Bite Club

by Hal Bodner

  Rex seized his chance. Springing to his feet, he took quick aim and hurled the broken tree branch at the other vampire. Chris, already alert, sensed danger, turned and took a step toward the wall where Rex was perched. The single step saved him. Chris had an instant to take in the branch arcing through the air towards him. Before he could react, he felt a sharp pain and he was knocked backward as the branch pierced his right shoulder and emerged from his back. His vision went black and he fell to the ground.

  Rex never saw the missile hit. In his eagerness, he’d overextended his lunge and his feet slipped on the dead leaves atop the wall. He lost his balance, lunged for the tree behind him and missed. Hands grasping at air, he toppled backward off the wall and into the yard next door.

  “Oh, my God!” the ghoul screamed.

  Troy spun around and, horrified, watched his lover collapse to the ground. He sprang to Chris’s side.

  “He’s dead!” the ghoul moaned in shock.

  “Of course he’s dead!” Troy shot back and immediately turned his attention to the body. “Chris? Honey? Can you hear me?”

  Chris groaned.

  “I meant, he’s not breathing,” the ghoul said petulantly.

  Troy didn’t bother to comment. “Help me,” he demanded, tears staining his cheeks.

  Scot paused for a second and then leaned over and slapped the semi-conscious vampire across the face.

  “What are you doing?” Troy shrieked. He threw himself protectively across Chris’s prone form.

  “What you’re supposed to do!” the ghoul yelled back. “It’s in all the movies. Look, it worked. He’s trying to say something.”

  “What? Baby, what is it?” Troy asked, sobbing.

  “Troy,” Chris gasped. “You’re crushing me. Get off!”

  Troy realized that he had thrown his full weight onto Chris’s chest when he’d though Scot was attacking him. He scrambled around behind, lifting Chris’s shoulders to ease the pressure of the branch transfixing his shoulder.

  “Help me up,” Chris gasped.

  The ghoul, now eager to assist, took hold of the protruding end of the branch and was about to use it to haul Chris to his feet.

  “Don’t,” Troy said icily, “you dare.”

  Scott quickly snatched back his hand and blushed with embarrassment. Together, Troy and Scott managed to get the injured vampire upright.

  “Much better,” Chris winced. “Now all we have to do is get this damned branch out of me.”

  The ghoul turned white.

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the sight of blood,” Troy said derisively.

  “Only when it’s from something living,” Scott confessed, ashamed.

  Next door, Rex Castillian was having his own impalement problems. He’d fallen backward from a substantial height. Conscious of the lawn ornaments below him, he’d twisted frantically to avoid them and had succeeded in smashing the windmill and impaling himself through the stomach with the post from one of the scarecrows. Pieces of wood had pierced both his legs and one of his arms, and his back was covered with splinters. Fortunately, the wood hadn’t come anywhere close to his heart.

  He grabbed onto the ersatz vampire to help himself to his feet. But the statue wasn’t planted very deeply into the ground and offered little support. Rex’s weight pulled it sideways, and off balance. He clutched wildly for a hold. His hand caught the edge of the cape and pulled it from the figure as it toppled on top of him. A moment later, Rex was flat on his back, with the snarling cartoon vampire poised as if to kiss him, the cape covering both their heads.

  The physical pain was bad but bearable; the indignity was not. In any case, he was in no condition to take on another vampire, even a wounded one. Snarling at the phony vampire, he threw it to one side, noting with pleasure that he’d managed to toss it into the other two figures, upsetting them too. Then, ignoring the lights and confused shouts from the people in the house, he rose to his feet.

  In time, all of you will be mine! he promised, unknowingly echoing the threat of another fictional vampire. Furious at himself and the Fates, he limped off, vanishing into the darkness.

  Chris had also heard the noises of alarm from the neighbors next door. “We’ve got to get out of here before someone sees. Troy,” he directed, “pull this thing out of me.”

  Troy grasped the end of the branch gingerly.

  “No,” Chris instructed. “One sharp pull.”

  “But it’ll hurt!” Troy protested.

