Funny Horror
Author: Alex Shvartsman; Esther Friesner; Jody Lynn Nye; Laura Resnick
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Werewolves; Anthology; Vampires; Zombies; funny; Horror
Description: 18 Short Stories of Humorous Horror Read this book to: * Meet communist werewolves, mad scientists and Jewish vampires. * Reject novel pitches from famous zombie novelists. * Provide psychotherapy for Cthulhu. * Domesticate angry gods. * Install Linux on a dead badger. Includes the following stories: "No Children, No Pets" by Esther Friesner "43 Responses to 'In Memory of Dr. Alexandra Nako'" by Barbara A. Barnett "Kvetchula's Daughter" by Darrell Schweitzer "The Great VuDu Linux Teen Zombie Massacree" by Lucy A. Snyder "Good Neighbors" by Amanda C. Davis "Happily and Righteously" by Larry Hod
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

PUBLISHED BY:

UFO Publishing

1685 E 15th St.

Brooklyn, NY 11229
www.ufopub.com

Copyright © 2017 by UFO Publishing

Stories copyright © 2017 by the authors

All rights reserved. No part of the contents of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

Cover art: Michelle Tolo

Interior art: Barry Munden

Graphics design: Emerson Matsuuchi

Visit us on the web:

www.ufopub.com

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Foreword
Alex Shvartsman

No Children, No Pets
Esther Friesner

43 Responses to "In Memory of Dr. Alexandra Nako"
Barbara A. Barnett

Kvetchula's Daughter
Darrell Schweitzer

The Great VÜDÜ Linux Teen Zombie Massacree
Lucy A. Snyder

Good Neighbors
Amanda C. Davis

Happily and Righteously
Larry Hodges

Stalking the Zombie
Mike Resnick

Restless in R'Lyeh
Oliver Buckram

P.R. Problems
Eric James Stone

Hot Fudge and Whipped Cream
Tarl Kudrick

Death: A List
Tanya Bryan

Soccer Mom Smackdown
Julia S. Mandala

The God Whisperer
Daniel J. Davis

Meat and Greet
Jamie Todd Rubin

Something Virtual this Way Comes
Laura Resnick

The Story of Emily and Control
Scott Alexander

Howl!
Jody Lynn Nye

Final Corrections
M. Bennardo

Afterword

About the editor

Foreword

Alex Shvartsman

THIS BOOK IS FILLED to the brim with communist werewolves, mad scientists, zombie novelists, Jewish vampires, and Cthulhu in therapy. The authors have mined the staples of the horror genre in an effort to make fun of them while entertaining and delighting the reader.

Funny Horror follows Funny Science Fiction and Funny Fantasy, and I'm constantly surprised at how different each of these volumes feels. In each case, I set out to gather some of the finest examples of humorous genre fiction originally published in the past decade. I didn't seek uniformity, yet the tales in each volume tend to share some difficult-to-quantify common threads, as though the science fiction DNA and the fantasy DNA in each work serve to usher them into a kind of fiction taxonomy.

Horror is more complicated, because many of these stories could reasonably be filed under either science fiction or fantasy. And yet, there's a certain tone to them–be they speculations on what lies beyond death with a whimsical twist, or extra-silly yarns of suburban werewolves–that unmistakably identifies their genre.

I hope you're sufficiently entertained by these stories to explore all three volumes and see what I mean for yourself.

Happy reading!

No Children, No Pets

Esther Friesner

I AM EMMELINE. I am six.

I am a city werewolf. I live in Central Park. It is very near the Plaza Hotel.

I don't like the Plaza because it is full of all these people who are always asking "Where are your Mommy and Daddy, little girl?" when they see me in the lobby. It is absolutely annoying. Then I have to scootle right out of there as fast as I can go on two legs which is not as fast as I can go on four but if I were scootling around the lobby on four legs I would not even get in the front door of the Plaza Hotel, or the side door or even the delivery entrance, for Lord's sake.

