The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  Here, too, was a mind; an alien one to my own, with simple dull impulses I could override. It stood rooted as I approached because I wanted it to do so. I drew close and touched one of its big surface veins, nearly sobbing with relief. For what I had to do there was no conscious thought or the least anticipation of revulsion. This was now normal if I wanted to survive. I closed in, intuitively knowing what to do, cutting neatly through the thick flesh with my teeth to open the vein.

  Warm and rich with life, it pulsed into my mouth.

  No more than a minute passed and I had all I needed. I released the animal, physically, mentally, and gratefully. A little blood dribbled from the wound, but soon stopped and the cow mingled with others, apparently none the worse for wear. I leaned against a fence rail and wiped my lips clean with a handkerchief. The pain and tunnel vision were gone, it was like waking up from the day’s bad dreams. I had only to shake off the memory and start functioning again. My first idea was to leave the Stockyards as discreetly as possible. My newly learned vanishing trick might come in handy, but I’d wait awhile on that one, wanting to get used to the idea.

  Prosaically using my old dependable legs, I left the place and found a taxi, returned to the hotel, and had it wait. Upstairs, I threw my stuff in the trunk, carried it down, and checked out. The driver and I managed to secure the thing to the car. It stuck out the back, but was in no immediate danger of falling into the street.

  I hunched down in the backseat and asked to be taken to the same train station that had welcomed me to the city two days ago. Correction, six days ago, but I’d think about the amnesia later, right now I felt like a finalist from a dance marathon. It was not enough to feed and shut out the sunlight, I had to have earth around my body and it would have to be soon. I had to go home.

  Once at the station, I booked the trunk on the next train to Cincinnati. By the time a man came for it, I was already inside. To my delight I was able to vanish and reform without trouble and without disturbing the lock or thick leather straps. Gingerly perching on the typewriter case, I braced my arms against the sides and held the suitcase in place with my knees to keep things from rattling too much as I was bumped from one end of the station to the other. Packed in like a living pretzel, the trunk didn’t seem nearly so large, but from the grunts and curses outside, the porter disagreed.

  The trip, at least at night, was very boring. I initially suffered through a couple bouts of mild claustrophobia, but was far too weary to let the cramped quarters get to me. I kept movement to a minimum, not wanting to alarm the baggage man, but still shifted around, vainly seeking a more comfortable position. It was tempting to get out and take a walk, but I was abnormally tired and unsure of my ability to get back inside again. At least I didn’t need air.

  The train crawled toward Cincinnati, but the sun came up before we got there, and I was trapped in the dark with senseless memories for the day. It was just as bad as the last dream bout, but faded sooner, and when the train stopped I’d slipped into a semi-aware trance that brought no rest, but did abridge the passage of time. When night came again I was stationary and correctly guessed from the intrusive sounds that the trunk had been unloaded and was waiting to be claimed.

  I felt marginally better just being in Cincinnati, and drifted easily from the trunk to reform in a crouch among the other baggage. When no one was looking I slipped out and blended in with the rest of the travelers, keeping my hat pulled low. This was my hometown and I had a lot of friends, the last thing I wanted was to renew old acquaintances. Once outside, I ducked into a cab and gave directions that took us north of town and down a narrow, unlit rural road. The driver got a little nervous after awhile and asked me if I was sure I knew where I was going. I was sure, as sure as an iron filing knows where the magnet is.

  I had him stop and asked if he minded waiting.

  “Waiting for what? There’s nothing out here.”

  I took out a dollar bill and told him that was his tip, tore it in two, and gave him half. He still looked apprehensive.

  “I’ll have to keep the meter running.”

  That was fine. I left the road and walked up an overgrown private lane.

  Grandfather’s farm was deserted now and the place seemed smaller than I’d remembered. In truth, the land around had shrunk over the years, sold off a few acres at a time to make the taxes. My father refused to sell the house itself, though, or the immediate acreage, not that there were many buyers these days. Grandfather and Great-Grandfather Fleming and their families were buried here along with a lot of memories. Run down as the place was, I was glad it was still ours.

  My parents lived in a smaller, more modern house in the city. Mom treasured her gas stove and indoor plumbing; no one lived out here anymore. I looked up at a corner window on the second floor that marked the room I’d been born in. This was my home as I’d never known it before, the house standing on the living earth I needed to survive.

  Searching the barn turned up some old feed sacks in good enough condition to use once the dust and field mice had been shaken out. Taking four sacks, I doubled them one inside the other, making two sturdy bags. Another search turned up a ball of twine and a rusty shovel with a broken handle. It would do. What it lacked in leverage I could make up for in strength.

  The cemetery grounds were still cared for, indicating Dad’s occasional presence. I cleared a patch under the big oak tree of leaves and acorn husks and began shoveling dirt into the bags working over a large area so the missing soil would be less noticeable. When the bags were three-quarters full I twisted the ends and tied them up tight with the twine.

  Despite the hard work I was no longer tired.

