Best New Vampire Tales (Vol.1)

by Laimo, Michael; Newman, James; Hults, Matt; Webb, Don; Meikle, William; Wilson, David Niall; Everson, John; Waggoner, Tim; Daley, James Roy

  Terry was caught off balance by the blow, and fell to the ground with a startled exclamation. Marcus stumbled, but with the grace of a true athlete, absorbed the imbalance, and turned to meet his attacker. His eyes looked like searchlights in the dark street as he saw Bill’s maddened face.

  “It’s Lissa’s dad,” he yelled to Terry, who clutched a knee on the ground. “Lay off asshole, or we’ll have you in jail,” the taller boy boasted, dodging a punch.

  But Bill wasn’t listening now. His body was on fire, his blood boiling, his head … hungry. He realized that even if he wanted to stop this, it had already gone to far. He had to have these kids.

  Now.

  He leapt at Marcus, ignoring the knife the boy pulled. He absently noted that the weapon lodged in his back as he and the boy fell to the ground. His voice seemed to slur as he pummeled the surprised teen’s face with his fists and at last vented his anger: “You killed my daughter, you bastards!”

  Reaching into his pocket with one hand, he brought out a shiny barrette. “Thought it was real cute to leave these on my doorstep, didn’t you?” Bill raged.

  Marcus let out one “holy shit” as Bill’s mouth opened to expose a set of elongated fangs. In the same instant, Bill brought the barrette down, lodging it in Marcus’ left eye. The boy shrieked an ungodly noise, and Bill felt rage electrify his body. He hated the sniveling creature beneath him. The boy had stolen his life.

  Something crashed into his back, knocking him off balance. Then hands were around his neck, trying to wrest him away from the boy on the ground. He looked up to see the frantic face of Terry, trying to use his weight to drag Bill down. He only laughed and clubbed the fat slacker in the side of the head, and Terry went down like a rifled deer.

  Then he turned back to Marcus, still writhing beneath him, hands covering his punctured eye. Bill felt a meanness he’d never known in life course through him like liquid fire and with his fist he beat at the boy’s hands, pounding the barrette deeper into the boy’s skull, until only a glint of metal remained visible amid the punctured white and red Campbell’s soup of the boy’s eye socket. Marcus’ screams turned to metronomic near silent hissing squeals. His arms dropped to the ground and his hands clenched and unclenched, his entire body spasming. Bill pulled the knife from his back without even a wince and began to stab his daughter’s killer in the heart, over and over and over again. With each thrust he hissed “you … killed … my … Lissa.”

  Marcus didn’t answer.

  Finally Bill stopped slicing and stared at the wreckage he’d made. Blood was smeared like an explosion of thick barbeque sauce across the boy’s face and his t-shirt lay in dark stained tatters across a torso wet with crimson ruin. The scent of sweet iron filled the air and Bill realized he was salivating. Drooling over the carcass of a murdering rapist. His face inched lower to the boy’s chest and he tried to pull back. But the pull of the scent was like a leash. The world faded out and all he could see was the slick red skin beneath him. He lapped at the chest wounds like a dog, and seconds later, Bill’s newly grown incisors were buried in the soft unmarked flesh of the boy’s neck. He sucked like a newborn babe on his mother’s teat, drawing the essence of Marcus within himself, mouthful by mouthful, suckling breath by breath.

  It was good, so good! As the liquor should have felt, that was how this blood was. He was floating in a garish maroon cloud of lust and drunkenness. Every touch, taste and emotion he’d lost upon his death combined in this hot elixir. Bill felt as if he was cumming, drinking an exquisite wine and laughing all at once.

  This was heaven.

  He was blinded to everything for a moment as the dying teen shuddered once more beneath him. With a fist he pounded the boy’s chest to still him and found that with each punch, the rush of heaven increased. So, long after the boy’s life had finally slipped away, Bill continued beating Marcus’ middle, cracking his ribs, and eventually, forcing some of those splintered bones through the skin.

  As the blood began to taste different, cooler, Bill pulled away from his drunken orgy and looked around. The night was still around them; amazingly, no one seemed to have been alerted from the boy’s screams earlier.