Lily Packmother says that when I am older and have got some self-control, I will be able to walk right in through the front door of the Plaza Hotel and march right through that lobby and straight up to that check-in desk and tell them "One room with a view of Central Park, a dozen raw prime sirloin steaks, a fat bellboy, and charge it, please." Then I will be able to get right onto that big elevator and ride up to the very top floor even if my room is not on that floor and get off and find the best place to lurk until the moon turns full. Then I can eat people.

Oooooh, I absolutely love eating people! I am much too small to eat a whole big one now, but when I get older, I will be able to eat sixty-eleven dozen of them without so much as batting an eye.  Lily Packmother says, "Emmeline, you can't be serious about eating so many people. You will give yourself a tummy ache." But I am mostly entirely serious, even if it takes us werewolves longer to get old than people. Lily Packmother says it is something to do with dog years or backwards dog years or something. All I know is I will have to wait. I am good at waiting. It is all a matter of seeing it through until the Revolution. That is what my Daddy says.

Central Park is my most favorite place in the whole city. It is full of all of these trees that are very good to hide behind in the dark and also to pee on if you are a boy werewolf which I am not, thank heavens. Boy werewolves do not have any good manners like me, EMMELINE, even if they are my fellow proletary fighters in the workers' struggle and Daddy would say that I owe them solidarity. Solidarity is awfully important but boy werewolves smell bad and sometimes they try to rip your throat out to establish pack dominance. I completely dislike them.

There are lots of good smells in Central Park. Sometimes I am able to find the hot dog man and take some mustard right off his cart to put on my food because everything in New York City tastes much better with mustard. I never eat the hot dog man. There would be no more hot dogs. I am enormously fond of hot dogs. Central Park also has all of these pigeons, which are not very good to eat even if you completely slorsh them all over with every drop of mustard in the entire universe. Lily Packmother says that they are all right when you are incredibly desperate and about to starve to death right this very minute, which happens more than you might imagine when you are a werewolf. She says beggars cannot be choosers and that there are werewolves starving to death in China so we should count our blessings because we are living in America and not Communists.

Then I hit her on the ankle with the leash I took off the last doggie I ate and remind her that my Daddy is a Communist.

Lily Packmother doesn't want me to grow up to be a Communist. She says that it is bad enough I am a poor motherless cub without my Daddy having been a Communist and doing something as stupid as what he did when he heard about the Rosenbergs getting lectricuted. I don't know what she is talking about. I don't know what he did. I don't know who the Rosenbergs are. No one in our pack is named Rosenberg. I think maybe they live in the Plaza Hotel and that is where my Daddy is, too.

I wish he would come out. Nine months is an awful long time to be visiting people and leaving your daughter all by herself in the middle of Central Park one night when it was absolutely dark and there were all of these big monster sea lions from the Zoo rampaging through the trees everywhere. My Daddy told me to sit down on that park bench and not to move even one inch from there, because someone would come to find me eventually. He said that he was sick at heart about the Rosenbergs and witch hunts and all of those clowns and lap dogs in Washington D.C. and that there was only so much one man could take, for Lord's sake.

Here is what I like to do: Pretend I know what grownups are talking about.

Then he said it would be better if I were raised by the System because he couldn't get a job anywhere on account of the witch hunt and there was no way he could provide for me, so the System won, which was not fair at all and Marks was right. After that he went into these bushes and I sat on that park bench until I heard a very loud bang somewhere in the dark and I decided I had sat on that bench not moving even one inch long enough and I had to go somewhere else, in case those sea lions found me and stamped on me and absolutely devoured me. With mustard.

I ran and ran and ran until I came out onto a place by a fountain where I met this doggie who looked like a frog and he bit me. Then I ran away and I stopped bleeding almost right away instantly, which was completely strange, and I ran back into the park which was where Lily Packmother found me.

She said, "Hello little girl, I see you have been bitten and turned into a werewolf. That means you are one of us now and we will look after you."

I said, "Hello, my name is Emmeline and are you the System?"

When you are bitten by a werewolf or even a wolf and you go on and the moon gets full, you have to turn into a wolf too. That is the law. I was not bitten by a wolf. I was bitten by a dog that had this curly little tail and these big googly frog eyes, but Lily Packmother said that she could smell wolf on me, which means that dog must have had a lot of wolf in him somewhere. I do not know where, he was much too small to have a lot of anything in him anywhere, let alone a whole wolf.

