Beware the Ninja Weenies

by David Lubar

  The problem is, vampires might be undead, and cold-blooded, and centuries old, but there’s one way they’re a lot like us—they get tired of the same old routine. They love to go on vacation. We get flooded with vampires during the dark period, when they aren’t in danger of being crisped by the sun.

  Every year at this time, they’re all over the place. They try to act like they’re just regular people. Two or three years ago, I found a booklet that one of them had accidentally left behind, with tips for blending in with the residents. It explained stuff like how to dress as if you could feel the cold, and how to talk about local issues. But as hard as they try to avoid notice, they don’t fool us. You can spot one easily enough. Luckily, for the most part, they behave themselves, since they don’t want us to get so annoyed that we start hunting them down. But they aren’t always able to resist temptation, which is why the rules are so important.

  On the positive side, they spend a lot of money here, which is good for the economy. So we deal with the annual invasion. We wear crosses, rub ourselves with garlic, and make sure never to invite a stranger inside. Because it’s true—a vampire can’t enter your house without permission.

  It was a Saturday afternoon, right near the end of the dark period. My parents had gone off to the store for groceries. I’d decided to wash my hair. The colder it gets outside, the more I appreciate hot water. But I still didn’t want to get myself totally wet. So I bent over the sink in the kitchen and used the sprayer to soak my head.

  I have great hair. I’m not bragging. It’s a fact. Mom has great hair, too, so I guess I got it from her. After I worked up the lather, I started playing around. I guess I was just as bored as the vampires. First, I made myself look like a punker with a mohawk. I snarled at my reflection in the side of the toaster, trying to act like a rock star with a bad attitude.

  Then I swirled my hair into two buns, like Princess Leia in the old Star Wars movie. I’d just started turning my head into the Statue of Liberty’s crown when the doorbell rang.

  Oh, great.

  Statue of Liberty is a totally secret game I’ve never told anyone about. Not even my best friend. I make spikes in my hair that look just like Lady Liberty’s crown. Then I stand there with a towel draped around my shoulders like a robe and welcome immigrants to America. I make up stories about their struggles and about the good fortune they’ll find in the land of the free. Sometimes I tuck a book under my arm. But the books get wet if I’m not careful, so I don’t do that very often.

  The doorbell rang again.

  I was tempted to ignore it. But it could be my parents. Dad had a habit of forgetting stuff, including his house key. Maybe he’d come back for it. It was about twenty degrees below zero outside, so I knew he and Mom wouldn’t appreciate waiting.

  I draped a towel around my shoulders and went down the hall to the entryway. There’s no glass in the front door, so I had to open it.

  It wasn’t my parents. It was that annoying boy, Barton Holdrup, from down the street. He was standing on the front porch, shivering.

  “What?” I asked.

  “My house is on fire. I need to use your phone.”

  That was terrible. Fires were one of the worst things that could happen when it got really cold. It’s hard to spray water when everything freezes so quickly. “Come in!” I stepped back and opened the door.

  As Barton walked inside, three thoughts hit me all at once. First, I didn’t smell smoke. The air here is so crisp and clean, any smell stands out. Barton’s house was less than a quarter mile down the road. Second, Barton always has his cell phone with him. We all do. Even if he didn’t, he’d probably risk getting burned to grab it before he ran out of the house. We all would. Third, he was looking pretty pale.

  Barton smiled, and revealed his fangs.

  I might not have totally broken rule number three when I invited him in—he wasn’t really a stranger—but he’d obviously stopped being Barton. I had a feeling his transformation had happened very recently. He was probably hunting for his first blood. But this was no time to think things over, since it was obvious he wanted that first blood to come from me.

  I had to get away.

  Vampires are fast. Not as fast as in the movies, but faster than anyone would like them to be. He probably expected me to run into the house and try to hide, or block off my bedroom door while I called for help. I was pretty sure that would be a bad move. Vampires are also strong. Not as strong as in the movies, but definitely strong enough to break down a door.