  Then, all at once, he saw that Terry had disappeared. He was loath to lift his mouth fully from his feast, but some last vestige of sanity forced him. He couldn’t let the other boy live. Rising from the carcass, he saw for a moment the slashed neck, the white tips of ribs hung with shreds of skin and blood, the white, rolled back eyes––one with a shiny barrette skewer. He pulled the knife from its soggy chest holster and then he was running down the alley.

  Terry would go home, he thought dimly, and home for the boy was only 10 or 12 more blocks, he knew. There were many times after the court trial that he had driven past Terry’s house, wishing fervently that he could stop and go inside and beat the living shit out of the little rapist who lived there. But he never could.

  He forced his feet faster; the neighborhood garages backing onto the alleyway became light blurs as he ran. And then he saw the blond head of the hobbling, injured boy, and the look of utter terror as Terry saw the bloody face charging towards him. Bill threw his body at the boy. Something cracked loudly as they hit the ground. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted the boy to feel the way that his daughter had.

  “How do you like your own medicine?” Bill whispered. Picking up a loose hunk of asphalt, he brought it down on the boy’s forehead, ruining that golden blond hair purity with spatters of blood. Terry moaned and Bill stood up, dragging the boy’s limp body with him.

  “Thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you?”

  He threw the boy against the steel pole of a fence and didn’t wait until the body had slumped back to the ground to yank it up again. Bill had never felt this strong in life. With one motion he slammed the body on the ground like a ragdoll and when one feeble hand reached out to stop him, he stood on the boy’s chest, grabbed the hand and yanked until with a loud pop it separated from the shoulder joint.

  “You were never good enough for my daughter,” he mumbled, and then retrieved the knife from the ground. Slicing through the boy’s shirt, belt and jeans, he stripped Terry and stared at the white folds of unconscious flesh beneath him.

  “And I’ll make sure you’ll never do it to anyone else.”

  With that he brought the knife down at the base of the boy’s shriveled penis, and pushed down. And sawed. And with a spew of blood and other fluids, he yanked and flipped the loosed sac of skin away.

  “Aaaawwwwhh,” the boy screamed, coming to just as Bill finished his castration. Again the knife went down, this time through the boy’s open mouth to bang with a jarring crack against the rocky asphalt beneath them.

  The scream trailed off to a choke, and Bill finally gave in to the lure that had been growing with every touch of his hand on Terry’s flesh. He could feel the life pulsing slower in the dying teen, and knew that he had to have what was left for his own. Pushing the knife handle out of his way, Bill bit down hard into the soft, warm flesh of Terry’s neck. Again the rush of heat, the ecstasy of orgasm, taste, life. He sucked the boy’s last life, and when the flood lessened to a trickle, he began pounding the boy’s torso, squeezing out the last drops into his own bloated belly.

  After a time, it was done.

  Bill sat back from the body as the fever receded in his brain. His stomach hung heavy and his whole body seemed suddenly weary. He wanted to lie down here, next to the battered corpse, and rest.

  But no.

  He shook his head, tried to clear his mind. The bodies would draw flies. And police. And he wanted neither near him. Pulling the remaining barrette from his body, he tossed it on the body, heaved himself to his feet, and shuffled back the way he had come, reaching his hotel room in the early hours of morning. He felt an odd discomfort as he collapsed on the bed, and reached to scratch his back. In moments he slipped into a coma-like sleep.

  * * *

  Bill woke the following night with
flies buzzing around his face. How had they gotten in this room? he wondered, lifting a hand to swat them away. The hand struck his face accidentally, and flopped back to the bed. He was getting stiff, he realized, and losing control of his muscles.

  “I’m dead,” he reminded himself aloud, but the words meant nothing. If he was dead, how could he be staring at the ceiling? How could he be swatting flies?

  How could he have killed two boys?

  He broke the thought but it came back anyway. He’d killed last night. Murdered! Lifting his hand again, he could see the dark stains of the boys’ blood. He had had his revenge.