Here is what Lily Packmother likes to say: "The acorn does not fall far from the tree."

Here is what I say: "I was not bitten by an acorn."

And here's the thing of it: When the next full moon came, I turned right into a werewolf and went out and caught and ate three squirrels and a collie and part of a sleeping man on a park bench who smelled funny and tasted like old shoes, so Lily Packmother was right about that dog.

Lily Packmother says she is always right. She says this is because she has the most spearience of anyone in the whole pack because she was bitten by another werewolf hundreds and thousands and billions of years ago, in the 1920s right before the stock market went to Hades. I don't know where Hades is. I think that is somewhere in California or Detroit. I am very specially good at geography. I know how to take the crosstown bus all by myself.

There was this time that one of our pack said that Lily Packmother was wrong and they had this duel and Lily Packmother tore his throat right open with her teeth even though she was not a wolf at the time which was highly inconvenient and there was this blood slorshing all over everywhere, for Lord's sake, and my dress was entirely ruined.

Lily Packmother said, "Emmeline, you can't be seen in public like that even if you are a werewolf because blood will tell." I asked "What will it tell?" and she said "The police" and I remembered what Daddy says about the police being capitalist tools to repress the proleterrycats, so I said, "I need a new dress."

Lily Packmother went away and came back with this very fawncy frilly dress for me. I asked her where she found it and she said some people should learn to watch their children better. I put it on and said "Thank you very much, it fits perfectly, and I hope this is not the product of the sploitation of the working classes." Then I spun around and around to make the skirt go whoosh all swirly and I fell down into the bushes and skinned my knee.

Here's what I can do:

Climb trees

Spell

Curtsey the way Mama taught me before Daddy told her it was an affectation of the boorshwazee and she died

Slurp the insides out of squirrels

Make fur hats

Howl

Quote Marks

Fight for the Revolution and the workers and topple the capitalist pigs and destroy the oppressive System when I get older

Draw a horse

There are lots of horses near Central Park. They pull these handsome cabs filled with people through the park at all hours of the day or night. I like horses, specially the brown ones. My fur is brown. It sprouts all over my body and grows soft and plushery when the full moon rises over the trees and the buildings and the fountain in front of the Plaza Hotel. At first it itches on my face. That is where the fur entirely bursts out before it grows anywhere else on me at all. Then I have to scratch it with this broken rattle that this baby who had it before me wasn't going to use any more.

A broken rattle makes a very good back scratcher.

Lily Packmother says, "Emmeline, you must stop scratching your fur! If you break the skin you will get the mange and then where will you be?"

I say, "I will be in Central Park." I don't know what the mange is, but I am pretty sure it is something I can blame on the capitalists.

Lily Packmother says that it's a good thing that all of us in the pack itch when the full moon rises, because the itching gives us fair warning that the Change is upon us and we should wriggle out of our human clothes just as fast as we can or else they will rip themselves to pieces right off our bodies in utter shreds when we turn into wolves. This is specially true of the pack males who all wear trousers which do not grow on trees.

I want to wear trousers, but Lily Packmother says they are not the proper attire for a young lady and she ought to know. She was a deb-you-tont before she got bit by that man from Rumania or Bohemia or Astoria or someplace else they talk with that accent. That man met her at a big dance at the Plaza Hotel when Lily Packmother was still just Plain Lily and her younger sister Marie Isolde was getting married in the White and Gold Room. Everyone was saying what a dreadful shame it was that Plain Lily's sister was getting married before she was, and she couldn't even tell them it was on account of how Marie Isolde stole her boyfriend by being no better than she should be and having round heels.

I still want to wear trousers.

Here's what Lily Packmother likes: Doris Day movies

Here's what I like: The Adventures of Robin Hood with Richard Greene on television even though we don't have a television in the park so I can't see him anymore.

One day I was walking through Central Park and I came to that Zoo and went to look at those ravaging sea lions for a while. It was very hot and sunny and I was absolutely dying of thirst and shriveling up into ashes like a bug when all of a sudden I saw that dog with those frog eyes who bit me that time. He was with this little girl and this rather large and musty woman so I went right up to them and said "I am Emmeline, your dog bit me and now I am a werewolf, do you want to play?"

