Sexy Teenage Vampires
Return of the Sexy Teenage Vampires and
Attack of the Sexy Teenage Vampires
three short stories by Tom Lichtenberg
Smashwords Edition copyright 2011 by Tom Lichtenberg
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
These days you can be too careful. You can be so careful that you miss everything worth anything in this life. My time is short. The doctor told me I would live to seventy two if I was lucky. It's what his computer told him. He punched in all the data about me and out it came. Seventy two. I paid attention since it was exactly what the fortune teller told me when I was only twenty one. She also told me to watch out for people whose names begin with A and N. Like Anne. Or Andy. Or Angela. Angela's the one who owns this crappy newsstand. She don't pay me enough to live on but maybe just enough to make it to seventy two. I'm seventy one already
I've been working this night shift here down in the station for twenty seven years. Is this enough numbers for you? I don't want to lose you or get you confused. A paper used to cost a nickel, then a dime, then a quarter. Now it's what? A dollar for a fricking USA Today? You're paying for all that colored ink they use. Got to have something easy on the eyes. You know how it is. You see a movie, there'd better be tits. It's factored into the price of the ticket. I'm all about numbers. I'm adding them up in my head all day long. Ever since I was a kid I've been adding things up. My first word, they tell me, was "two".
You live long enough you see everything down here. Millions of people streaming by all the time, catching their trains, coming into the city and going back out. It's like schools of fish. Train comes in, legs swarm out, swooping this way and that, out to the street, up above ground. I see them up there too sometimes but mostly by the time I get off and go home it's pretty empty up there. Five in the morning is when I get off. I start around six in the night. It's a pretty long shift but I like it. I've seen every kind of thing at least once. Blood, guts, you name it. Cops call me Willy but my real name is Bill.
I don't know about ghosts but I know about corpses and I've seen them come back. That's right. Angela says it's just I seen so many people they all start looking the same, but I know what I know. They were kids, it seemed liked to me. I can't tell the difference between a high school kid and anybody else under thirty because they all look like high school kids to me now. These two, I pegged them for seventeen or eighteen. First time I saw them, the one called Anne came up to my stand one night and started chatting. She was a lively little thing, short black bangs, bright blue eyes, wore all sorts of rags wrapped around each other in every kind of color. She wanted to know what I would give her.
"I got nothing to give away", I told her, sneering my best 'get lost' look at her. She didn't go for it.
"Come on, Stanley", she said, "There's got to be something."
"The name ain't Stanley", I told her and she laughed.
"It doesn't matter what your name is", she informed me.
"So what's yours then?" I asked.
"Call me Anne," she said. "And give me something".
"So what is it you want?" I was curious. "People Magazine. Us? The Times? It's all that I got."
"You got cigarettes too," she pointed at my stash. I'm sort of not allowed to sell anything but magazines and newspapers and books, but I do a little business on the side. People who know me, know me. I can usually supply a thing or two, depending. It's the only way I made it this far. I don't get carried away, nothing heavy like narcotics, you know. I keep it simple. Barter and trade. There's other people who get stuff too and it's a whole little world down here, especially at night. You probably wouldn't want to know too much. Maybe you're one of those being-too-careful types. If you knew, you might become what they call a witness, and then those cops might call you by your wrong name too. You don't want that. So don't get involved. I'll tell them I never saw you.
"Got any cloves?" she wanted to know. That's when I pegged her for seventeen or eighteen. Clove cigarettes is one of those things you go through when you're of an age and live in a time and place. To me they smelled bad and tasted even worse. I never could understand why a person would ever smoke those things.
"Nothing to give away," I reminded her, and that's when she said the words that made my blood run cold. Well, it didn't exactly run cold but kind of chilly maybe. Definitely less than room temperature. She stopped smiling - she'd been smiling this whole time, like a kid who knew how to work her old grandpa as if he were Santa - and she leaned over close, right up to my face.
"You want to be nice, pops", she said, "'cause I'm going to be here forever".
Something about her voice made me take a step back from the counter and the next thing I knew I was handing over a pack of cloves and shaking my head and trying to get a word or two out, but the words wouldn't come. She grabbed the pack, gave me a wink and slinked away. Next time I saw her was only a few hours later. I had pulled the gate down and stepped out for a coffee when I noticed a crowd gathered around the juice place. I pushed my way through, as curious as anyone, and there she was, little Anne, lying on her back on the ground with her throat slit wide open and with the blood still oozing out. A damn shame, I said to myself.
