Attack of the Vampire Weenies

by David Lubar

  Every time I closed my eyes, I saw black cats with glowing yellow eyes. Slitted goat’s eyes. Long fangs dripping saliva. Claws clotted with bits of slashed flesh. The cat in the story had only one eye. I didn’t even want to think about how he’d lost the other one. I love cats. I love all animals—all living things, really—except for wasps and snakes. But this cat that slinked through my mind was scary.

  “Happy birthday,” Mom said when I came down to the kitchen the next morning. “Sleep well?”

  I shrugged. Birds had started chirping by the time I’d finally drifted off.

  She poured a glass of orange juice for me, then got to work on her special blueberry pancake batter. “Uncle Roderick called. He’s going to be here at noon with your present.”

  I hope it’s not another story.

  While we ate breakfast, Mom gave me my presents, including the ones my other uncles and aunts had sent. I got all sorts of nice stuff—lots of clothes, some gift certificates, and a pretty coral necklace from one of my aunts. But I couldn’t get that story out of my mind. As soon as he showed up, I planned to tell Uncle Roderick how inappropriate his gift was.

  When the doorbell rang, I raced down the hall. But it wasn’t Uncle Roderick. It was Leslie-Anne Heskith, standing on my porch with her mom right behind her.

  Leslie-Anne had a badly wrapped present in her hands and a barely hidden frown on her lips.

  “Go ahead,” her mom said, giving Leslie-Anne a little push.

  “Happy birthday,” Leslie-Anne muttered with the same tone of voice a person would use to say, “Drink some poison.” She shoved the box at me.

  I took it with the enthusiasm of someone who knows she’s drinking poison. “Thanks.”

  Leslie-Anne didn’t like me. I didn’t like her. She could be real mean to other kids when there weren’t any adults around. And she was still angry that I’d gotten the lead role in the play last year. But our moms were friends, so I couldn’t always avoid her.

  I opened the box. It was a small mirror. That part was fine. But the frame was sort of creepy. It had a guy’s face and shoulders carved at the top. The rest of the frame was made of his arms. Leslie-Anne’s grandfather owns this shop full of antiques and old junk. I think she does all her birthday shopping there, taking stuff nobody would buy.

  “You like mythology, right?” Leslie-Anne said.

  “Yeah.” That was true. But I was interested in Egypt, Greece, and places like that. This looked—well, it just looked weird.

  “It’s an ancient snake god,” she said.

  “I see.” I took another look at the arms. Yup—they were snakes. Their heads wrapped around each other at the bottom of the mirror. Great. Just what I’d always wanted. “Uh, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Leslie-Anne squirmed free of her mom’s grip and scooted away.

  I went upstairs and put the mirror on the table next to my bed. I wanted to toss it in a drawer, but I figured Mrs. Heskith would ask to see it the next time she visited my mom.

  The doorbell rang again. Uncle Roderick was on the porch, holding my present. I froze, stared, and forgot all my plans to tell him what I felt about that story.

  “Happy birthday,” he said. “It would have been cruel to wrap him.”

  I wanted to shout, For me? But I was afraid the answer would be no. This all seemed impossible.

  He held the cat up. “Go ahead. Take him.”

  Afraid it was some sort of trick, I reached out and put my hands on either side of the cat. His fur was soft, but I could feel muscle and bone beneath it.

  I’d always wanted a cat. But not a black one with fur so dark, it seemed to swallow the sunlight. Not after last night.

  “Did you ask Mom?” I said.

  He nodded. “Of course. I’d never do something to annoy my sister. She can be quite fond of revenge.”

  Mom came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. “We did have a bit of a discussion,” she said. “But your uncle convinced me that you’re old enough to be responsible for a pet.”

  Uncle Roderick let go and stepped back. I held the cat closer. He wasn’t all grown up, but he wasn’t quite a kitten, either. He purred and stared up at me with green eyes. Two of them. No slits. No fangs. No flesh on his claws. He didn’t seem evil.