  A big stone that hadn’t been there on my last visit a few years back was marking Grandfather’s grave. I went over to touch the cool gray granite. The previous wood marker had borne the same deeply chiseled letters that spelled out my own name.

  In Memory of

  JONATHAN RUSSELL FLEMING

  1820–1908

  I was glad no sentimental phrase was carved under the date; nothing would have been appropriate. A man like Grandfather or the family’s feelings for him could not have been so neatly summed up.

  When I was eight, my puppy died. Like me it had been the runt of a litter of seven, and for that reason it was my favorite. With the dreadful practicality to be found on working farms, the body was disposed of in the trash burner. Unable to accept the idea, I hid under the porch all day holding the limp little ball of fur and wishing it back to life again. When the family missed me, I ignored their calls. After all, they’d ignored me and it was only fair.

  In the end Mom found me and dragged me out, promising certain doom on my backside as soon as I dropped my britches. Even at that early age I was mulishly stubborn, refusing to participate in my punishment and resisting all efforts to be separated from the puppy.

  Grandfather interfered.

  “Not this time,” he told Mom. “I’ll take care of him. I’m not as mad as you are.” He took my hand and we walked down to the graveyard and sat under the oak tree.

  “You shouldn’t have hidden out, Jack,” he said at length.

  “No, sir. But they were going to burn Pete, and I don’t want him to go to Hell.” I held my breath; it was the first time I’d used a bad word.

  Incredibly, Grandfather nodded. “I see what you mean. Would you feel better if we buried him proper?”

  “Yes, sir, but I don’t want him dead.”

  “Neither do I, but there are a lot of things we can’t do anything about, and death is one of them.”

  “Why?”

  The old man considered the question awhile, trying to gear the answer for an eight-year-old mind. “You like summer, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, no school.”

  “But if it lasted all the time you might get tired of it, don’t you think?”

  “I dunno.”

  “When school comes along in the fall and you get to see all your friends again, a
ren’t you glad of the change?”

  “I guess.”

  “And when winter comes you do different things because of the snow, and that’s a nice change, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, now—this is the interesting part, Jack—dying is a change, too, just like the seasons. People live in the spring like you and your brothers and sisters, they grow up to a long summer and autumn, like your parents and me, and then sooner or later they die, and that’s like winter. It’s not a bad thing—it’s only a change.”

  “But don’t people go to Heaven?”

  “Sure they do, but they have to change, they have to die to get there. Some folks are even glad of the change because it means they’ll have no worries and something different to do. When your grandma was dying years ago she was hurting and tired; she was ready for a change. We were sad when she was gone, but we also knew she wasn’t hurting anymore. We knew she’s gone to Heaven and was happy.”

  Grandfather’s voice had cracked. I was stunned to see tears rolling down his lined face. He pulled out a bandanna and wiped them away.

  “Now, I don’t know everything, but I’ll just bet you Pete was hurting somehow and knew he needed to die, and when he did he didn’t hurt no more. He didn’t want to make you sad, but he just couldn’t help it.”

  “So he changed?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he’s in Heaven?”

  “I don’t see why not, but it doesn’t really matter what happens to his little body, it’s all the same to him. The part of him that you loved isn’t here no more—he changed. What really matters is that you know about this and that it’s all right to feel sad. It’s also good to be happy when you remember how he made you happy while he was around.”

  I thought about it hard while we buried the puppy near the oak tree, ringing the small grave with some stones. Halfway through the job I started crying, and Grampy loaned me his bandanna without a word and went on with the work. When he finished, he looked up at the northern horizon and took a deep, cleansing breath.

  “I think winter is coming,” he said, and winked at me. It was only September; I didn’t understand. I did the next morning when we found he’d died in his sleep. I was the only one who didn’t cry at the funeral.

  I couldn’t help but think of my own change. “What would you think of me now, Grampy?” I whispered at the stone. I could almost sense the big bones resting in their pine box, patiently waiting for the Second Coming.

  I tossed the broken shovel back in the barn and stalked down the lane, the two thirty-pound bags swinging light in my hands.

  The return trip to Chicago was boring, but easier to get through with the earth packed into the trunk with me. Rested and more confident about vanishing, I spent most of the night sitting on top of the baggage reading a dime magazine. I could almost ignore river crossings, and when daylight came I was able to truly sleep, or whatever it was. The dreaming had faded. The presence of the earth even dulled the next night’s hunger down to a low-level ache.

  It took a good half hour to claim my trunk. The Chicago station was very busy, just as it was when I first arrived. There was a week-old trail to pick up on, but I had a good idea about where to start.

  The trunk was laboriously loaded into a cab, and the cab took me to a small hotel the driver knew about that was within walking distance of the Stockyards. It was a cut above the fleabag I’d last stayed in. For ten dollars a week I got heavier curtains, a fan that worked, a radio, and a private bath. Its proximity to the Yards must have had an effect on the price and the presence of luxury extras.

