Blood Lite II: Overbite (18 page)

“Let—get up!”

“Dick!”

“I said get up, I can’t—my eye!”

“I’m trying to! I—”

Right behind them, something moaned. Melodically. With too much tremolo. Larry smelled something horrible and rotten.

Just inside the trap, Dick’s legs slipped out of his grip, leaving Larry on his back right below the guillotine.

The monster lunged, and Dick yanked the bait.

The trapdoor fell.

Larry felt a moment of pain, and then a bright light blinded him. He floated through total darkness like a ghostly turkey feather, until he settled beside his brother in the cell. Dick was screaming Larry’s name and was staring down at the ground.

I’m right here
, Larry said, but Dick didn’t seem to hear him. So Larry looked down, too.

The flashlight, which had fallen to the floor, angled its beam across the busted old planks. Larry’s head lay just inside the trap, staring at the ceiling with s’mores still on its face. The rest of his body lay outside. The trapdoor divided the two.

Grumbling, the monster went for Larry’s corpse. There was a ripping sound. Darkness shrouded the beast, whatever it was.

“You leave him alone!” Dick cried. “You leave my brother alone—”

Your camera!
Larry said, grabbing Dick’s muscle.

Dick glanced around, suddenly much whiter; he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

Get it on camera!
Larry said, shaking him.

Slowly, Dick nodded. He lifted the viewfinder to his eye and snapped a shot.

Outside, the monster groaned and hit the gate, as if trying to bat away the camera flash. Dick kept snapping photos, faster and faster. Sequins on the monster’s jumpsuit sparkled.

The beast tried to cover its eyes and beat at the door all at the same time, but finally it gave up and loped into the woods, running into a few trees as it went.

Dick didn’t stop clicking until the camera was full.

Larry patted him on the back, told him everything would be okay, he didn’t have to be a’scared of him anymore; everything would be okay, he felt fine.

Dick shriveled.

Dick wept.

After the accident, the Forest Service had removed the trapdoor from the Bigfoot cage, which now remained dark and empty. Dick, standing just outside, powered on his brother’s EVP recorder to pick up any supernatural sound.

“Larry . . . if you’re still in there . . .” He held up a copy of
The Current Courier
. “Got my name on the front page, Larry. Dick Schingle, right above the fold. And I got the pictures in there, too. Bona fide photographic evidence, first of its kind.”

Voices sounded somewhere in the woods. Dick glanced in their direction and cleared his throat.

“I can’t, uh . . . I can’t lift your containment spells, Larry. You wrote them in Elvish. With crayon. The comic-book guy told me it’s not even a known dialect of Elvish, so . . . you’re stuck.

“I also want you to know . . . I was never afraid of you, Larry. Not
of
you. I wanted you to know that.”

The voices in the woods drew closer, and Dick’s head beaded with sweat.

“This is ridiculous,” he said as he pulled out his father’s African ghost knives.

He set down the EVP recorder. “Tell Dad I . . . tell him . . . hell, just tell him Mom says hi.”

With that, Dick lunged into the trap and stabbed the air with the mystical knives, hoping to feel something—anything at all—when he stabbed his brother’s soul.

“Are you nuts?” someone said behind him.

Dick nearly jumped out of his skin.

Two kids stood outside, gaping at him.

“What’re you doing here?” Dick asked, lowering the knives.

“Snipe hunting,” the stupid one said with great conviction. “What are
you
doing here?”

Dick thrust the paper at them. “My brother died here. Don’t you boys read the news?”

They squinted at the article and the photograph, which had been taken at night from inside the cell. “Is that . . .?” the dumb one began.

Dick nodded as he picked up the EVP recorder and shut it off. “First picture ever proven authentic.”

“So he
is
alive,” the smart kid replied, studying the picture of a snarling Elvis.

“No,” Dick said, “the King is dead. Well . . . undead. It was his zombie that killed Larry. Still had the jumpsuit. And the hair.”

“Hey, I found a mistake,” the dumb one said, pointing to the caption below the photograph. “Who’s Pelvis Resley?”

