by Watts, Peter
She can taste their hunger in the richness of her wine.
She waits three…four minutes before she rises and walks toward the exit. As she leaves the club, she hears the voice for a final time: “Lights down now. Now.”
A breath later, another voice speaks, a quiet, thready voice that fills her with dread: “Welcome to the Night, my friends. Welcome and be sated.”
The door closes behind her.
It is not quite twilight outside. The Accommodation allows for time to return home in the evening, a kind of no-man’s-time between light and dark when either the warm or the cold are allowed to be on the streets, but any contact between them is strictly forbidden by stringent laws rigorously upheld by both parties.
She sees only a few other warms, carefully keeping to the street-edge of sidewalks and disappearing into doors. The shadows between buildings seem to roil with movement. And there are eyes.
Normally she would be home by this time, but tonight is different.
She makes her way to the Ward, then around the side to the fenced-in area behind. The day shift has not yet left but she can tell by the way they stand, by the way they shuffle their feet—nervously, fearfully—that it is almost time.
Tonight, she takes care that they do not see her. There are sufficient trees nearby for her to hide behind. There is the risk—small but real—that one of the colds might see her as well, but, truth to tell, she doesn’t care.
The nearest guard begins moving toward the front of the Ward. The other follows, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Then the last guard walks to the edge of the building.
Further back, along the distant edge of the wire fence, the night shift begins to appear, as always, as if from nowhere. One second there is no one there; the next the first guard stands by the corner, cape swirling about the figure even though there is no wind tonight. A second later, the second guard.
For an instant the side of the fence nearest her is empty.
It is her moment.
She races toward the fence and is half up, then over before the last of the day shift even notices her.
He spins around, hand to holster, but by then she is inside the enclosure and running for the last row of cradles. She hunkers down in the shadows, lying almost flat on the slate stones.
The day guard shrugs and turns back toward the Ward. She is beyond his authority to intervene. He cannot enter the enclosure, not even to rescue her.
The night shift has not moved. There is no rush. They understand at once what she wants.
From the single exit in the Ward, a line of white-gowned figures emerges, each carrying a small bundle. The figures do not speak. The bundles make no sounds.
Each figure places a bundle in one of the panniers, pausing only long enough to unwrap the single blanket, carefully splaying the edges until they hang limply over the sides.
Without a further glance, the figures straighten and retreat through the doorway. When the final one has entered the Ward, the door closes.
She waits.
The closest row of panniers remains empty, so none of the figures have noticed her. And now it is too late.
They, too, cannot interfere.
None of the shapes in the panniers move. She realizes that—just as she had been—they have been tranquilized, drugged, nothing too strong, certainly nothing to taint the blood, but sufficient that there are no small cries, no sudden intakes of breath.
Along the fence, the eyes draw nearer, nearer.
She shuffles her way until she reaches the first blanket. She reaches up and touches its smoothness, then she stands.
Just as the first of the eyes vaults the fence.
There is a moment of panic as her mind reels with the force of her decision.
Then calmness as she stands, raises her eyes to the sky, and bares her throat.
It is pleasant.
There is even calmness as the fangs sink into her vein and begin sucking.
She is conscious long enough to hear a symphony—or cacophony—of sucking sounds all around her.
She does not know if she will receive the short sleep or the long death.
What is worse, she does not truly care.
~
She is not the first. Nor will she be the last.
What is important is that the Accommodation stands.
Michael R. Collings, is Emeritus Professor of English and former director of Creative Writing and Poet-in-Residence for Pepperdine University. In addition to teaching subjects ranging from Beowulf to Stephen King, he has published over two dozen scholarly, critical, or bibliographic book-length studies of science fiction, fantasy, and horror, including books on Stephen King, Orson Scott Card, Piers Anthony, and Brian W. Aldiss. Dr. Collings has also published novels and multiple volumes of poetry and short fiction, including The Slab, The House Beyond the Hill, Dark Transformations and Naked to the Sun. He has been a Guest/GoH at a number of conferences and twice Academic GoH at the World Horror Convention. He is a two-time finalist for the Horror Writers Association Bram Stoker Award®; and currently serves as Senior Publications Editor for JournalStone Publications, reviewer for Hellnotes.com, and reviewer and columnist for Dark Discoveries, in addition to posting articles and reviews at Collings Notes (michaelrcollings.blogspot.com).
A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC
Mike Resnick
The Beatles?
Yeah, I remember 'em. Especially the little one—what was his name?—oh, yeah: Ringo.
The Stones? Sure I booked 'em. That Mick what's-his-name was a strange one, let me tell you.
Kiss, Led Zepplin, the Who, Eddie and the Cruisers, I've booked 'em all at one time or another.
After awhile, they all kind of fade together in your memory. In fact, there's just one group that stands out. Strange, too, since they never made any kind of a splash.
Ever hear of Vlad and the Impalers?