  “I’ll be brave, monkey,” Chris smiled, then, his face set sternly, he ordered, “Just do it. Now!”

  Troy grabbed the branch and pulled with all his might. Chris cried out in pain. Troy froze.

  “What’s wrong?” Scott asked.

  “He’s got a fucking tree through him!” Troy shouted with barely controlled hysteria.

  “Be quiet!” Chris hissed through gritted teeth. He took a deep breath. “I think it’s caught on my shoulder blade,” he continued in a calmer voice. “You’re going to have to wiggle it.”

  Troy looked at him with disbelief. “Wiggle it?”

  “Troy,” Chris said with as much patience as he could muster, “I know you don’t want to hurt me but there are people coming from next door. They can not see me like this. You have to get this out of me quickly and quietly. Don’t worry. I’ll heal. But...we have no time.”

  Troy set his jaw with determination, took hold of the branch and closed his eyes. With a mighty tug, he managed to move the branch another inch or two.

  “Twist it to the right,” Chris instructed. “Hurry.”

  Chris turned even paler than usual as Troy jerked the branch around.

  “It’s not working,” he sobbed. But just then the branch slid free with a sickening wet sound and a small gout of blood.

  “Oh shit,” said Scott at the sight of the blood. He bent double and threw up. “All over my new shoes,” he mourned.

  Troy ignored him and threw the branch aside. He caught Chris as he collapsed forward.

  “Listen carefully, monkey,” Chris panted. “Because I may pass out. Don’t leave the branch behind. It’s got some of my blood on it. We need to leave now. I’ll walk as well as I can but...”

  “Here,” Scott said, throwing Chris’s uninjured arm across his shoulders. “Grab his other side.”

  Troy snatched up the branch and stuffed it down the front of his shorts. He took Chris’s other arm, and together he and Scott managed to half-drag him out of the loading dock. Once on the street, they were forced to hunker down behind some bushes when the neighbors and their Rottweiler passed on their way to investigate the noise.

  “Can you stand?” Troy whispered.

  “Yes,” Chris replied.

  “Good. We’ll pretend you’re drunk. I saw it in a Tony Curtis movie once.”

  Chris smiled wanly as he was helped upright once again.

  “You know,” Scott grumbled as he helped carry Chris down the street. “This was supposed to be my vacation!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The ghoul, it turned out, preferred to be called Scotty and had come to town from Chicago. An hour later he sat, much calmer, in Chris’s living room wrapped in one of Troy’s less flamboyant robes, showered and dry. Troy had defrosted the long-spoiled package of chicken he’d discovered in the freezer on the morning when Becky had made her own startling discovery, and Scotty was nibbling happily at the raw, rancid fowl and sipping tea. Chris lay sprawled on the couch, pale and weak, shirtless and with his shoulder wrapped in dozens of yards of cotton gauze and torn linens. Troy hadn’t the skill of a Florence Nightengale, but he made up for it with enthusiasm. Though Chris kept assuring him that bandages were unnecessary, Troy insisted that the mummy-like wrapping was essential.

  Aside from Chris’s mild protests, most of Troy’s doctoring was done in silence. The only exception was when Scotty got a good look at Chris’s wound.

  “Wow!” he breathed, impressed. “That’s pretty awful looking.
” He looked at Chris hopefully. “If it goes to gangrene, can I have some of it? It’d be a lot better than this chicken.”

  Troy silenced him with a frosty glare. Chris hadn’t the strength to respond. Scotty fidgeted in silence for a few moments, simply picking at his food.

  “It’s awfully, well, red in here, isn’t it?” Scotty finally commented dubiously.

  Troy drew himself up to his full height and commented grandly, “I did it myself.”

  “I dunno,” Scotty said, doubtfully, “looks a lot like blood to me.”

  Chris winced as he snickered, then wisely changed the subject.

  “What brings you to WeHo?”

  “WeHo?”

  “West Hollywood,” Chris explained.

  “Oh, sure. The Halloween Parade.” Scotty tore off another hunk of his chicken and stuffed it into his mouth, the juices dribbling down his chin. Troy looked slightly ill. “We usually go to San Francisco. This year we decided to come here instead.”