The woman looked down her nose at me and said, "Our Louise cawn't cawn't cawn't be playing with just any child who comes along, her mother knows people."

I said, "That is all right because my Daddy knows the Rosenbergs."

That was when the woman just scooped up that little girl and vrooshed away with her over one shoulder and that dog running after them on little tiny skootly legs because everybody dropped that leash and it was dragging on the ground for anyone to grab so I did. I held onto it with two hands and absolutely yanked it. That frog dog stopped goink! just like that, and his legs all kept going but his neck didn't and he landed on his back looking up at me so I said, "Hello, I am Emmeline and you bit me. That is boorjwa oppression and what do you intend to do about making restitution to the prolethingiat?"

And that frog dog looked up at me and said, "You're the One!" He sounded just like David Niven.

Ooooooh, I absolutely adore David Niven! I sneak into all his movies.

Just then that musty lady came back with that little girl walking behind her howling and blubbering and having the worst temper fit I have ever seen in my entire whole life. She ran right up to that frog dog and scooped him up in her arms and made this most hideous ugly face at me and said, "Don't you dare steal my dog! Do you want to play?" So we did.

Her name is Louise. She is six. She lives in the Plaza Hotel. She wanted me to go to the Plaza with her to play but the musty lady said, "You cawn't cawn't cawn't possible just go waltzing off with us like this, child. Your Mummy and Daddy will become concerned."

I said, "I don't know how to waltz, but I can curtsey, my Daddy is still in the Plaza Hotel and my Mommy is dead." That made the musty lady creak right down on one knee in front of me and hug me to her chest which is all fluffy. She said some people should never have children and called me a poor little lost lamb. I tried to tell her I am not a lamb, but it was extremely difficult with all that fluffiness. Then the little girl thwapped the musty lady on top of her head with her fist so hard that she crunched her felt hat and said, "Stop blubbering, you old prune, you're wasting our time. If her Daddy's in the Plaza she can come play in my room NOW!"

So I did. We went right up to those big front doors and across that lobby and straight up to the very top floor in that elevator. Then we just raced right down that hall and Louise kicked on the door to her apartment until that musty lady caught up to us and let us in with a big metal key. It took her too long, so Louise kicked her in her ankles and said, "Amanda, you are ugly and you stink and as soon as my mother calls I am going to tell her to have you fired and sent back to Hell or England."

Amanda is Louise's governess. She looks like pillows. She takes care of Louise because Louise's mother is always someplace more important.

Louise and Amanda live in these big rooms at the very top of the Plaza Hotel. Louise has millions of toys and is bored a lot. She asked me what I wanted to play and I said dolls because I can't remember the last time I had a doll to play with for Lord's sake, but the absolute instant I touched one of her dolls she snatched it right out of my hands and smashed its head against the wall and said dolls were stupid and we were going to play something good.

We played Davy Crockett and she shot me. Then we played cowboys and Indians and she stuck an arrow in me. Then we played that she was the queen of everything in the whole world and I had to fetch her a cup of tea on a silver tray or else she was going to cut off my head and hang me up by my tongue and push me off a cliff and utterly squonk me. I had to act like I didn't mind about any of those stupid games she made me play because I wanted another chance to talk to the frog dog that bit me. I told Louise we should play with the frog dog but she said she was the queen of everything and I was a mere slave and how dare I speak up like that to her majesty and that is when she hit me right over the head with that silver tray.

I am a werewolf. I hate silver. Silver hates me.

I started to cry and Amanda came in and took the silver tray away from Louise and said "Louise, what what what have you done to your little playmate, and with the silver tray that my dear grandmamma gave me? It is of great sentimental value to me and completely irreplaceable. Look, you have bent it. It will cost a lot of money to have it fixed."

That was when Louise grabbed the silver tray back and ran to the window and just flung it open and threw that tray right out into the air like it was a paper airplane. Then she said, "Look! I just saved you a lot of money. I want some chocolate ice cream now. Call Room Service and charge it, Buzzard-face."

Here is what Amanda said: "They don't pay me enough to put up with this sort of crap."