Dick’s face filled with hot blood. “
You’re
a mistake.”

In their first sign of intelligence, the kids glanced nervously at the knives.

Dick shook his head and forced a smile. “Keep the paper, boys. It’s signed. Might be worth something someday.”

He started downhill away from the trap, but stopped halfway down and rewound Larry’s EVP recorder. He pressed play and heard himself talking: “Tell Dad I . . . tell him . . . hell, just tell him Mom says hi.” Then he heard his ghost knives slicing the air.

Dick turned up the volume and cocked his ear toward the white noise. After a second he heard Larry screaming,
Stop, stop—you almost got my eye!

At the Bigfoot trap, one of the kids laughed. The smartass was taking a dump in the cell and was tearing Dick’s newspaper into strips of bathroom tissue. The dumbass was screaming at him to stop, stop littering—he was a conservationist!

Dick smiled and continued down the trail. He’d leave the kid’s droppings in there for a while. Larry deserved it for dodging the ghost knives—sometimes he could be a real dick.

Son of . . . a Bitch!

SAM W. ANDERSON

“C’mon, Joe, give me a steak already.”

The cheapskate pretends not to hear me and focuses on his grill. If he thinks I’m going to shut up for some hamburger, he best think again—but that’d probably tax his puny brain. Of all the possible people here in this great big city, I get stuck with Joe as the only one who can understand me. He’s just a lousy postal worker, sworn enemy of any self-respecting creature. A butcher, now that would have been nice.

“I said, give me a fucking steak.”

“You know, I’m shocked to hear dogs have such foul mouths. Especially a golden retriever. You seem so nice.”

“Fuck you.” I lift my leg on the chain-link fence separating our yards. “Have you listened to us bark, Joe? Do we sound like we’re singing ballads and lullabies? Pretty much everything we say is yelling because you’re too self-absorbed to listen.”

I shouldn’t be so hard on the guy, but it’s too damn hot to care. I can’t remember a summer this miserable, and all I have is this warm water full of dead ants and grass clippings. I’d rip out somebody’s throat for some of that cold stuff in the big bowl in the bathroom. Damn, that’s some tasty water.

Joe stands on his small patio and flips the meat. Definitely hamburger. He looks even more pathetic than usual with his cutoff shorts and pasty legs. He bobs his head to the beat of music blaring from his house—some rap song about big butts. Humans are weird.

I’m ready to walk away when I spy Cat at the pet door. I hate Cat. Damn thing gives me the creeps with its slitted eyes and nine lives. That’s simply not natural. I turn back—hamburger’s plenty fine, anyway.

“You thought about our earlier talk?” I ask. He tosses a patty over the fence, and I catch it. In two bites, it’s gone. Fuck, I love hamburger! I remember this every time.

“How could I not?” he says. “A guy hears the neighbor’s dog talking at him, it kind of stays fresh in the mind.” Joe smiles, like he’s said something of value.

Looking at his goofy grin, I almost feel sorry for the putz. He’s dumpy and quiet, and I’ve never seen any of the good-smelling ones come to his house. His hair is like a Brillo pad. I’ve chewed up one before—they break apart and get stuck in your teeth. Taste like shit, too. Was in no way worth the beating I got.

“Are you going to do it?”

“C’mon, Max, be serious.”

“Joe, you’re talking to a dog, and I’m the one that’s supposed to be serious?” Of course, I’m talking to this pea brain, so . . .

As he bites into his hamburger, ketchup squeezes out down the front of his undersized T-shirt. It looks like blood across the goofy guy with huge ears printed on the shirt’s front above the words “Ross for Boss.” It also looks delicious.

“Sorry, Max.” Another bite, and more ketchup escapes. I salivate. I smell another patty on the grill and hope it’s got my name on it. “I don’t believe any of this,” he says, still chewing. “I ain’t going to do it.”

I’m almost relieved. The whole idea seems retarded, anyway, but I can’t let it go without trying one more time. Cat’s right here watching, and I’d never hear the end of it. In my nicest bark I say, “Come here, Joe.”