  But if it had been heavenly at the moment of action, it didn’t taste sweet anymore. It didn’t taste at all. His mind cried with the enormity of his act. He had killed them both. Sucked the life from their bodies with his mouth. Whether they deserved it or not, their lives had not been his to take!

  But the memory of the blood––and its effect on him––made his body shiver. He realized with a twinge of fear that he only wanted one thing: to kill again.

  Rising slowly from the bed, he saw that he had stained the sheets with blood. It had pooled near his head and beneath his crotch. A thin smear of it seemed to cover the sheets, as if he’d sweated it out through every pore.

  The mirror said he had. The single bathroom bulb reflected off a purpling face and dusky reddish chest. His entire body seemed drenched in blood. Its sight didn’t leave him nauseous, as it would have but three days before. He did feel weak. And hungry. Or more accurately … thirsty.

  Stepping into the shower, he saw that his feet and calves had purpled. His penis lay half erect atop truly blue balls. Dead, he reminded himself. Three days dead. He must stink. As he rinsed the blood sweat from his bruised body, he gulped water from the showerhead. It was an unconscious ritual, but as soon as he had, he knew it was a bad move. He could feel it slosh into his belly, gurgle through his intestines. And moments later, a pinkish stream dribbled from his dick. At the same time, a brown-black sludge began dripping from his backside. He could vaguely smell the foul stench of shit and rotting meat as his bowels released to the drain. This frightened him. What if these excretions continued? He would be forced to rot away in this room. He couldn’t go out leaking sewage as he walked!

  But the drainage soon stopped. Bill shut off the tap and dried himself. Then he dropped his clothes into the tub and began to scrub the bloodstains out. When at last he stopped wringing them, the stains were dulled. Though not completely obliterated, people would notice that he was wearing wet clothes before they’d see the stains on them. Luckily he’d been wearing jeans and a dark t-shirt on the night of his death. When wet, they hardly showed stains at all.

  * * *

  The night was cool and quiet when Bill at last stepped onto the street from the dimly lit warrens of the cheap hotel. He should have been shivering in his wet clothes, but he wasn’t. He could feel the cold, but it didn’t affect him.

  He walked, at first without direction. Images of the dead boys appeared unbidden in his mind. He angrily replaced them with the memory of his violated daughter, open-eyed and still on the morgue table. If he’d been alive, the battling emotions of the two visions would have led to tears. But he only blinked dryly.

  He thought of the events that led to this: his own inaction, his wife’s dismissal. How could she cast him out after all they’d been through? How could he have let it get to the point where she wanted him to go? He thought of the last time she had made love to him. As he’d settled into bed she had left one light on, and unbuttoned her blouse. Piece by piece, she’d dropped her clothing on the floor, not saying a word. He’d watched with growing interest, as the pink tips of her breasts grew taut and she stripped off her panties, as the kinky brown hair below her belly shifted, as she strode purposefully toward him across the room. Neither had spoken as she lowered herself upon him without foreplay. She had taken him hard, moved atop him brutally, and removed herself slowly when he had at last released a telltale groan.

  And now she no longer wanted him in her house, let alone her bed.

  He was angered, excited, lustful, thirsty. And he realized that he stood outside of his home. The lights were off; she was probably already asleep. Was she glad he did not snore beside her? Or had she regretted her words after the first night alone?

  Quietly he eased open the screen door and tried his key. It still worked. The house was still, heavy. He moved through it slowly, not needing a light. How many times had he walked these halls, oblivious to life’s fatal chasms yawning all around? Somehow, in the past few months, he’d fallen into all of them. His daughter murdered, his marriage in ruins, his life taken, and he himself had turned killer. As he passed the living room, he saw the dark square of the family portrait on the piano. Those people don’t exist anymore, he thought, and stepped past.

  Cheryl was asleep. He stood at the foot of the bed watching her chest move, hearing the soft hiss of her breathing. He touched his own chest, and felt the stillness there. He moved closer, could see the soft chestnut hair trailing across her cheek, could see the white of her teeth, as they touched, just barely, the warm blush of her lip. Could smell the heat of her blood pumping steadily through every artery, sending a reek of heady life through her pores. This, he could sense. With a trembling hand he touched her hair; she stirred.