I didn't see her again for a month. In the meantime I'd picked up another unwelcome guest, a skinny little runt by the name of Andy. He started coming around the day after that girl had died. Same thing almost, word for word. What could I give him? Got any cloves? You want to be nice, old man. I wondered if they had a script or something they'd rehearsed. You better believe I gave the boy those smokes a lot faster than I'd done with the girl. Andy didn't slink away, though I wished he had. He kept hanging around, talking too much. The boy had to tell his life story as if I was someone who cared, as if it was even a good one. So his dad was a junkie and his mom was a drunk. So he'd grown up in the Bowery on the streets. So he knew a good scam when he saw one. So he mostly foraged down here underground where the pickings were choice, in his words. Mostly he stole from the rich and gave to himself. He'd kill if he had to. Said he had had to. Didn't bother him none.
I didn't try and talk back. Mostly I pretended to listen but I heard. There's a lot of bad stuff going on all the time. You think I don't know? Surrounded by all of this news all the time? It's all about who does the most damage wins. It's all pretty small time however. There'd be a lot of accounting to do if there was some god who actually paid attention to all of this shit.
"I do at least one evil thing every day", Andy bragged, "or else I just can't go to sleep. It's my thing."
"At least you got a thing", I snarled. I kept trying to get rid of the kid. It's not like he was bothering me, really. He wasn't interfering with business. Fact is there's a lot of grown men out there who notice a good looking boy so maybe he attracted some flies with his honey. I thought that I noticed an up-tick in trade. He stood by the side of the stand, gazing out at the crowds while all the time talking at me.
"It's got to be seriously evil", he told me. "I won't do a thing if it's not. I'll stay up for weeks if I have to".
"Come on", I snorted. "How many evil things can one person do? There aren't really even that many to start with".
"Sure there are", he informed me, and started listing them out, beginning with murder and rape and the other more obvious things you could think of. By the time he got down to stuff that were just plain mean I stopped him and said,
"Putting a thumbtack on somebody's seat is not what I would call evil".
"It was good for a nap", he replied with a smile, and that's when I saw he'd been messing with me all along.
"You ain't never done nothing", I said. "You just talk."
"How many bad things does a man have to do" he wanted to know, "before you would call him a bad man?"
"At least one," I replied, "and anyway, doing and being are not the same thing".
"You are what you eat", he laughed.
"What are you even doing here?" I asked him. "You've been hanging around me for days just talking and talking, and all full of shit the whole time."
"I've been waiting", he said.
"For what?"
"For my future".
"Right", I sighed. I was stupid for thinking the kid would make sense. He was nothing but a pair of lips flapping.
"There she is now", he said quietly and I looked up and saw her, heading my way. It was her, it was Anne, the same girl who had died. I know it wasn't only some lookalike. She was almost exactly the same except now along with her rags she was wearing a scarf wound up to her chin. She came straight for the newsstand, didn't seem to see Andy. He was just staring at her, and me? I was gaping at one, then the other, then back.
"Nice to see you, Stanley", she said, but there was no smile on her face and her lips barely parted when she talked.
"You got something for me?" she asked.
"What is it you want?" I managed to say.
"You know what I like", she replied.
"Have one of mine", Andy spoke up. He took a step closer to her and held out a clove cigarette. She turned her entire body toward him. There was a long moment when I swore nothing moved in the whole underground. The lights seemed to go dark and everyone stopped. I felt like I couldn't even breathe.
She looked straight into him with wide open eyes. She was something, that girl. Her eyes were not blue anymore, they were black, and you could feel the heat rising around her as if she were a walking power plant. I thought the sweat would come off me in puddles. Andy had nothing to say. He just held out his hand until she reached out and took the smoke off him. Then she turned her whole body back toward me and whispered.
"I told you I'd be here forever".
"How did you know?" I wanted to say, but I didn't say nothing. I noticed some movement around me. The world was all coming back into life and when I let out a breath she was gone.
"That's why I'm here", Andy said.
"You were waiting for her?"
"I never wanted something so badly", he told me. "The first time I saw her. I just had to have her".
"But you couldn't", I guessed.
"There was only one way", he nodded.