I didn't think so. Hell, there's no reason why you should have. I never heard of 'em either, until Benny—he's not exactly my partner, but we kind of cooperate together from time to time—calls me up one day and says he's picked up a group and do I have any holes in the schedule? So I look at the calendar, and I see a couple of gigs that are open, and I say yeah, what the hell, send their agent over and maybe we can do a little business. Benny says they don't have an agent, that this guy Vlad handles all the details himself. Now, if you've ever had to deal with one of these jokers, you know why I wasn't exactly thrilled, but the lead guitarist from this futuristic Buckets of Gor band has been hauled in for possession and I don't see anyone racing to make his bail, so I tell Benny I've got half an hour open at three in the afternoon.
"No good, Murray," he says. "The guy's a late sleeper."
"Most guys in this business are," I say, "but three in the afternoon is almost tomorrow."
"How's about you two have dinner together, maybe around seven or so?" says Benny.
"Out of the question, baby," I answer. "I got a hot date, and I just bought a new set of gold chains that figure to impress her right into the sack."
"This Vlad guy don't like to be kept waiting," says Benny.
"Well, if he wants a booking, he can damn well learn to wait."
"Okay, okay, let me check his schedule," says Benny. He pauses for a minute. "So how's three o'clock?"
"I thought you just said he couldn't make it at three."
"I mean three o'clock in the morning."
"What is this guy, an insomniac?" I ask. But then I remember that powder-blue Mercedes 560 SL with the sunroof that I saw the other day, and I figure what the hell, maybe this guy's group can earn my down payment for me, so I say that three in the A.M. is okay—and as it turns out, I could have met him at seven after all, because this broad throws a bowl of soup at me and walks out of the restaurant just because I try to play a little bit of Itsy-Bitsy-Spider on her thigh under the table.
So I go back to the office and lay down on the couch and take a nap, and when I wake up there's this
skinny guy dressed all in black, sitting down on a chair and staring at me. I figure he's strung out on something, because his eyes have got like wall-to-wall pupils, and his skin is white as a sheet, and I try to remember how much cash I have lying around the place, but then he bows his head and speaks.
"Good evening, Mr. Barron," he says. "I believe you were expecting me?"
"I was?" I say, sitting up and trying to focus my eyes.
"Your associate said that I was to meet you here," he continues. "I am Vlad."
"Oh, right," I say, as my head starts to clear.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Barron," he says, extending his hand.
"Call me Murray," I answer, taking his hand, which is cold as a dead fish and much the same texture. "Well, Vlad," I say, dropping his hand as soon as I can and leaning back on the couch, "tell me a little something about you and your group. Where have you played?"
"Mostly overseas," he says, and I realize that he's got an accent, though I can't quite place it.
"Well, nothing wrong with that," I say. "Some of our best groups started in Liverpool. One of 'em, anyway," I add with a chuckle.
He just stares at me without smiling, which kind of puts me off, since if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a guy with no sense of humor. "You will book my group, then?" he says.
"That's what I'm here for, Vlad bubby," I say, starting to relax as I get used to those eyes and that skin. "Matter of fact, there's an opening on a cruise ship going down to Acapulco. Six days and out. Five bills a night and all the waitresses you can grab." I smile again, so he'll know he's dealing with a man of the world and not just some little schmuck who doesn't understand what's going on.
He shakes his head. "Nothing on water."
"You get seasick?" I ask.
"Something like that."
"Well," I say, scratching my head and then making sure my hairpiece is still in place, "there's a wedding party that's looking for some entertainment at the reception."
"What is their religion?" he asks.
"It makes a difference?" I say. "I mean, they're looking for a rock group. Nobody's asking you to play Have Nagila."
"No churches," he says.
"For a guy who's looking for work, bubby, you got a lot of conditions," I say. "You want to work with me, you got to meet me halfway."
"We will work in any venue that is not a church or a boat," he says. "We work only at night, and we require total privacy during the day."
Well, at this point I figure I'm wasting my time, and I'm about to show him the door, and then he says the magic words: "If you will do as I ask, we will pay you 50% of our fee, rather than your usual commission."
"Vlad, sweetheart," I say, "I have the feeling that this is the beginning of a long and beautiful relationship!" I walk to the wetbar behind my desk and pull out a bottle of bubbly. "Shall we make it official?" I ask, reaching for a couple of glasses.
"I don't drink . . . champagne," he says.
I shrug. "Okay, name your poison, bubby."
"I don't drink poison, either."
"Okay, I'm game," I say. "How about a Bloody Mary?"
He licks his lips and his eyes seem to glow. "What goes into it?"
"You're kidding, right?" I say.
"I never kid."
"Vodka and tomato juice."
"I don't drink vodka and I don't drink tomato juice."
Well, I figure we could spend all night playing Guess What The Fruitcake Drinks, so instead I pull out a contract out of my center drawer and tell him to Hancock it.
"Vlad Dracule," I read as he scrawls his name. "Dracule. Dracule. That's got a familiar ring to it."
He looks sharply at me. "It does?"
"Yeah," I say.
"I'm sure you are mistaken," he says, and I can see he's suddenly kind of tense.
"Didn't the Pirates have a third baseman named Dracule back in the 60s?" I ask.
"I really couldn't say," he answers. "When and where will we be performing?"
"I'll get back to you on that," I say. "Where can I reach you?"