  “What’s wrong?” Uncle Roderick asked. “I thought you’d be floating in mid-air and making little high-pitched squealing sounds.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I love him.” I bent my head down and rubbed my cheek against the soft black fur. The cat purred even louder and sniffed my ear. “Uh, Uncle Roderick?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you read the story before you gave it to me?”

  “I think I read it many years ago,” he said. “I don’t remember most of it. But I wanted to give you a nice hint about your present, and the man in the bookstore told me this was a classic. Why?”

  “Nothing.” I went back to nuzzling my cat. I also silently forgave my uncle for not paying enough attention to the sort of books he picked for me.

  “He needs a name,” Uncle Roderick said.

  I didn’t even have to think about it. “Loki.” That seemed perfect. Cats get into mischief, and Loki was the Norse trickster god.

  “Good choice,” Uncle Roderick said. “But wait! There’s more.” He went back to his car to get the food bowl, litter box, scratching post, and other cat-related items he’d stashed in his trunk. It took three trips for him to bring everything inside.

  “Happy?” he asked when he was finished.

  “Happy,” I said. I put Loki down on the couch next to me. He paced around for a moment, then crawled into my lap, kneaded my leg, and fell asleep.

  Definitely happy.

  “You’re not like that cat in the story,” I whispered.

  Loki’s ears twitched, but he didn’t wake up.

  That night, Loki came upstairs and followed me down the hallway to my bedroom.

  “This is where we sleep.” I patted the mattress. “Come on, Loki. Come in.”

  He stared at me from just outside the doorway. Then he hissed. It wasn’t a little hiss. His mouth was open so wide, I could see all his teeth. I let out a yelp and backed away. Loki hissed again. The hair on his back bristled and his tail curled under his body. I could almost imagine him leaping on my face and clawing my eyes.

  I slammed my door.

  The book, The Black Cat, was still on the table next to my bed. I picked it up and put it in my drawer. I didn’t want to think about evil cats.

  All night, I kept waking up. I heard sounds. Faint tapping and scratching. Maybe he was trying to get in. I pulled the covers up as far as they would go, and tried to ignore the sounds.

  The next morning, Loki woke me up by purring in my ear. I sat up, startled. I guess Mom had opened the door when she went past.

  I looked at him. “No more hissing?”

  He licked his paw and groomed his face.

  Okay. That’s better. I scratched him behind the ear. He closed his eyes and pushed his head against my fingers.

  Loki followed me around for most of the day. He also slept a lot, right in a sunny patch that came through the window. I knew cats did that. Even when they’re asleep, they look so pretty.

  I thought everything was fine. But Loki hissed at me again when I went to bed that night. I slammed the door and tried to calm myself as I got ready to go to sleep.

  Loki scratched at the door.

  I ignored the sound.

  He scratched harder.

  My stomach clenched. I’m the human, I told myself. I’m in charge. I opened the door and stared at him. There was no way I was hiding in my room.

  He hissed and took a step toward me. I backed away a step.

  He took another step.

  “Loki!” I yelled. “Stop that right now!”

  I thought about the black cat in the story. I thought about all the evil things that happened. Every scary story I’d ever read tumbled through my mi
nd. Suddenly, I knew I’d made a mistake opening the door. Somehow, this black cat was going to hurt me. Badly. Maybe even kill me.

  He was inside the room now. It was too late to try to close the door.

  I looked around for something I could hold to protect myself. I couldn’t let him get to my eyes. I reached for a pillow.

  Loki’s hiss turned into a yowling snarl. He leaped straight at my face.

  I screamed and ducked. He flew right past my shoulder.

  I heard a crash.

  I spun toward my bedside table. Loki was there, growling. His head was down. He’d knocked the mirror flat and was biting at it.

  No. He wasn’t biting the mirror. He was biting something that was coming through the glass. Something that wriggled and whipped, trying to escape his jaws.

  A snake.

  Loki had his teeth locked on its head. He yanked his own head hard, pulling the snake from the mirror. I could see other snakes behind it—dozens more—bumping against the glass like they were trying to come through.

