub and felt it shudder, heard its engine scream.

  He couldn't help it when the hunger was on him. When the hunt roared in his blood, he'd dig up graves in search of an unpicked bone. In a pinch, he'd eat roadkill. Anything for the taste of flesh, preferably human. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help it.

  Worst of all, he loved to play with his food. And he was playing with the Veedub, and the man inside it.

  Kicking through the sand, he picked up speed. Raced to the front of the car. Reached out, slashed a bald tire with one deadly paw. He allowed himself the luxury of enjoying his victim's stunned expression, then he hit the Veedub one last time, pounded it hard with a well-muscled shoulder, rolled it good, watched it tumble through a dry forest of creosote brush and yucca, heard the music of busting glass and twisting metal, the percussion of exploding tires.

  An ocean of blood washed through his head. He remembered the echo of tumbling breakers in the California night. The salty perfume that rod
e the darkness beneath a blanket of cool fog.

  The scent of the ocean, like the scent of blood.

  It had happened a long time ago. All alone, in the glow of a moon that hung in the sky like a ripe grapefruit, he'd gone to ride a nightwave that smelled of salt and blood. But that night, surfboard held under his arm, he'd met a wolf on the beach.

  Now that night was in his blood forever, and he didn't have a surfboard anymore. He was a hunter now. It was his curse, his destiny, and he followed its scent through snags of creosote brush, under the spiked arms of yucca trees, until he came face to face with twin pits of fear gouged on a dying man's face, a cold pair of eyes that held nothing more than the most terrible of hungers.

  The wolf snarled. The man before him was not out to enjoy a pleasant evening. He was not a man with an eye for the peace of the ocean, the love of the wave. This man was a kidnapper. A sadist. And the wolf's nose told him that this man was more than that, for the scent of death and decay hung heavy over the abandoned mortuary which sat at the dark heart of the deserted town called Coyote Flats, just as it hung heavy on this sick man who would be a monster.

  The man looked up at the wolf. The car had collapsed around him, pinning him inside. Like a sardine packed for the grocer, he could not move at all.

  He opened his mouth, revealing teeth filed to deadly points, and just how much sick agony the man had enjoyed while performing such a task made the wolf shudder. A man like this, he'd probably enjoyed having a few teeth knocked out.

  The man hissed, "We should be brothers. Tooth...and nail."

  He sounded just like Bela Lugosi.

  "That's a pretty good imitation." The werewolf barked laughter. "But you've got to understand — I'm the real thing. You...you're just infringing on a copyright."

  Hearing these words, the man closed his eyes.

  And then there was only the scrape of sharp claws slicing weak metal, and the whisper of teeth cleaving flesh that was, also, much too weak.

  But the man refused to surrender his illusion.

  Dying, he screamed just like Bela Lugosi.

  He lingered over his meal, torturing the hunger that burned within him the same way the hunger had tortured him. He didn't realize how far he'd chased the Veedub until he started back toward Coyote Flats. By the time he reached the cemetery, the sun was on the rise, and he was nearly a man. Still, the woman screamed when she saw him.

  Jones was suffering a hangover. His eyes crossed up at the sound of the woman's wail. "Easy, baby," he said. "This is my partner. He's one of the good guys, just like me. Fact is, he's your knight in shining armor."

  Bird stared at the woman, at the ugly wound on her neck. It revolted him now, but he knew that hours earlier the same sight would have excited him.

  Jones turned a pot on the edge of a small campfire. The aroma of coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the dry scent of the desert. "You want a cup, Dog?"

  "No."

  "C'mon now. Every time we have to go through this feelin' guilty shit. Okay. Sometimes I can buy it, but this time? With this guy? Like they say —a man's gotta eat. Well, a werewolf's gotta eat, too, buddy. And last night you did the world a big favor, putting that sick asshole in your belly. I just hope he don't give you the trots, like that baby-killer up Seattle way did."

  Bird didn't say a word. He stared down at the shovel he'd used the night before, at the grave he'd nearly opened. Just like a dog in search of a bone, that's how strong his hunger had been. His full belly churned with misery and self-loathing, and he looked away.

  At the mortuary, at the rising sun cresting over the ruined building's warped roof-line. He closed his eyes, caught the scent. Stronger than the scent of coffee, the scent of the desert.

  There had to be at least ten of them down there. Maybe fifteen. Some of them had been dead for a long time. Others, not so long.

  Bird grabbed the shovel. Burying them was the least he could do. He started toward the mortuary.

  "Hey," Jones called. "We gotta get rolling —get this girl back to Vegas, collect our bounty from her boyfriend. I'm ready to hit the Strip, Bird. I want to do some howlin' of my own, and I want to do it tonight."

  Bird didn't look back.

  "Shit," Jones muttered. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, shivering against the morning cold.

  He wanted some bacon. Some eggs. Some coffee.

  He poured a cup from the pot.