Here is what Louise said: "What did you just say?"

Here is what else Amanda said: Nothing.

Louise smiled. "That's what I thought." And we had chocolate ice cream.

While we were eating, the frog dog came over and bit me on the arm. He didn't do it hard enough to make me bleed, like when he turned me into a werewolf. He did it just enough so I would look at him. Then he rolled his googly eyes at me and at the door to the bathroom.

I got up and said "I have to go to the bathroom."

Louise said, "Who cares?" She grabbed my chocolate ice cream before I could take even one half of a step away from it and gobbled it down as I was walking away, but I didn't care because the frog dog was walking right beside me all the way into that bathroom.

I shut the door behind us and sat down on the toilet lid. The frog dog sat down on a big pink fluffy bath mat and looked at me tilty. "It's a good thing you found me," he said. "You never should've run away after I bit you. Something could've happened to you, and you're the One!"

"I am not one," I said. "I am six."

He said, "Spare me the cute stuff. I have been around this town since before Peter Stuyvessant learned how to pee without getting any on his wooden leg and I know my stuff. I am the Vessel of Lycanthropy, which makes me like the Holy Grail for werewolves everywhere in the greater New York metropolitan area, except for Staten Island. I am the immortal blood descendant of the great she-wolf who suckled Romulus and Remus, and the Fenris wolf who will bring the doom of Ragnarok upon the gods themselves, savvy?"

I said I savvied. I didn't know what that meant but Louise wasn't going to be eating my chocolate ice cream forever and I wanted to find out more before she came and banged on that bathroom door at us.

The frog dog said I was the Chosen One because he did not just go around biting every Tom Dick and Harry unless the Spirit of Lycanthropy told him to. So far he had been around for twenty million hundred and two years and bitten an awful lot of people but nothing much came of it because someone always shot them with a silver bullet and he was losing hope. He said that when I got older I would be able to turn into a wolf without having to wait for the full moon because rank has its frilly edge. He made me promise not to get shot with a silver bullet and I did because right then I would have promised anything just to get him to stop yapping at me.

That made him happy. He said I was going to bring about the Kingdom of the Werewolves through the spawn of my loins, and that we were all going to lay waste to New York City including Staten Island and roam the streets in wolf form by day as well as by night and every single day too, for Lord's sakes, and devour the human beings and crunch them and absolutely skrink their bones.

Here's what he said: "Your coming is Foretold and Inevitable."

Here's what I said: "Like the Revolution."

Then he asked me if I had even been paying any attention whatsoever to everything he'd been telling me and I said maybe and he snorted so hard that big glops of wet spray came out his nose and spackled all over me and the shower curtains. That was when Louise started banging on the door.

The frog dog said, "You will be the Chosen One and you will like it." Then he peed on the bath mat.

Louise's governess got all mad about that, but Louise just got on that telephone and called Housekeeping and told them "Get one of your lazy maids from Refugeeland right up here pronto, cleaning up dog pee is all they are good for, I bet they are all Communists. My mother knows Senator Joseph McCarthy and he will get their fat bottoms shipped right back to Commieville before you can blink, same to you, and move it, Stupid." Then she told me to come back next day to play more.

That night in the park I told Lily Packmother about what the frog dog told me including about how rank has its frilly edge. She said "Emmeline, I think you must mean rank has its privilege" and I said that was all right by me as long as I got to be a wolf whenever I wanted to. Then she said, "I am so proud of you for being the Chosen One.  I always knew you were special. You will be the salvation of all werewolfkind some day through your progeny."

I said, "Is that the same thing as the spawn of my loins?" and she said that yes it was, and that I would understand when I was older and went into heat. So I guess that means next summer unless we get to live somewhere that has air conditioning. Then she gave me a nice haunch of mounted policeman for my dinner and scolded me when I left the bone marrow because that chocolate ice cream at the Plaza Hotel had spoiled my appetite and werewolves were still starving all over the place in China. That is all they seem to do over there, for Lord's sake.