"That really was evil", I had to admit.
"Thanks", Andy smiled. "Do you believe in me now?"
"So what's next?"
"Stick around and you'll see", Andy said.
"I don't have much time", I told him. "It's my birthday next week. I'll be seventy two. I could die any time".
"You and me both".
"What do you mean?"
"She's going to need me now, but not the way I am now. Not like this."
"Don't tell me. I don't want to know".
"Don't worry about it, Stanley", he said. "Just keep some of those cigarettes handy. We'll be around. That's for sure."
They made a cute couple, I kept telling myself, weaving their way in and out of the crowds. There was always some out of the way corner where the kids could forage for blood. They took a little from here, a little from there. Nobody missed it. Nobody knew. It's the aftertaste, though, that's what they hate, and that's why the clove cigarettes. I always had wondered about that.
Now I know.
Return of the Sexy Teenage Vampires
Some bad things happen mostly during rush hour. People are careless. They're tired and not paying as much attention as they should. They fail to see things that are right in front of them. They see other things which aren't even there. They hear the noises of the crowd but later wonder why their arm is bleeding. It was just a scratch, but still, how did that happen? Moss Staley was only taking the train home from work the same as always. He got on at Civic Center, got off at Balboa Park. It was nothing but a ten minute ride, the same as every other day of the week, every other week of the year, no reason to wind up in the hospital with a massive infection spreading wildly throughout his body, putting him in a coma, not even wondering where he was.
He was wondering, instead, how he got there. In his mind, undetectable and unknowable from without, the scenes replayed and repeated incessantly. Something inside him knew there was an answer on the tapes. The visions scrolled past in slow motion, no audio now, just images. It began, he had a feeling, on the sidewalk on Market Street. Usually he walked quickly to the subway entrance, not wanting to see, not wanting to know about the hordes in rags lining the thoroughfare, some muttering quietly, others shouting. This one was shouting. Moss couldn't hear it now but he shivered at the memory of the words.
“Hey pigs! how's your little world now? How's your master, the Devil? Must be proud, eh, pigs?”
Over and over, it began with “hey pigs!” and concluded with “eh, pigs?” in a perfect symmetry of invective. Moss had glanced up and seen the hateful face, contorted with venom on a small, slight balding gent. The man had seen him too and faked a lunge toward him, fists squeezing tight. Moss flinched and scurried onward. Don't look up again, he scolded himself. He knew he was in the presence of the burgeoning night life, surrounded by the newly runaway and the soon-to-be completely forgotten. He didn't want to feel the shame of really not giving a fuck about those losers. Hadn't he been a runaway himself and never ended up on the streets like that? Was it only luck, or were these children lacking some ingredient he unwittingly had.
That was ages ago, of course. He was long since past those days. Respectable, in fact, with his honest day's work and his honest day's pay, with his railroad flat, his mountain bike, and his annual new shoes. The images of these prized possessions flashed through his fevered mind as he lay on that hospital bed, unseen nurses worrying above him. Down he went, down the white tiled honeycombed stairway, following the blue line to the gates and tugging out his wallet for the ticket which he slipped into the slot and felt much safer then. Those people hardly ever came down into the tracks. That was money. Now it was only more of his kind of folks, the working kind. They had all survived that rush and stood there on the platform, watching the subway scoreboard and waiting for their own. He could jump on any train since they were all going to go his way. What wasn't?
The job was looking up. Harriet Clinch had hinted at promotion. He was almost certain his data entry skills were becoming more and more appreciated. At hardly an error a month, he was leading the pack. He wished they posted the tally more publicly, like at those oil change places where they tell you how long it's been since somebody screwed up. He had flirted openly with Gwendolyn on Tuesday, and here it was Thursday and as far as he knew she might have even noticed. The thought of her and certain of her curves caused Moss to look around. There. Who was that? Huge black eyes were the first thing he noticed, and a black turtleneck, fitting tightly on a slender frame, some kind of raggedy skirt below that looked like it was made of strips of multicolored crepe paper. He scanned the girl back up again. There was nothing in those eyes, eyes that looked directly at him, or through him more likely. He felt a heat off her gaze and looked away but the image was stamped in his mind. He knew he was going to think of her later.