  Handed it to the girl, wrapped a blanket over her shoulders.

  "Wait here," he said.

  Bird had made it to the front door of the place.

  Jones hurried after him.

  "You want to bury 'em, we'll bury 'em," he yelled. "But it ain't gonna be no six feet under, and I ain't sayin' no prayers. God knows why I buddied up with a self-righteous, pitiful creature like you, anyhow."

  The werewolf pushed through the front door.

  "You knew the risk," he said.

  Coming Soon: The Small Press Apocalypse

  I wrote "The Entourage" the same year Mike Tyson lost the heavyweight championship to Buster Douglas. That fight was one of the most stunning upsets I've ever seen, though it really shouldn't have surprised anyone. Tyson's demons had turned spotlights on the darker corners of his personality by the time he stepped into that ring in Tokyo, and even the good folks at HBO had pretty much given up trying to convince the world that Iron Mike was a reasonable facsimile of the rough 'n' tumble all-American boy.

  I never bought the hype about Tyson. In his prime he ranked among the best heavyweights of all time, but he was a bully at heart. There were snakes coiled in his brainpan. I tried to get some of that on paper in "The Entourage," which concerns a heavyweight boxer, the insular group of hangers-on that surrounds him, and the dark little world they've made for themselves.

  Since the story pretty much speaks for itself, I won't comment further here. Instead, let me take the opportunity to talk a little bit about another insular community that can be fraught with peril. I'm talking specifically about the world of small press publishing, and some of the dangers that world holds for an aspiring writer.

  Speaking of spotlights. I'd better get out my own while we're talking.

  Let me turn on that sucker and hit the high-beam.

  We're going to need it to see through the shadows... and the hype.

  First off, let me tell you how it was when I started out in the good old days—way back when in the early nineties.

  Back then, the big problem for beginning writers was getting published. The small press made that a little easier for some of us. The home computer had sparked a small press boom. Would-be editors were turning out little magazines, affording new writers the opportunity to get their feet wet. Now, some of those markets were better than others. Some of those little magazines lasted and some didn't. But the good ones that managed to stick around for awhile—say Cemetery Dance, or Deathrealm, or The Horror Show—really did impact the business. Their editors became gatekeepers of a sort. Often, they were the first ones to spot new writers who would later graduate to professional careers.

  I was one of those writers. I saw the small press as an opportunity to gain both experience for myself and attention for my work. My goal was to write good stories, get them published in the best markets I could manage, and show anyone paying attention to those markets that I could write on a professional level. Of course, I always submitted my work to pro markets first if those markets were open, but the small press was my fallback. My plan was simple: stake out my ground in the small press while I learned my trade, and at the same time bang on the "mainstream publishing" door until someone decided to let me in.

  That was one reason I did the original version of Mr. Fox. The book was a small press product, but I knew that a stand-alone collection might help me advance my career. Mr. Fox did just that. It sold well and received positive reviews. It won a Stoker. It got noticed. As a result, I got noticed, too, and I got on the map with a few New York editors.


  I was in a similar situation with my first novel. I'll have more to say about Slippin' into Darkness in the next chapter, but I'll give you the short version of the story here. I finished Slippin' and couldn't sell it to a New York publisher. Rich Chizmar published the book as an entry in his burgeoning Cemetery Dance book line. Apart from laying out the novel on his Mac, Rich produced the book using traditional publishing methods. He paid me an advance. He paid for offset printing. He paid for advertising. He paid to produce ARCs, or advanced reader copies (no-frills paperbacks that could be sent to reviewers before the hardcover was published).[38]

  In other words, Rich pretty much ran the New York playbook with my novel, but on a much smaller level. He only produced 500 copies of Slippin' into Darkness, but he still had quite an investment in the book in up-front costs. But Rich knew his market. He was developing a core group of dark suspense readers through his magazine, and many of them ordered copies of my novel directly. And those ARCs paid off better than we expected. The reviews of Slippin' were almost universally positive, and—beyond that—those reviews weren't limited to the small press. They appeared in traditional trade publications like Library Journal and Publishers Weekly, and that gave us a chance to attract buyers beyond Rich's customer base. Even though we only did 500 copies of the book, we were intent on reaching beyond the small press audience. We sold books to libraries and brick-and-mortar bookstores. In fact, we soon realized that we'd underestimated the sales potential of the novel—by the time the orders generated by those mainstream reviews rolled in from the big distributors, all copies of Slippin' were already sold, and quite a few orders went unfilled.

  In many ways, the above scenario became the standard operating procedure for selling small press product through the middle nineties. Rich continued producing books in the specialty press, gaining a strong foothold in the horror market. Kensington reprinted Slippin' as a mass-market paperback, and I went the NY route with my second and third novels, selling them to Berkley. Some of the small publishers—most notably Dark Harvest—faded away. New ones arrived on the scene—Subterranean, Golden Gryphon, and Night Shade among them.