  Not bothering to unpack or even drop off the key, I left the hotel to get some dinner. My visit this time was more discreet; I knew the lay of the land better and trusted my disappearing trick to keep me out of trouble. It was taking a little practice to get it just right, but I was catching on fast. Learning to wiggle my ears as a kid had taken a lot longer.

  On the way back, I stopped at a newsstand, bought some local papers, a copy of the one I’d worked for in New York, and a street map. The vendor gave me directions to the nearest Western Union office. The place was open with two fresh-faced young clerks in command. I filled out a telegram to my parents saying I’d arrived in the Windy City and managed to land a terrific job at an ad agency and they’d advanced me some money for one of my ideas. Along with the message, I sent twenty-five dollars. They’d been having hard times since the Crash, and hardly a payday passed that I didn’t mail them five bucks or so to help out, but this time the amount was conspicuously large. They might think I’d turned to bank robbery, which wasn’t too far off the mark, but the truth was hardly something I could tell them about.

  I went back to the hotel. While the tub was filling I read the headlines and funnies and jotted notes on the rates for the personal columns. Using the hotel stationery, I printed out my usual message, all seven words of it, then shut off the tub taps and went downstairs.

  This place actually had a bellboy on duty. He was reading a comic book in an alcove with his wooden chair tilted back on two legs, making more dents in the floor. I asked him if he wanted to make four bits. He put away the book. It took a minute to straighten things out. His usual type of errand for a guest was to either locate a female companion or a bottle of booze or both, neither of which I had much use for at the moment. I gave him the four bits and enough money for him to place my message in all the papers I’d bought. It would run for two weeks. He promised to do it first thing tomorrow. I told him to bring me the receipts in the evening and he’d get another tip.

  Upstairs, my room had steamed up slightly from the bath water, so I opened the window and turned on the fan the thoughtful management had bolted to a table. It stirred the air around and felt good against my skin as I stripped.

  By now the bruising was nearly gone and the scar over my heart was fast disappearing. My body was making good use of the fresh blood I’d imbibed.

  I studied the tub warily before stepping in, grimacing at the flash of apprehension it caused. It was only the free-running stuff I had to worry about, really. Nothing happened when I stepped in and soaped up, it just felt like something ought to. I sank back and thought about the beach . . . perhaps with the water around me I could go back . . . the stars had been so bright, the lake stretching on forever . . . silver and black. Before the peace of the beach there had been crushing darkness . . . hard pressure pushing from all sides, weight dragging me down . . . smothering pressure, growing worse—

  I was on my back on the bathroom floor along with a lot of water. The pressure was gone, but my left hand twitched as though electricity were running through it. My body trembled uncontrollably. It lasted a moment more, scaring the hell out of me, then abruptly stopped.

  If it brought this kind of reaction, I wasn’t so sure now I wanted to remember my death. I dressed, nervously tried to push the incident from my mind, and vowed never to relax in a tub again.

  It was past midnight when I stepped out into the humid air and turned right. The address I wanted had been in the phone book and the map said it was on the same side of the Chicago River as my hotel. After spending the last two nights cooped up in a trunk I wanted a long walk. At least it would save on cab fare.

  Forty minutes later I reached the warehouse offices of International Freshwater Transport, Inc. There was no dark green Ford in the street. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

  The front door was a thick, no-nonsense steel thing. I tried to go through the metal, but found it to be more dense than building bricks or my trunk and couldn’t pass until I slid under the thin gap between the door and threshold. I felt like sand dribbling through the skinny part of an hourglass.

  This operation had no budget for extras. The reception office was a small area divided from the warehouse by wood planks nailed to two-by-four framing. There was a steel desk, some broken-in chairs, and a couple file cabinets, suspiciously unlocked. The papers inside were routine and therefore
useless.

  The desk held the promise of a single locked drawer that I opened with the help of a letter opener. Inside were two ledger books, the last year’s and this year’s, and a half-full fifth of whiskey. After looking at the books, it became obvious the drawer had been locked because of the whiskey. IFT, Inc. was just what its name suggested: shipments came in, stayed at the warehouse, and then continued to their destinations. Most of the traffic was between the U.S. and Canada, hence “international” in the title. Maybe it looked good on the letterheads. Maybe Sanderson’s car was stolen, in which case I was wasting my time.

  I flipped through more papers lying on the desktop. Nothing. The blotter on the desk was a giant calendar. It was the last week of the month and covered with old doodles and odd notes. The first Monday was circled in red with an underlined notation. The ink had gotten smeared by something wet, so the specifics were lost, but there was one clear name in the mess.

  Mr. Paco. Something or other—Mr. Paco.

  Sanderson’s boss. At least there was a connection, so I went through all the papers again more carefully, but had to give up. Aside from the single name on the blotter he wasn’t mentioned again, but I went through the tried-and-true motions. I noted down names and addresses, anything that might prove useful later on. Taking no chances, I wiped away my fingerprints on the unlikely idea they might call the cops when the broken drawer was discovered. Finished with the office, I checked out the warehouse.