  I couldn’t outrun or outfight him. I needed to outsmart him. That should be possible. It was Barton, after all. He was stronger and faster, now that he was one of the undead, but he wasn’t any smarter.

  Instead of zigging toward the hallway, I zagged right out the front door.

  The bitter cold air slashed at the exposed skin of my face and hands. I could feel the damp towel start to freeze around my neck. Too bad that wouldn’t be enough to stop a vampire’s bite. He’d tear through the cloth like a wolf through a rabbit.

  I ran, not risking the time it would take to look back. I heard footsteps behind me, crunching on the snow. Good. At least he hadn’t been a vampire long enough to learn how to skim the ground.

  Where to go? The nearest house was thirty yards down the road. I’d never reach it before he caught me. The garage was no good. If I went there, I’d be trapped inside, without any place to hide. Suddenly, leaving the house seemed like the worst idea of my life.

  The footsteps got closer. The air bit at me like a million piranhas made of ice. Each breath I took stabbed into my lungs like a dagger, or a sharp stake.

  Stake!

  That was my only chance. And it wasn’t going to be fun.

  I slid to a stop and spun around to face Barton. He was racing toward me with his mouth wide open. I screamed and held up my hands, like I was trying to stop him.

  He leaped at me, arms spread to grab my shoulders.

  Here goes. I was about to risk my neck.

  I bent over just enough to put my head at the same level as his chest. He slammed into me. Two screams ripped the air as I got knocked back by the impact.

  I screamed in terror, and also disgust, as I felt a spike of frozen hair on top of my head sink into Barton’s body. He screamed because one of the few things that hurts a vampire is a stake through the heart. Or, in my case, a frozen spike. At least my neck didn’t snap.

  Now I had a problem. To kill a vampire, you have to leave the stake in his heart and then cut his head off. I wasn’t really eager to do either of those things. So I was stuck. Literally. And so was Barton. A real stake would have paralyzed him, but it looked like frozen hair was good enough to slow him down.

  I took a step forward, pushing at him. He took a step backward, offering no resistance. He was howling a bit, but not as loudly as before. Staying bent over, I walked all the way to my house. Then I turned him around and backed up, keeping my fists clenched on his shirt so I could pull him along. It felt weirdly like we were dancing.

  When I reached the door, I said, “Barton, I take back my permission. You can’t enter my house.” I wasn’t sure whether that would work, but I couldn’t think of anything else to try. I groped behind myself until I felt the edge of the open door. I grabbed it with one hand and put the other against his chest. Then I gave a hard push.

  Barton toppled backward, sliding free of the spike. I wasn’t sure what would happen next. I got ready to slam the door and make a run for my cross and garlic.

  Barton lay where he’d fallen, clutching his chest. “Man, that hurt.”

  “Are you coming after me?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I can’t. You took back the permission.”

  I was glad to hear my idea had worked. “How’d it happen?”

  He shrugged. “I broke a couple of the rules. I wanted to hang out with the vampires. They’re so awesome. I figured I’d be okay. My mistake.” He got to his feet. “Well, I guess I’d better head
out of here. It’s not going to be dark all that much longer.”

  “Bye…,” I said.

  “Bye. Sorry about trying to drain your blood. I’m new at this.” He gave me a little wave. “See you next year.”

  Next year? Oh, great. I had a feeling I needed to start paying more attention to the rules. Or washing my hair every night. I thought about telling Mom she needed to change rule number five. Clean hands wouldn’t have saved my life. But I decided it was better not to tell her anything at all.

  DOG GONE

  It is a tedious process, but one I only need to perform three or four times a year. People might think I’d need to do it far more often, but people are wrong about that. People are wrong about many things. That’s good. It helps me stay safe.

  Three and a half months have passed since the last time. So the moment has come. First, I have to find the house.