  Loki shook the snake. I heard a snap, like a tiny firecracker. He opened his mouth and let the snake fall to the table.

  It wasn’t like any snake I’d ever seen. It had a head like a wasp, and small barbs along its spine. Its tail forked three ways. One part ended in a rattle. The other two ended in stingers.

  Loki batted at the snake. It rolled an inch or two, limp and obviously dead. A motion caught my eye. More snakes had gathered near the surface of the mirror, tapping at the glass, scratching against the surface, trying to push through. Loki batted at the mirror. It fell off the table and broke. No more snakes slithered out.

  Loki clamped his jaws around the body of the dead snake and padded out of the room. I picked up the broken pieces of the mirror and put them in my trash can. Then I snapped the frame. The instant I broke it, it crumbled to dust in my hands.

  Loki came back ten minutes later. I didn’t want to know what he’d done with the body.

  “You saved me.” I stroked his head and neck as he settled down on my bed.

  He purred, as if to say, No big deal. That’s what cats do.

  Yeah. Cats aren’t evil. I looked at my drawer, where I’d stashed the book. Then I glanced at the trash basket next to my bed. Nope. I loved books too much to throw one out—even if it was too scary for me.

  But I knew exactly what I was going to do with it.

  “Guess who has a birthday next week,” I told Loki.

  I lifted the curtain and looked out the window toward Leslie-Anne’s house. “And guess what I’m giving her for a present.”

  Sweet dreams, Leslie-Anne, I thought as I slipped under my blanket and cuddled with my fabulous, heroic, and not-at-all-evil black cat.

  LITTLE GUYS

  “Check this out,” Avery said as he walked into his room. He pointed to the corner opposite his bed. “I got the whole thing last week.”

  “Cool trains,” Jasper said.

  “And my grampa just sent me something to add to my set.” Avery held up the opened box that he’d unwrapped right before Jasper came over. “It’s all in scale. That means everything is the right size, but just shrunk down.” He put the model house on the tracks next to the train.

  “Can I run it?” Jasper asked.

  “After me.” Avery threw the switch that powered the train. The locomotive pulled its three cars around the oval track past trees and barns and miniature chickens. Then he pushed the switch the other way, and the train ran backwards.

  “My turn?” Jasper asked.

  “In a minute.” Avery ran the train forward and backwards around the track three more times. He really liked running it, but he knew Jasper would get angry if he didn’t share.

  He was just about to give Jasper his turn when his friend shouted, “Hey, there’s something inside there!”

  “What?”

  “Look.” Jasper pointed at the model house.

  “You’re crazy.” Avery scrunched down and peeked inside. “Wow! You’re right!” he shouted when he saw the tiny man. “There’s someone there.”

  “Let me see.” Jasper squeezed in next to Avery.

  “Don’t push.” Avery scooted over and made some room for Jasper, but he didn’t take his eyes from the window. He spotted several more people in the house.

  “Cool,” Jasper said. “Hey, I know. Let’s put the house on the tracks.”

  “Yeah, that would be awesome.” Avery picked up the house and set it across the tracks right behind the train.

  “It’s my idea. Can I run the train?” Jasper asked.

  “Next time.” Avery got the train running at full speed. It shot around the track and smacked into the house. The collision knocked the train off the rails and sent the house tumbling halfway across the room.

  “Crash!” Avery said.

  “Cool!” Jasper shouted.

  Avery picked up the house and looked inside. The people were still in the room, but they were all lying down. They weren’t moving.

  “Oh man,” he said. “I think I broke something inside.”

  “Will your grampa get you another?” Jasper asked.

  “Sure. He sends me stuff all the time. I’ll just tell him—”

  Avery never finished his sentence. A giant ripping sound tore through the room. The floor tilted at a crazy angle.

  “What?” Jasper gasped.

  Avery staggered as the house rose into the air. He barely got out of the way of his bed when it slid across the sloping floor and smashed into the wall.