  “We?” Chris inquired. He shifted to get more comfortable.

  “Yeah,” Scotty finished the last of the chicken and held out his plate toward Troy. “Could I have some more of this?”

  Troy gingerly took the plate from him and, forcing a bright hostess smile, fled toward the kitchen.

  “Some friends of mine.”

  “What kind of friends?”

  “Oh a couple of ghouls and an incubus from Indianapolis. Last year we ran into a couple of Fur-Balls from Ohio, but Halloween was on a full moon and I’ve heard how they get.”

  “Pure myth,” Chris said, dismissing the comment.

  “Yeah, right,” said Scotty, not believing it for a minute.

  “No vampires?”

  “Are you kidding? You know how your people get along with my people. We can’t help it if you look dead when you’re asleep. Mausoleums are dark anyway.” Scotty paused as Troy came back into the room and eyed him appraisingly. “Your renfield’s awfully cute, though.”

  Troy stopped dead. He held up the plate of chicken and then said sweetly, “Unless you want to wear this, I’ll thank you to remove that word from your vocabulary while I’m around.”

  “What word?”

  “Renfield,” said Troy with distaste.

  “Why?”

  “Listen girlfriend, I normally don’t like your kind either. In fact, I think your eating habits are pretty disgusting. In your case, though, I was considering making an exception. You’re kind of dreamy yourself.” The ghoul smiled. “However,” continued Troy, “if you ever call me that again, you’ll be back out with the trash cans quicker than you can say rot rat.”

  “I am not a rot rat,” said Scotty, bristling.

  “Ladies, ladies,” said Chris, sternly. “Can we please not argue for two minutes? Your voices are hurting my shoulder. Besides, we’ve got bigger problems here.”

  “How does it feel?” Troy asked, concerned.

  “It’s healing.” Chris replied. “But it may take awhile.”

  “I thought your kind were like Superman or something,” Scotty said. “Bullets bouncing off your chests.”

  “Bullets aren’t wood.” Troy told him.

  “If you carved them, they would be.” Scotty pointed out helpfully.

  “You may want to think before you speak,” Troy shot back.

  “Troy,” Chris warned, “play nice.” He leaned cautiously towards Scotty, testing his shoulder. Pain shot through him and, deciding to give it more time to mend, he sank back against the couch. “If I could feed,” Chris told the ghoul, “I’d heal much faster. But it’s close to five A.M. Not many people will be around between now and dawn. I’ll sleep most of today, get an early start in the evening, and I should be completely well by midnight tomorrow.”

  “Cool,” Scotty breathed in wonder.

  “In the mean time,” Chris said earnestly, “we need your help.”

  “Sure.”

  “What did you mean by more bloodsuckers?” asked Chris.

  “The short, dark guy that’s been hanging out in the parking lot behind Rage,” Scotty said innocently.

  “Bingo,” breathed Troy.

  “Tell me, Scotty. Do you think you could point him out if you saw him again?”

  Scotty was puzzled, “I guess so,” he said at length. “But there’s two of you in the same town. Don’t you know each other?”

  “We tend not to be quite as chummy as you do,” Chris informed him. “Ghouls tend to travel in packs. We don’t.”

  Chris rose painfully. “Wait right here a second,” he said.

  “Sit down,” Troy said, rising. “I’ll get them.”

  “I am perfectly capable of walking into the next room, Troy,” Chris said irritably. “I may look like something out of Revenge of the Mummy, but I can move just fine. Thank you for the bandages. Now, please don’t mollycoddle me.” He went into the bedroom.

  As soon as Chris was gone, Scotty flashed Troy a dazzling smile. “Is he your lover?”

  “At least half a century,” Troy replied.

  “Gosh,” mused Scotty. “And they say there’s no such thing as a stable gay relationship.”

  Troy laughed.

  “You ever have an affair?”

  “Not with your kind,” Troy said indignantly, and Scotty’s face fell.

  “What he means,” said Chris carefully reentering the room with the file of suspects, “is that we have an arrangement.”