"I think it is better that I contact you," he says.
"Fine," I say. "Give me a call tomorrow morning."
"I am not available in the mornings."
"Okay, then, tomorrow afternoon." I look into those strange dark eyes, and finally I shrug. "All right. Here's my card." I scribble my home number on it. "Call me tomorrow night."
He picks up my card, turns on his heel, and walks out the door. Suddenly I remember that I don't know how big his group is, and I race into the hall to ask him, but when I get there he's already gone. I look high and low for him, but all I see is some black bird that seems to have flown into the building by mistake, and finally I go back and spend the rest of the night on my couch, thinking about dinner and wondering if my timing is just a little bit off.
Well, Pride and Prejudice, the black-and-white girls' band that ends every concert with a fist fight, gets picked up for pederasty, and suddenly I've got a hole to fill at the Palace, so I figure what the hell, 50% is 50%, and I book Vlad and the Impalers there for Friday night.
I stop by their dressing room about an hour before show time, and there's skinny old Vlad, surrounded by three chicks in white nightgowns, and he's giving each of them hickeys on their necks, and I decide that if this is the kinkiest he gets, he's a lot better than most of the rockers I deal with.
"How's it going, sweetheart?" I say, and the chicks back away real fast. "You ready to knock 'em dead?"
"They're no use to me if they're dead," he answers without cracking a smile.
So I decide he's got a sense of humor after all, though a kind of dull, deadpan one.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Barron?" he goes on.
"Call me Murray," I correct him. "The PR guy wants to know where you played most recently."
"Chicago, Kansas City, and Denver."
I give him my most sophisticated chuckle. "You mean there are people between L.A. and the Big Apple?"
"Not as many as there were," he says, which I figure is his way of telling me that the band wasn't exactly doing S.R.O.
"Well, not to worry, bubby," I said. "You're gonna do just fine tonight." Someone knocks on the door, and I open it, and in comes a delivery boy carrying a long, flat box.
"What is that?" asks Vlad, as I tip the kid and send him on his way.
"I figured you might need a little energy food before you get up on stage," I answer, "so I ordered you a pizza."
"Pizza?" he says, with a frown. "I have never had one before."
"You're kidding, right?" I say.
"I told you once before: I never jest." He stares at the box. "What is in it?"
"Just the usual," I say.
"What is the usual?" he asks suspiciously.
"Sausage, cheese, mushrooms, olive, onions, anchovies . . ."
"That was very thoughtful of you, Murray, but we don't—"
I sniff the pizza. "And garlic," I add.
He screams and covers his face with his hands. "Take it away!" he shouts.
Well, I figure maybe he's allergic to garlic, which is a goddamned shame, because what's a pizza without a little garlic, but I call the boy back and tell him to take the pizza back and see if he can get me a refund, and once it's out of the room Vlad starts recovering his composure.
Then a guy comes by and announces that they're due on stage in 45 minutes, and I ask if he'd like me to leave so they can get into their costumes.
"Costumes?" he asks blankly.
"Unless you plan to wear what you got on," I say.
"In point of fact, that is precisely what we intend to do," answers Vlad.
"Vlad, bubby, sweetie," I say, "you're not just singers—you're entertainers. You got to give 'em their money's worth . . . and that means giving 'em something to look at as well as something to listen to."
"No one has ever objected to our clothing before," he says.
"Well, maybe not in Chicago or K
.C.—but this is L.A., baby."
"They didn't object in Saigon, or Beirut, or Chernobyl, or Kampala," he says with a frown.
"Well, you know these little Midwestern cowtowns, bubby," I say with a contemptuous shrug. "You're in the major leagues now."
"We will wear what we are wearing," he says, and something about his expression tells me I should just take my money and not make a Federal case out of it, so I go back to my office and call Denise, the chick who dumped the soup on me, and tell her I forgive her and see if she's busy later that night, but she has a headache, and I can hear the headache moaning and whispering sweet nothings in her ear, so I tell her what I really think of no-talent broads who just want to get close to major theatrical booking agents, and then I walk into the control booth and wait for my new act to appear onstage.
And after about ten minutes, out comes Vlad, still dressed in black, though he's added a cloak to his suit, and the three Impalers are in their white nightgowns, and even from where I'm sitting I can see that they've used too much lipstick and powder, because their lips are a bright red and their faces are as white as their gowns. Vlad waits until the audience quiets down, and then he starts singing, and I practically go crazy, because what he's doing is a rap song, and worse still, he's doing it in some foreign language so no one can understand the words, but just about the time I think the audience will tear the place apart I realize that they're sitting absolutely still, and I decide that they're either getting into it after all, or else they're so bored that they haven't got the energy to riot.
And then the strangest thing happens. From somewhere outside the building a dog starts howling, and then another, and a third, and a cat screeches, and pretty soon it sounds like a barnyard symphony, and it keeps on like that for maybe half an hour, every animal within ten miles or so baying the moon, and then Vlad stops and bows, and suddenly the kids jump to their feet and begin screaming and whistling and applauding, and I start thinking that maybe it's Liverpool all over again.