The next day I wanted to go back to the Plaza Hotel and play with Louise some more. She has all kinds of toys, even if she is a pill. Lily Packmother said it would be all right if I went but that I would have to come right straight home to Central Park before it got dark or she would like to know the reason why. She said that now it was known that I was the Chosen One, it was very important for me to come to the big pack meeting that night and receive homage.

I think homage is all very well and good but I like chocolate ice cream better, mostly because I know what that is.

So that morning I went right in through those big doors and straight across that lobby and right into that elevator and all the way up to the top and down that hall and knocked on that door until Louise's governess opened it and said, "Oh, it's you. I thought you knew better than to come back for more of the same with that little bastard."

I said, "Why are your eyes all red?" and she said she had really tied one on last night and I wanted to know one what but then there was Louise with scrambled eggs on her face so I never did find out.

Louise ate up all her breakfast and didn't offer me any except the toast crusts. I told her I was hungry and there were werewolves starving in China. She said that was tough toenails and threw her juice glass at me. Then we went to her room and she said we were going to play Davy Crockett again.

I said, "I want to play Robin Hood instead and you can be Richard Greene."

She told me fat chance, and Robin Hood was a big pansy. She laughed at me when I said he was not a flower just because he wore green all the time, on account of living in Sherwood Forest where it was important for camelflog. Then she told me what she meant about Robin Hood being a big pansy and laughed at me some more when I said that sounded absolutely ugh.

"That's nothing, you baby," she said. "You should hear what your Mommy and Daddy did together to get you born." And she told me that too and it was even more ugh.

"My Mommy and Daddy never did that," I said. "My Daddy told my Mommy that the Revolution needed more soldiers to fight the boorjwah oppressors so they got me from the Workers' Collective because from each according to his ability to each according to his needs and they needed me for the Revolution, so there."

Here is what Louise did then: Stare at me like her frog dog.

Here is what she did next: Turn to me and say, "I bet you are the daughter of that stupid Commie who shot himself in the park last year. The police were looking for you. You're going to be put in an orphanage."

I said, "No, I am in the System and my Daddy is in this hotel visiting the Rosenbergs. He told me to sit on that park bench and he went away and he is in here somewhere. I am going to find him before I am one single minute older. That will show you. Goodbye." But when I tried to walk past Louise, she shoved me back so hard I fell on some of her broken toys which are everywhere and it hurt.

She said, "You're nuts. He's dead. It was in all the papers last summer. I read all about it. So did Amanda. I'll prove it to you." Then she hollered for her governess to get into the room fast or else and when she came rushing in Louise told her, "This is that dead Commie's kid. She's stupid and crazy and she thinks her Daddy's coming back. TELL her!"

First Amanda stared at Louise. Then she stared at me. Her eyes were all soft and watery. She said, "Miss Louise, you cawn't cawn't cawn't expect me to tell a child such a thing until I am sure this is the child in question. I would like to speak with her alone, if you please."

Louise said, "No. I wanna watch."

Amanda said, "There is a large box of petty force in my room which I was saving for myself" and Louise scootled away to utterly lay waste to the whole thing. Then Amanda turned back to me and asked me all of these questions about my name and my Daddy and what happened in the park that night. I told her everything she wanted to know except about how the frog dog bit me and the rest of it. She gasped a lot.

Then she said, "Oh you poor child, I am afraid that everything that wretched little beast told you is true. My heart breaks for you, but your Daddy is indeed No More By His Own Hand and you match the newspaper descriptions of that unfortunate man's lost little girl." She put her arms around me and hugged me tight again like when she thought I was a lamb. That was nice. She smells like lilac bath powder and lemon candies. She cried in my hair. I cried too because now I knew my Daddy was not coming back ever again at all and I was utterly heartbroken.

Louise came back in with a whole bunch of petty force grundled up in her fists. Her fingers were leaking pink and green icing and yellow cake. When she saw Amanda and me crying on each other she threw those lumps of squooshed petty force at us and laughed. She said I was a crybaby and I should stick my head in gravy and wash it off with ice cream and send it to the Navy.

Amanda said, "Miss Louise, you ought not not not mock this poor orphaned child. You are Privileged and you should use what you have to help those who do not have as much and be thankful your lot in life is not theirs."

I wiped my tears on Amanda's blouse and said "Yes, like Marks said, from each according to his ability to each according to his needs or else."