“You’re not going to pee on my shoes again? These are brand-new L.A. Gear.”

“Nah, that’s only funny the first time.” But, damn, is it funny. “I just want to talk. You know—canine to man.”

From two blocks over, I hear Ginger barking at me to “leave that poor guy alone.” If she hadn’t had gotten fixed two months ago, I may have listened to her. That schnauzer snatch holds no power over me anymore.

Joe ambles closer, the scent of ketchup and hamburger grease grows stronger. He crouches by the fence, and sweat pours off him. “Okay, what do you want, Max?”

“I thought you said you don’t believe any of this shit.”

“Yeah . . . and?”

“Then why’d you come over here? You must think I’m talking to you, right?”

Joe stands. As he searches for a philosophical argument to counter, I lift my leg and piss on his shoes.

“Goddamnit!”

“I was wrong. That’s funny every time.”

“I ain’t giving you no more beef.”

I think he probably will once I put on my cute, I’m-so-innocent face. That’s as close to a sure thing as Ginger used to be.

“Listen, Joe, and listen good. The Demon says you’re The Chosen One. He won’t let you rest until you do his bidding.” I’m really selling the goods here—my tail is wagging so hard you’d guess I’d found a stash of hambones. I think smoke comes out of his ears as he mulls over my words. “He’s watching you,” I say. “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.”

“What? Is he the Santa Claus demon?” Joe laughs at that one.

“What the fuck is a Santa Claus?”

“Never mind.” He wipes his shoe in the dead grass and nearly falls.

“The Demon told me this morning that today is the day. He knows you have a gun, so use it already.”

“You talked to him today, huh?” A smug look crosses Joe’s face. “Well, then, what did he say I was doing last night?”

Joe thinks he has me, but I know from a pretty reliable source what Joe does on Tuesday nights. “He said you were watching a
Maude
rerun.” I don’t much get the box with the people inside—much less what a rerun may be—but that Maude bitch, her voice raises my hackles. “And he said you were jerking off to the one they call Carrol.”

Since the blood rushes from Joe’s face, I know my source is right. “Don’t be so embarrassed, man. We all do it. Maybe not as much as you, but—”

“Shut up.”

“I prefer a good blanket, all wadded up. That’s an afternoon well-spent right there.”

“Shut up!”

“Or a pillow. Especially if Steve’s pissed me off that day, I like to leave a nice surprise for him at bedtime.” And that
is
something worth the beating—pardon the pun.

I’ve hit a nerve. Sulking, Joe strides toward his house in his stained L.A. Gear.

“Oh, c’mon, Joe. Give me a break.” He reaches for the sliding-glass door. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Screw you, Max.” I think up a ton of jerking-off jokes when he says this, but decide I’ve pushed far enough. “Your whole idea is stupid,” he says. “I’m not going to talk to you anymore.”

“Wait!” Thoughts bombard my mind—Ginger in heat, the patty still sizzling on the grill (fuck, I love hamburger!), Ginger in heat, Cat peering at me through the pet door (I hate Cat). I need to focus; I can’t let him go. And it just slips out: “The Demon, he’s here.”

That stops Joe. Cat steps through the door, his hind legs still inside the house. Ginger’s yapping notches up to supernag. Joe turns and takes a couple of tentative steps back toward the fence. He squints, searching my yard as if he can see The Demon.

“Where?”

Shit, I’ve stepped in it now. And I’m concerned with what to tell Joe, too. With no idea what to say next, “Can’t you feel him?” seems as good as anything.

“All I feel are wet feet and a sunburn coming on.”

For a moment, time stops. I’m losing him. Cat’s stare burrows a hole in the back of my head. I can’t think clearly. I wish Cat would just leave and take his damn slitted eyes and damn nine lives. I’m suddenly afraid and I shiver.

“Oh my God, Max—you all right?”

I can’t answer. I just quake more.

Joe runs to the fence, looking like a baby human first learning to walk. I worry he might tumble with every stride he takes. “It’s The Demon, ain’t it? He’s possessed you.”