  That part takes the longest. The house needs to be just right. It has to be unoccupied, of course. I could select a house with a single occupant, but that would lead to an investigation, since people notice these things when a home owner is involved. And the whole point of this exercise is to avoid notice. I always try to avoid making any sort of waves. I’m very good at that. I’ve had many years of practice.

  So I went house hunting. After three days, I found the perfect place. It was on a quiet street, with no house directly opposite it. The houses on either side were separated from it by rows of dense evergreens. I am quite fond of the blue spruce. It blocks light and absorbs sound.

  Next, I needed the dog. That was the easy part. But not as easy as it might seem. I required one that was friendly and approachable. Small, but not too small. The very small dogs tend to cower and hide.

  I found a stray running loose in the city. He looked to be part sheltie. I fed him and petted him. He licked my hand. Good. He’d be perfect.

  Last, I made tags for his collar. I have a machine for that. It’s just a mechanical press with movable letters. It takes a while to set up the words, since each letter has to be placed in a slot by hand, but I’m patient. Very patient.

  “What shall we call you?” I asked as I sorted through the small letters in the tray. “Spot? Rover?”

  He stared at me, tongue out, nose moist, eyes alert.

  “No. Something cuter,” I said. “I have it. You shall be Scooter. How adorable.”

  I plucked the necessary letters from the tray and set them in the first line of the press. I placed the address of the house in the next two lines. I stamped the tag and then attached it to the collar I’d bought the other day.

  That evening, I dropped Scooter off a half dozen blocks away. Then I returned to the house and waited.

  Sometimes it takes hours. If it grew too late, I’d go find Scooter and try again the next evening. This time, the doorbell rang less than half an hour after I got back.

  A boy stood on the porch, with Scooter cradled in one arm. “Mister, is this your dog?” he asked.

  I smiled at him, but made sure not to open my mouth. My fangs were already growing. The thought of a meal was enough to make them spring forth. I was hungry, and eager to feed. My veins and arteries hummed in anticipation.

  I stepped back. He stepped forward. I led him inside. He had no idea what was about to happen. There was no hint of fear in his eyes or heart. That was good. I’m not fond of the smell of fear, or the taste it leaves behind.

  Once he was fully inside, I seized him and drank his blood. I was quick and merciful. He didn’t suffer. Then I hid the body deep in the woods, where it would never be found. I’m very good at that, too.

  I went back to the house to pick up Scooter, of course. I had already made sure to find a good home for him, in a loving family with two young children. There was no way I’d abandon the poor dog. It’s not like I’m some sort of monster.

  A WORD OR TWO ABOUT THESE STORIES

  As always, I’ll wrap things up by revealing how I got the idea for each of these stories. Be warned—there are many spoilers here.

  Playing Solo

  After playing a marathon session of the original Gears of War, I imagined a kid who was so wrapped up in a game that he didn’t notice what was happening in the real world. (I’ll admit I often get totally absorbed in playing games or reading books. Sometimes I even get swallowed up by writing stories.) There’s added irony when the events in the world—in this case, an alien invasion—are similar to those of the game.

  Gorgonzola

  When I visit schools, I’m often asked, “What’s your favorite cheese?” (I’m also asked about my favorite pie.) I guess people expect an answer like “American” or “cheddar.” But my taste in cheeses runs similar to my taste in roller coasters and short stories. I like extreme ones—the sort that strike terror in the majority of folks. I like runny, stinky, horrifying cheeses. So it’s not unusual to have some Stilton or Gorgonzola in the fridge. I was looking at a label one day, and it hit me that Gorgonzola contained Gorgon. (I like wordplay even more than cheese.) It was easy to go from there to thinking how Gorgons could make Gorgonzola. (As for pie—sour cherry.)

  Blowout

  As faithful Weenies fans know, one of my main sources of inspiration is my “what-if” file. I start each workday by writing a question. Then, when I’m looking for an idea, I scan through the file, hoping one of the entries will intrigue me or spawn further thoughts. (The “what-if” itself is just a scaffold or a seed. I need to build on it or let it grow to have a full story.) In this case, the question was, What if a kid could blow out stars? I loved the image of stars blinking out. I loved the image even more when I realized the closest star wouldn’t be immune to the magic.