  The fire in his heart was growing again, feeding his anger at losing this, at losing her. This time he felt his fangs protruding, felt his erection at the nearness of bloody orgasm.

  She turned on her back in her sleep, one nipple peeking seductively from the edge of the sheet. He leaned in to bite her, to steal her lifeblood. Yes. She should be even better to take than the boys. He would take her in lust and in love. As his teeth brushed her flesh, she murmured, “Bill?” in her sleep. Her voice was slurred, but seemed surprised and … happy?

  No!

  From somewhere beyond the vampiric haze, Bill found the strength to throw his body to the floor beside the bed. He had killed the boys for revenge, and what pleasure did he have for it now? Guilt. They were rotten kids, but killing them had solved nothing. They had no chance to atone for their crime. And Lissa was still dead. He was still dead––in fact, probably rotting faster for their infusion.

  If he stole Cheryl’s life now … Could she perhaps still find happiness, without him, without Lissa? Could he steal the chance from her, for a selfish moment of necrotic passion?

  No! He rolled back and forth on the white carpet, inches from Cheryl, fighting back his instinct, struggling with his thirst. He could smell her, almost taste her. The nearness, the memories, the anticipation of her hot kisses, her hot blood! It was too much. His chest spasmed, his nose sucked air, just a breath. And from behind his drooping eyelids, a tear fell to stain the carpet red. In the morning, Cheryl would see it and wonder.

  He took some fresh clothes from his closet, lingered a moment at her bed. “Goodbye,” he whispered. “Be happy again.” He went quickly then, to the only place he could think of to go. The alley by Ales Head Tavern.

  “Lawrence?” he called into the dark narrow street. “Lawrence, are you here?”

  There was no answer. Bill leaned against the brick back of an old store, slowly slid to the ground. Even the companionship of his killer was denied. He thought of the power of the bloodlust, felt it still, and forgave the bum for killing him. If it had been anyone but Cheryl, if he’d had an ounce less control, he would have killed tonight. He still might. But not her.

  * * *

  There was a shift, something sliding. The hollow metallic ring of the dumpster. From the shadow of the ancient alley, a lurching shape appeared. Even Bill’s dead senses could smell the stench. The bloated man sunk to the street beside him. Bill could see the black and green slime that was once a face shivering, rippling. The figure reached a skeletal finger to its head, pried open its mouth. As the hand dropped, it scraped the shivering ooze of its cheek, releasing a stream of white, wriggling maggots.
Bill cringed.

  “Pretty, heh?” the bum gargled, almost unintelligibly. “Not long, not long now. Had your revenge?”

  “Yeah,” Bill whispered. “And yes, the price is too high.”

  “Going to … ” Lawrence choked, spat a stringy stream to the ground. “Going to give someone else the chance?”

  “No,” Bill replied firmly.

  They sat silent for a while, occasionally kicking at rats which tried to steal the meat of their decaying, yet still animated flesh.

  “Tell me,” Bill said suddenly. “How did you … get taken? How many did you kill?”

  Lawrence’s sagging, rippling face turned toward Bill. One eye glinted whitely in the streetlight. The other socket appeared empty. “Tell me first; will you drink again?”

  “How can I not?”

  Lawrence’s head shook stiffly, sadly.

  “The more you take, the faster you’ll go.”

  * * *

  The echo of an Ales Head Tavern barkeep bellowing “last call” lingered over the alley as two rotting vampires quietly fought their thirsts and began to share the night with stories of when they were alive.

  The taste was as bittersweet as blood.

  The New Racism

  JAMES NEWMAN

  The more things change, the more they stay the same.

  Old saying, source unknown.

  “Momma, I’m scared.” Little Cecil’s sandpaper voice came at her from the gathering darkness, startling her out of her reverie.

  She looked at him, her eyes wet. The poor child––it wasn’t fair. He had seen things, such horrible things, been through more pain and terror than most people ten times his age.