Later. The seconds ticked off slowly as the train did not arrive and the crowd around him grew, thicker and thicker by the moment. Moss stood still, rooted in his spot, the spot he always planted himself in, night after night after night. Anyone who watched would know. Anyone who watched would, “why would anyone watch?” he asked himself and didn't want to think about the answer. Bad things tend to happen around this time, he told himself. People aren't paying attention. They're tired and only want to go home. It's the perfect time to do bad things if you were a doer of same. He didn't want to think about things like that. He noticed with relief that the next train was only a minute away. What could happen in a minute? Nothing bad, he decided. In fact, it wouldn't even hurt to take another look around.
She wasn't there. He turned and craned his neck to find her through the bodies now blocking the view but she was not to be seen. He looked in every direction, past the overly perfumed woman blabbing on her cellphone, around the big man struggling to fold up his sports section, through the identically dressed twin hags, but his eyes couldn't find the black-eyed girl. Somebody jostled against him. Moss kept his balance and kept his spot and turned to to his right to give a scolding look at the offender. For a moment, he thought it was her, but quickly realized his mistake. This one was a boy, but it was an honest error. The boy was almost exactly the same size, and wore a black shirt, long-sleeved like hers (probably to hide his tattoos from his boss, Moss considered). The boy had a Mediterranean look. Moss in his coma was smiling at the phrase. Mediterranean. Lean-faced, soft cheeked, almost like a girl, almost like that girl. The boy smiled at him, a sort of apology smile, Moss guessed. Moss did not smile back. I'm not into boys, he told himself, not admitting the fact that if he was, he would be. There was something about this one.
The train should have come by now and the crowd felt the same way he did. He could feel the restlessness blowing through them like a breeze. No, it was a breeze, the oncoming rush of the train. The noise was coming too and Moss forgot about the boy, instead inspecting his spot and calculating the imminent shoves and pushes. He took a final look around as the train rushed in, and noticed, with a shock, the girl on his left, nearly leaning against him. Again he felt a kind of steam rising off her, and then her smell of freshly pressed clean laundry. She was looking at him, too, looking up at him and narrowing her eyes slightly. His eyes got tangled in her beauty. No other word for it, not even now, he realized and he knew in a flash he'd been wrong. Anything could have happened in that particular moment and he would never know it. And it was just a moment. The train was whistling to a standstill and the crush began behind him, shoving him toward the doors. The girl was gone. The boy was gone. Moss was hustled into the car and practically hurled against the far side of the car. He was sure she must be there but as much as he looked he saw no sign of her.
All the way through the Mission and through Glen Park he searched for her. After a brief uncertainty, he even broke his protocol and left his initial spot, making his way through the car, up and back, and even to the next car, and finally doubling back and venturing into the one behind. Finally he gave up. He must have missed her due to that initial hesitation and she must have gotten off at 16th Street. Sure she did. She would. A girl like that would certainly go there. He babbled in his mind, kept babbling, thinking of the girl and not even knowing why. There was nothing that special about her, just her black eyes, and her short, straight black hair, but no body, really, and he usually liked a woman with a body. In his dreams he did, at least. In the real world he'd hardly ever seen one. Gwendolyn has a body, he reminded himself.
“Gwendolyn has a body” was the sentence running through his mind when he stepped off the train and immediately collapsed onto the platform, blood pouring out from his right arm, just above the elbow. “Gwendolyn has a body”, he told himself, having no idea what could have happened to him. He could tell that there were people shouting, and just before he retreated entirely into his endless video stream he heard a quiet voice slip into his ear, a voice that must have been delayed somehow, that must have spoken earlier but taken all this time to go from mouth to ear to brain.
“Sorry, man”, the quiet voice said, and he knew it was the boy.
Attack of the Sexy Teenage Vampires
"Grubby animals!" he said. "Just look at them, crawling all over the place like vermin. They disgust me."
"Good they don't feel the same about you," she gave him a look.
'They would if they knew," he countered, but he knew it would never occur. To them he was only a boy, or else a young man, a little thing to notice, admire and want. The same with her. Together they'd been around long enough to sense, even to smell the meagerest whiffs of attraction.
"The one in the suit," he said.
