Evolve Two: Vampire Stories of the Future Undead (15 page)

* * * * *

Peter Sellers lives in Toronto. He occasionally writes short stories. Several of these have been published in
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine
and
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine.
His dark fantasy work has appeared in the
Northern Frights
series, edited by Don Hutchison. In addition, he has edited thirteen crime fiction anthologies.

Symbiosis

By David Beynon

Damp gravel crunched beneath the soles of a shuffling set of ragged New Balance running shoes. The upturned collar of his denim jacket did nothing to keep the constant drizzle from crawling down his neck, biting him with an unaccustomed chill.

There was a time when his eyes would have burned in this near darkness with unparalleled clarity. Not now. Now he squinted like a feeble myopic old wretch, struggling to focus on his hands eighteen inches from his face.

They were ghastly, skeletal things, his hands. Gaunt and pallid, the skin hanging from his long, brittle fingers glistening in the drizzle like the belly of a frog. He tried to steady them, but they trembled and with each tremble, each stuttering tremor, he could feel his life slipping away.

Starvation.

Oh, he’d known hunger. Many times. Hunger and Ray were age old acquaintances. He well knew the gnawing, persistent ache, the yearning in his jaw, the burning of his throat, the coiled tension in the pit of his stomach. These he knew well and could deal with.

But starvation… Starving was another beast entirely.

Ray touched his face, his fingertips navigating an alien landscape. His eyes were sunken into pits with harsh, sharp edges. His cheekbones were a pair of mountains that descended into valleys etched deep into the sides of his face. Beneath cracked lips, he could feel receding gums set against a wall of loosening teeth.

This can’t be how it ends.

Ray looked up. To his left stood a wooden post crowned by a white mailbox. Stenciled in black paint: “A. and B. W. Smith”.

He peered down the driveway into inky blackness. He caught a pang of something down that darkened drive that was both compelling and forbidding. He breathed deeply through his nose, exhaled a staccato whimper and made a decision.

At the end of the driveway stood a neat, well cared for house with white siding and black trim. Ray’s gaze drifted to the porch steps, then higher to the unadorned front door. He tilted his head and sniffed the night air.

No dogs,
he thought, and then looked above the door.
No sentry lights, either.

Expending a staggering amount of effort, Ray climbed the three steps onto the covered front porch. He began to run his fingers through his tangled hair, abandoning the effort when he encountered hopeless tangles.

Gaunt, bony knuckles rapped against the wooden door.

He heard a host of sounds from within the house: A rustling, the snap of newsprint being briskly folded, the scrape of a chair against the floor. There were footfalls beyond the door, then a click; the porch light sprung to life. Ray winced, turning his face away from the dim illumination.

Beyond the door, Ray heard a man clear his throat. A deadbolt shifted and the doorknob turned.

The man framed in the doorway looked Ray up and down, then opened the door completely. “You don’t look too well,” he said. “In fact, no offence, you look like shit. What can I do for you tonight?”

Ray sniffed, rubbed his face, and then spoke in a raspy voice. “I guess … I guess I’m here to beg.”

The man closed his eyes and gave his head a gentle shake. He raised his left hand. Ray saw that he held a long, metal flashlight.

“Two things, friend,” the man said in a voice sounding older than he looked. “First — I’m not going to need this, am I?” He inclined his head toward the flashlight.

Ray shook his head, his eyes darting from the flashlight to the man’s face. “No… No, sir.”

“Good. I am really, really glad to hear that. Second — I’ll have no one beg on my doorstep. If you’re so inclined, I’ll invite you in out of the cold. Then we can talk about what you need.”

Ray hesitated. He looked down at the threshold, then back at the man.

“My name is Barry, by the way,” he said, extending his right hand. Ray, dumbstruck, shook it. “I know what you are, but I don’t know
who
you are. How about you come in so we can both find out?”

Ray stepped through the door. As his foot lighted on the rubber “Welcome” mat, he noticed that Barry’s gaze had drifted to Ray’s filthy shoes.