  Chris lowered himself cautiously into a chair and opened the file. “He can do whatever he wants with humans, but no other undead, shape-changers, magic-users...or ghouls.”

  “That would be cheating,” added Troy.

  “What about werewolves?” Scotty asked, intrigued.

  “Are you kidding?” Chris began. “He’s...”

  “Chris!” Troy protested in dismay.

  “He’s...ah...not into overly hairy guys.” Chris smiled at Troy who looked relieved that his lover had avoided the sensitive subject of his allergies. “He is, however, a terrible flirt.”

  “Why, Missy Scarlet! How you talk!”

  Chris pushed the file toward Scotty. “Do you recognize any of these photos?”

  Scotty picked up the three photographs.

  “These are paintings,” he said.

  “Yes dear, we know,” said Troy patiently, as if Scotty were mentally deficient.

  “Yeah, this is the guy.” Scotty pushed a single photo back toward Chris.

  Chris picked it up.

  “Bingo?” Troy asked.

  “Rex Castillian,” Chris read. “First showed up around 1200 on the Iberian peninsula. Lost track of him during the Spanish Inquisition sometime after 1487. No confirmation of true death.”

  He tossed the photo to Troy.

  “Yep. I’d say it’s bingo all right.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Scotty spent the night at the apartment after calling his friends and filling them in on the evening’s events. While Chris was on the telephone with Sylvia, Troy, at Chris’s request, attempted to overcome his initial dislike of the young ghoul. After exchanging a series of witty insults and derogatory comments about each other’s nature, they rapidly discovered a mutual adoration for female film stars of the ’30s and ’40s and the two were soon companionably perched in front of the television set as they watched Troy’s copy of Mildred Pierce, silently mouthing all the best lines.

  At six-thirty the next morning, Chris returned Becky’s call about her discovery of the ashes. At first groggy and irritated at being awakened so early, she perked up immediately when Chris told her they’d managed to identify the rogue vampire. She arrived at the apartment forty minutes later after warning Chris to have breakfast waiting for her.

  “What the hell happened to you?” she demanded, seeing Chris’s bandages.

  “A run-in with our murder suspect,” he told her. “Either that or someone was practicing javelin throwing with trees at four in the morning.”

  “Let me look
at that,” Becky demanded.

  “There’s no reason...” Chris began. But Becky had taken him firmly by his uninjured arm and, with gentle pressure, forced him into a chair.

  “Who did this wrap?” she muttered. “It’s like untangling a Slinky.” There was a crash from the kitchen. “Forget I asked.”

  Troy and Scotty had been prevailed upon to interrupt their screening of The Little Foxes in favor of making messes in the kitchen. Unfortunately for Becky, Scotty was used to consuming his food raw and, preferably, thoroughly aged to the point of rancid. Troy, of course, had never made any pretensions of being Julia Child and had absolutely no idea how much food a normal person was capable of eating in one sitting. The result, when Becky arrived, was an entire package of scorched bacon (Scotty’s perception of cooked meat being limited to the ability to differentiate between raw and charred), half a dozen lumpy eggs (Troy forgot to remove them from the shells before scrambling), and nine pieces of burnt yet alarmingly spongy toast (neither one had ever used a microwave, so after wondering why the bread refused to cook after ten minutes, they simply set the gas oven on broil and popped the toast in with the eggs).

  “I’ll stop at McDonald’s on the way into the office,” Becky grimaced when she saw the food. Fortunately, Troy and Scotty weren’t offended as they had already removed themselves to the bathroom and were arguing about which one of them would have to strip first so they could scrub the scorched pots and pans in the shower.

  “This is bad, Chris.” Becky told him. “It went right through. Your shoulder’s broken.”

  “But it missed my heart,” Chris said. “In two days, you won’t be able to see even a scar. I just need to take it easy for a while.”

  Becky looked at him dubiously.

  “Trust me,” Chris assured her. “I’ve survived much worse.”

  There was a crash from the bathroom that sounded alarmingly like a mirror shattering. Then the sound of the shower being turned on masked the bickering and Chris breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Who’s in there?” Becky asked. “I thought it was one of Troy’s movies.”