  Earthquake? Avery wondered. Tornado?

  The room had gotten dark. Avery looked out the window. A giant finger lay across the lower half. The finger shifted, and a face appeared.

  “Put us down!” Avery shouted. “Please.” He kept shouting and begging. But the face, giant as it was, was a face much like his own. His own age. His own smile whenever he thought of something cool to do. The eyes were a different color, and the hair was longer, but that didn’t matter. It was a face he knew well. It was a face without mercy.

  A CURE FOR THE UNCOMMON VAMPIRE

  People hate me because I’m so much smarter than they are. It’s not just the kids in my class. My teachers hate me, too. They all want to be the smartest person in the room. But they can’t be that. Not when I’m around. So they hate me. I don’t care.

  I’m bored out of my mind in school. I spend the time thinking up inventions. I’ve come up with three ways to end world hunger and two ways to eradicate malaria, but I haven’t shared my ideas. People don’t deserve to benefit from my brilliance. It serves them right for hating me.

  I was sitting in science class, listening to Mr. Hackmire talk about photosynthesis, when the best idea I’ve ever had hit me. There might be a way to use a similar chain of chemical reactions to cure vampirism. Nobody else would ever make the connection. That just shows how brilliant I am.

  I know most people don’t believe in vampires. But last year, I did a study of them, because they intrigue me. I gathered all the information I needed about populations around the world, and wrote a computer program to analyze the data. There was a definite anomaly. Some populations shrank more than they should, as if members were being picked off. And some groups lived far longer than they should, on average, as if certain people were immortal. Or, at least, immortal until you drove a stake into their heart or dragged them into the burning rays of the sun.

  Vampires and I have a lot in common. I was born smart. Vampires live for centuries, so they have plenty of time to learn things and become very smart. I don’t fit in with other people. Neither do vampires. I don’t care what happens to people. Their pain doesn’t concern me. I like darkness. The list goes on and on. And now, I knew how to cure the vampires of their affliction. They’d worship me.

  By the time Mr. Hackmire finished drawing a shaky picture of a leaf on the board, I’d worked out a complete theory, inspired by photosynthesis, but also drawing on a half-dozen concepts from molecular biology, organic
chemistry, and particle physics. I had to force myself not to race out of the room and get started immediately. Luckily, it was Friday, so I could devote the entire weekend to my project.

  The instant I got home, I began perfecting my formula. It required a variety of amino acids, as well as several inorganic ingredients and trace amounts of three rare-earth metals. Fortunately, I have a well-stocked lab. My parents didn’t disturb me. They learned long ago that it was best to leave me alone when I was busy with a project.

  I stayed up all night Friday and worked straight through the next day. By Saturday evening, I had the formula. It was a thick brown liquid, incredibly concentrated. A single drop on the tongue would turn a vampire back into a human. I suspected the transition would be painful, but the pain would only last ten or fifteen minutes. After that short stretch of agony, the vampire could return to a normal life as a human. I rarely smile, but the absolute brilliance of my creation made me grin.

  Now I just had to test my solution. I knew beyond any doubt that it would work. But knowing wasn’t good enough. I had to see it work. I needed validation.

  I still had my vampire studies on my hard drive. I was almost positive there was vampire activity nine miles from here, in Rackham Hills. The actual victims were spread over a wide area, but it was trivial to trace the center of this vampirism back to its source. This was perfect. I could travel to Rackham Hills on my bicycle. I often go for long rides when I want to get away from people.

  Sunday afternoon, an hour before sunset, I placed a vial of the cure in my jacket pocket and told my parents I was going out to observe the occlusion of Venus by Jupiter. That was nonsense, of course, but it amused me that they had no clue.

  I took back roads to the southern edge of Rackham Hills. The most obvious place for the vampires to hide was an abandoned building. The most obvious building would be one with no windows and a deep basement. Even when protected by a coffin, a vampire wouldn’t want to be near sunlight or in a place where he risked being discovered. It had taken me less than five minutes on the Internet to narrow the possibilities down to a single location.