“Can you do me a favor and slip your shoes off by the door?” Barry said. “They’re looking a bit muddy.”

Ray kicked off his runners, regarded his equally dirty socks and peeled them off, too. Barry held out his hand.

“Pass me your jacket. I’ll hang it here to dry.”

Ray snaked out of the soaked denim. Barry’s eyes registered the line of ribs beneath the white cotton of Ray’s threadbare t-shirt; they looked like a strip of corrugated roofing. He grimaced at the emaciated state of his guest’s arms, but, carefully keeping his voice neutral, simply tilted his head and said, “Kitchen’s this way. It’s warmer in there.”

Ray followed his host along a short hallway. Hanging along the wall were framed photographs. One showed a teenage girl holding a Holstein cow by a lead, a ribbon affixed to the halter. Another photo showed a much younger-looking Barry standing next to a massive tractor. Yet another showed Barry, the girl and an older woman, presumably his wife. All smiles. All looking carefree.

Ray looked ahead. Barry’s shoulders were slumped. His gait was that of a broken old man. He glanced back at the photo. The man who had invited him in was a washed-out shadow of the happy family man, the proud tractor owner. The photos were clearly pre-Pandemic.

The Pandemic had changed everything for everyone. Ray could hardly believe it had been less than two years since humanity was devastated by the most virulent flu the species had ever encountered. The death toll was staggering. The planet reeled, mourned, and then took precautions for the future.

Thermal imaging began in a nightclub in Singapore. Cameras mounted at the entrance measured body temperature in order to keep out patrons running a fever. Soon, Public Thermal Imaging was installed in airports, shopping malls, everywhere.

A security person routinely scanning a line up at a Frankfurt nightclub pulled a woman out of the line. He had noticed that she was a full eleven degrees centigrade below normal. As she attempted to flee, she was apprehended, held until morning when someone from public health could assess her. During the night, she paced the cell, rattling the bars and begging to be released, her agitation mounting with each passing hour. As the first rays of daylight spilled through the barred windows, she momentarily glittered, then burst into flame. It was all captured on closed-circuit television, the graininess of the image somehow making the scene all the more horrific. The footage went viral on YouTube before lunchtime.

Humanity now knew without a doubt that there was another enormous problem to contend with — vampires. In the course of a single day, vampires had lost their greatest predatory attribute — they could no longer blend seamlessly among their prey.

Barry walked into the kitchen and crossed to a round oak table surrounded by four matching chairs. His footsteps skirted a cut out patch in the linoleum; a rectangle measuring three feet by four framed with a greasy black stain marring the exposed floorboards.

“Mind your step there,” he said as he pulled one of the chairs out and turned it invitingly toward Ray. “Take a load off.”

“Thank-you,” Ray whispered as he sank into the chair.

Occupying the table was a half-empty cup of black coffee and a stack of neatly piled daily newspapers. A news section lay on its own, folded in front of Barry’s usual chair. Barry placed his flashlight on top of the stack of newspapers, retrieved a silver percolator pot from the stovetop and filled his cup.

“I’d offer you some coffee,” Barry said, “or something to eat, but the papers tell me that regular food and drink just pass right through you folks. Can make you sick, too. Is that true?”

Ray’s eyes lingered on the flashlight.

It had taken all of two days after the YouTube video saturated the internet before someone had seen what a UV flashlight could do to vampiric flesh. At that point, Ultraviolet flashlights had been relatively weak, the tools and playthings of miners, gemologists and crime scene investigators. It took little time for engineers to increase the wavelengths and efficiencies and for manufacturers to move to production. Vampire Protection Kits flew off the shelves.

Barry noticed where Ray’s attention was focused.

“You’re wondering why I would just put it down like that?”

Ray nodded.

“There’s a few reasons. Let’s face it — if you were going to go for my throat, I imagine it would’ve happened while I had my back to you in the hallway. Besides, it’s been my experience that someone hell-bent on murder doesn’t knock politely at the door.”