  Christmas Carol

  The title inspired the story. I’m not sure why, but my mind likes to take common phrases and find new meanings in them. Sometimes, as in this case, the phrase is left intact. Other times, as in the story “The La Brea Toy Pits” (from an earlier collection) or “Little Bread Riding Hood,” the words get twisted into a pun. From there, it became a “be careful what you wish for” sort of story. Except it twisted in the opposite direction from the typical wish tale, which I think makes it kind of charming and fun.

  Thresholds of Pain

  Writers of speculative fiction tend to love carnivals, sideshows, and other collections of the amazing and the bizarre. I was thinking about sideshows when it hit me that an alien might fit into one quite nicely. The story gets a bit more graphic than most, and I was a bit worried that I might have gone too far. But I think it’s okay. Interestingly enough, right before I did my last revision pass on this book, I saw a sideshow performer drive a nail up his nose.

  Smart Food

  Since I made fun of vegans in a story a while ago, I figured I should give the vegetables equal time to state their case. After all, everything we eat was once alive. (At least, everything we’re supposed to eat. Crayons don’t count.) I guess this is as good a time as any to point out that just because I make fun of something doesn’t mean I’m against it. I make fun of nerds in lots of my stories, and I’m definitely one myself.

  The Art of Alchemy

  I came up with the ending first. The hard part was, once I knew what I wanted to have happen, I had to figure out a way to get the characters to a place that had lead, water, and fire. This sort of problem can get tricky. If a writer doesn’t do the job well, people will say that the story feels contrived. That’s a great word to know, as long as you promise never to use it to describe my stories.

  Magnifying the Tragedy

  I’m ashamed to admit, given how icky it is, that this is another case where I started with the idea of the ending. Let’s leave it at that.

  Sweet Dreams

  “What if a kid were given some irresistible candy?” That’s how it started. Actually, and sadly, there are times when I find all candy to be irresistible. (I try to make sure I’m never left alone with large quantities of peanut butter cups or malted milk balls.) But this was only part of an
idea. So what if candy is irresistible? There has to be more at stake. As always, the plot could go in a thousand directions. I’m sure you can think of all sorts of ways, both funny and scary, to write about a character who has a bag of candy she can’t keep from eating.

  Chipmunks off the Old Block

  Chipmunks definitely are goofy. At least, they appear to be goofy. Since I like to turn things around, I figured it would be fun to write a story where the chipmunks turned out to be so brilliant that they appeared to be distracted. I know when I’m deep in thought, I can act goofy or distracted.

  Stuck Up

  I remember, back when I was in elementary school, kids would talk about what happened if you swallowed your gum. When I was really little, I pictured some sort of gears getting clogged. This story almost ended darkly. When Gilbert was about to cross the street, my first thought was he’d get stuck in traffic. But sometimes, the first thought is a bit too obvious. I like to explore my options—especially when it comes to endings. I’m glad I took the time. Even though it’s funny, this ending is also much more horrifying than my first thought. Some of you might wonder whether Gilbert will get rescued by his parents. I guess they’ll eventually realize he hasn’t come home. But I didn’t want to slow down the story by explaining why they weren’t around.

  The Snow Globe

  I came up with the idea of a snow globe that made real snow fall. That, by itself, might not be enough for a story—unless the snow never stopped falling. Happily, a second idea appeared. This happens a lot when I’m thinking about a story and don’t feel the idea is strong enough by itself.

  The Iron Wizard Goes A-Courtin’

  This came straight from the “what-if” file. I pictured a wizard turning to iron so he could walk through fire, and then turning back a bit too soon. As with “The Art of Alchemy,” the hard part was setting up the ending. In this case, I had to figure out why he would turn back to flesh so quickly.

  Fortunate Accidents