"Is mine," she quickly offered up. This game they played. How fast they could know. Any man or any woman might be a target for the boy or else for the girl. It was important to know which, because in that knowledge lay the whole of the tactic. Plus, there were different methodologies of approach. Most were resistant to the simple and direct. You had to play games with these creatures. You had to be shy or be bold, be quick or be slow, be discreet or be flamboyant. Some could never be coaxed from their shells. Others would leap at the slightest opportunity. For example, the one in the suit. This one was hiding his secrets. He'd been alone for many years now but worked hard at trying not to show it. Already balding a bit and putting on weight, he went through a rigorous exercise routine to keep his middle-age years a little at bay. Up on the streets he walked with a purpose, eyes fixed on a distant destination. This way the muggers would not draw near. Never let them see a moment's hesitation. Hadn't he been through the gauntlet in his time? Hadn't he felt the blade of knife on throat? Not to be caught off guard, and the same was true for love; burned once, burned twice and burned again but after that it was going to take a lot for him to even twitch at a hint of an interest. What he didn't know about himself was something the seemingly young girl could tell. He thought he was still twenty four. That meant bait. That meant it was in his mind that she - what was she? seventeen? - might actually be in his range.
"But worth it?" the girl suggested doubt.
"Thin blood," the boy agreed. All this while waiting for the train that never came, the N-Judah line at rush hour. The cluster of beasts thickened while the youths sat on the round stone slab selecting meat as if it was their personal Mongolian barbecue stand. The one in the suit had no idea and never would.
"Lady Perfume," the girl sniffed out.
"Nice flesh," the boy said, inspecting the flabby arms. He liked to see them wobble about. It meant for easy pickings.
"Keep your teeth in," the girl advised as she observed some tightening of his brow.
"Share and share alike," he reminded her. Teeth were out of date. Nowadays the talent used a needle, just a prick is all it took. They had high tech drainage power these days, could pull half a pint in seconds flat. It didn't take much. The old school operators worked alone but you could spot them easily. Rags. Bad hair. You've got to keep up with the times. You need to go above ground and get some fresh air and let the wind take the stench of the station off of yourself. A pro needs to travel, keep moving around. You can't keep haunting the same old locales. You'll be spotted, too easily. They have cameras and stuff these days, old man. No loitering, and stay on your toes.
These two made it their business to see the world, although they had a definite preference for certain coastal American cities. It was the menu, mainly, which provided variety, taste and substance. You can't have the same old filling cow-fed obesity all of the time, a trend so dominant they now rode the rails right across the heartland, never even stopping, and forget about the south. Don't even go there, child.
"Pick of the litter," Andy announced, winking off to his right.
"Diamond clad dinner," she clicked, and on her feet went straight for the prize. Tall young man, looked army, like a fighter, with a tattoo on his neck that practically declared himself food. She, a scrawny little thing, all pale and black, sporting that retro Goth thing those days, even with a sapphire stud pierced through her cheek, worked her way towards him. He, big man, heaving that duffel bag over his shoulder like he really was going off to war that very minute, was looking above the crowd. From his height it was like a sea of evening hairdos all coming undone. Lord of all he did survey.
The boy followed Anne as she made her approach. This was going to be fun. Was she going to step on the guy’s foot or bump against his knee? Had to make herself known to him somehow. He'd never notice that tiny thing down there. Ooh, she did one even better. A hand so careless brushing up against ass and holding, hold it right there for just a moment. The apparently awkward looking-up chagrin. The looking-down what's that? Oh, that!
"Sorry," she barely whispered. He had to lower his head to catch it.
"Come again?" he asked in his husky military man way.
"It's just so crowded," she shrugged but touching him again with the same hand, this time on the side of the leg just below the belt. He had to look down there at the fingernails painted the same as the stud, and didn't he notice some eyeliner sparkles that color as well? Yes, she had a grace, and the thing was, he could have snapped her in two and that was definitely a part of it. He was turning, and as he turned, the boy did his thing, a stick and move jab with the point that would have made any old heavyweight proud. Big boy never felt it. Big man was all attention to the girl and she was now gliding away, just vaguely, peeling off into the crowd that somehow became a herd to the man, crude stupid beasts that were blocking his way to this catch and then wouldn't you know it, the stupid N-Judah arrives, and army boy has to go catch his train. For two whole stops he thinks about her and what could have been, and then there is this redhead getting on at Van Ness.
"A-B positive," the boy said, licking the glass.
"Give me some of that," she grabbed it from him and took a long draw.
"Delicious," she said with a smile.