Bingo! (Fuck, what a stupid name.) What else to do? On instinct, I flip on my back and flop about the grass. Howling adds a nice touch.

“Jesus, Max.” Joe’s voice has ratcheted an octave. His excitement adds to mine.

“Help me! The Demon, he’s upon me.” Benji or Lassie, they ain’t got shit on me. Rin Tin Tin, eat your heart out.

The adrenaline surges as the performance continues. I spring to my feet. From the corner of my eye, my tail taunts me. I’m too excited to stop myself, and I whirl after it. Faster and faster I spin, nipping, but never quite reaching it. Then, when I’m about to quit out of exhaustion—ta-daa! I catch it. For the first time ever, I catch it.

Now what?

I shake my head, trying to yank the damn thing free, and growl in my you-just-try-to-take-that-food-from-me tone. Chomp! It may not be the smartest thing, but I’m in a frenzy, damnit. I yowl and lose hold of my tail. I come to a stop with my front paws spread wide and my head bowed. The panting comes so fast, I’m woozy.

From behind, I hear Cat enter the house. I wonder if felines can laugh, because if so, I’m sure he is. But they probably can’t—their asses are wound too tight.

“Are you The Demon?” Joe asks.

“Who wants to know?” The voice is my deepest bark, and even I must admit, it’s kind of intimidating.

“It is I—The Chosen One.” The melodrama in Joe’s delivery makes it hard for me not to break character. “What do they call you?”

My mind’s a blank. “Um . . . Ginger. Yeah, bow to me—I am Ginger.”

The barking from two blocks down reaches a frenetic pace. Here, I thought I favored the salty language, but the real Ginger is teaching me a thing or two.
“Don’t bring me into this!”
she barks. As mad at me as she sounds, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore that she’s fixed.

“Where’s Max?” Joe asks. “Is he in there?”

“Tonight. You must act tonight, or I’ll return tomorrow to impose my wrath.” I snarl, exposing as many of the pearly whites as possible. It looks like Joe’s committed an assault on his cutoffs. “Two women, am I clear?”

“Yes, Ginger.” He bows his head. It looks so silly, my tail wags despite myself. He raises his head and steps backward. When he reaches the patio, he stumbles.

“And give me that hamburger.” He reaches for the spatula. “Tomorrow you better have steak for Max. Rib eye.”

Joe tosses the patty like a girl throws a ball. As I devour it—fuck, I love hamburger!—he runs inside his house. The sliding-glass door locks.

Cat jumps on me, waking me from my evening nap. Since this whole thing started, he’s been waking me at the same time every day—right before the thing they call the news comes on the box with people inside. I don’t like the news. All it does is make everybody angry.

“Nice touch yesterday with the Maude reference,” Cat says. “I told you that would come in handy.”

I turn my back. I can’t stand looking at those eyes.

“I hope for your sake he followed through.”

The music for the six o’clock news begins. Then, as if by magic, a guy with what looks like plastic hair appears in the box with people in it. I don’t trust those people. I can’t smell them.

“Our lead story for tonight: Two women were shot in the early morning hours in the Park Hill neighborhood.” My heart jumps. No way could it be Joe. I try calming myself. It’s the city, for fuck’s sake—there are shootings every day. “According to witnesses, a man approached the women on the street. He removed a handgun from a paper bag, fired three shots, and walked away.”

“He did it,” Cat says. The joy in his meow is disgusting. “That worthless human showed some backbone and did it. Used the bag like I instructed and everything.”

“The first victim, twenty-two-year-old Laura Bonita, died at the scene. The other victim’s name hasn’t been released, but police say her injuries are not fatal.”

“Goddamnit!” Claws rip across my back. I spin on Cat, ready to pounce. He glares at me. I cower at the malice in his eyes. Those damn eyes and damn nine lives. I’ve tried killing him before, but he just won’t die. He’s evil, I say, evil.

“He has to do better next time, Max.”

“No. No way. I’m not doing this for you anymore.”

But I look in Cat’s eyes and know this is just the beginning.