Barry slid into his chair opposite Ray with a sigh. “So, how much do you need?”

Ray’s gaze moved from the flashlight to Barry. “How much?”

“Listen. It doesn’t take a genius to see that you’re hurting. And I don’t think I’d be too far wrong to say it looks like you’re starving. Am I right?”

Ray’s eyes dropped and his head gave the slightest of nods.

“The way I was raised, if you see someone in need and it’s within your means to help … well, you lend a hand. You’re obviously in need. How much, you know, to take the edge off?”

Ray’s tongue crept out to moisten his parched lips. “Very little, really.” His voice sounded like a rusted hinge. “A teaspoon or two would be a banquet to me.”

“Honestly? So little? Would that really be enough?” Barry leaned forward, his elbow on the table, his chin in the palm of his hand. “No offense, but from the way you look, I would’ve thought you’d need a lot.”

Ray answered by way of a quick little shake of his head.

As Barry sipped his coffee, he let his fingertips wander across the bristles on his chin. He rose from his chair and walked over to the white-painted cupboard over the stove. Opening the door, he took out a cream-colored eggcup.

“I could use a shave,” he said as he walked past Ray to the hallway. “I always bleed like a son-of-a-bitch whenever I get rid of my whiskers. Excuse me for a few minutes, will you. Make yourself at home.”

Ray listened as the stairs squeaked with each step Barry took. A door above clicked shut and the sound of running water surged through the house’s pipes. He looked again at the forgotten flashlight perched on the stack of newspapers and shuddered. Something so innocuous to them, yet so gruesomely lethal to his kind. And how easily the humans wielded them — the flashlights and, worse yet, the automatic sentry lights fitted with UV bulbs. Silent killers lurking beneath the eaves for the unfortunate or incautious vampire who strayed close enough to trigger them.

His eyes drifted from the flashlight and newspapers to something he hadn’t noticed before. Casually leaning against a cupboard, its shortened barrel nestled in the slot between two doors, was what Ray assumed to be a shotgun. Ray started to rise to take a better look at the gun, but his thighs trembled and his strength deserted him. He settled back down.

A scent reached Ray’s nostrils and he shuddered: the delicious coppery scent of blood mixed with a hint of iron-infused well water. His eyes brimmed with tears and his tongue swept longingly around the inside of his mouth. The sound of running water ended, accompanied by the spin of a toilet paper roll. The upstairs bathroom door creaked open. Each stair announced that Barry was drawing closer to the kitchen and with him fresh blood.

Barry, sporting three folded over tabs of toilet paper on his face, each with a crimson blossom spreading to its edges, walked into the kitchen carrying the eggcup in one hand and a stack of clothing and a towel in the other. He watched Ray’s eyes track each scrap of bloodied toilet paper, finally settling on the eggcup.

“Well, I told you I bleed like a bastard when I shave,” Barry said. He placed the eggcup in front of Ray. “I figure there’s a little over a teaspoon there.” He crossed to the stove and made a production of fiddling with the coffeepot with his back to Ray. “Let me know when you’re finished.”

Ray glanced furtively from Barry to the eggcup. Pooling in the bottom was the difference between life and death. His nostrils flared. His fingertips trembled as they found the edge of the porcelain. He looked from the blood to Barry, back at the blood and sobbed.

“Everything alright?” Barry didn’t turn around. “It’s okay, isn’t it? Is it enough?”

“It…” Ray shuddered and exhaled. “No one … no one has ever offered it freely.”

Barry shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“Like I said — simple hospitality. Drink up,” he said, “then we can talk.”

Ray’s gaze dipped to the eggcup. It didn’t look like much, that shallow layer of crimson pooled at the bottom, but to him it was everything. As far gone as Ray was, the offering in the cup wasn’t just a meal. The cooling, congealing mass oozed with potential vitality. It would sustain him, make him whole.