Louise showed us this absolutely rank grin all smoolied over with melted petty force icing and said, "She is a Commie just like her stupid dead daddy and you are a Commie sympathizer and I am going to turn you both in to the police and my mother now."

I said, "Thank you for a lovely time, Amanda. You have been very nice to me and I will do my best to see that you are not devoured by the spawn of my loins, but I really must be going now."  I shook Amanda's hand and headed right for that door but Louise grabbed me and twisted my arm hard and said "You're not going anywhere, except an orphanage and jail." Then she knocked me down and sat on me.

Amanda said, "Miss Louise you cawn't cawn't cawn't be serious about any of this. Get off the poor child this instant!" But Louise said that if Amanda did not move her fat rump the Hell out of there, she was going to call the police herself and tell them Amanda was a big lady pansy and then she could keep me company in jail and see how she liked it.

Amanda said that was a dreadful lie, but Louise asked her if she felt like seeing who the police believed, some old English bag or someone whose mother had more money and influenza that God Himself. That was when Amanda burst into tears all over again and ran out of the apartment and Louise and I were left alone.

Here is what I said: "You better get off me now."

Here is what she said: "Make me."

Then I said, "Maybe I can't make you get off me now, but just you wait until the moon is full and I start to itch all over and I completely burst right out of my clothes if I do not get them off in time and I become a wolf and rip your throat out."

That was when she laughed at me some more and called me a looney and said I would wind up in an orphanage and jail and the nut house, but that it came as no surprise to her because everyone knows all Commies are crazy. She asked me, "Do you know what would fix you right up, you big screwball? A lobotomy. Would you like a lobotomy?"

I said, "What I would like is to be old enough to be Foretold and Inevitable so I could start itching right now this very minute and—Ow! Stop bouncing on me!—and not have to—Ow! I told you, stop that, you're making me mad!—and not have to wait full moon to grush y'r froab in my powfur zhaws ob def an'—Ow! Ow! Ow-owOOOOOO!"

Oh my Lord, Lily Packmother simply would not approve of what happened. She says that just because we live like savages in Central Park and become ravening, murderous, bloodthirsty beasts every time the moon is full is no reason not to respect Tradition or we would be no better than Trade Unionists. But I could not help any of it. It was all enormously Foretold and Inevitable and fun. I did not have a warning itch even one little bit and it was still daylight outside let alone time for the full moon when my clothes simply burst right off before I knew it, and I think I was lots and lots bigger than I usually get when the Change is upon me and Louise screamed but not for long because I am very 'fishent.

That was pretty much that. Louise tastes like old hardboiled eggs and does not have any trousers I could borrow to cover my shame afterwards, which is what Lily Packmother calls it, only more of those stupid dresses.

Here's what I can do: Burp up patent leather shoe buckles.

It took me utterly forever to find one drop of mustard in that whole apartment, for Lord's sake.

I AM EMMELINE. I am six. I live at the Plaza Hotel.

I have to. Louise's mother does not visit often, but when she does it would be a good idea if there were a little girl of approximully the right age to say hello and what did you bring me? I will have to get used to having a different name now. Lily Packmother says so. She says it is the least I can do so Amanda can keep her job and not have to face a lot of uncomfortable questions from the police. Besides, Amanda says it isn't as if that rich sow will ever catch wise, not for how little she has ever cared about having a child in the first place and some people are not fit to raise a begonia let alone a little girl.

I am not a begonia and I am really not Louise. I am still me, EMMELINE.

I am going to have lots of toys.

I visit Lily Packmother in Central Park all the time. She and Amanda have become very good friends. They both say how proud they are of me for being a big girl and solving a big problem all by myself even if I did solve it with a very messy solution. But Lily Packmother says that is all water and other liquids under the bridge and Amanda says she is only sorry in theory about what I did to that little bitch, no offense meant to Lily Packmother and none taken.

The Vessel of Lyncanthropy has a new name too. I gave it to him. He is Frankie because that is a lot easier to spell on my drawings of him and also because I still love hot dogs. He says the fact that my power to turn into a wolf in broad daylight manifestoed so soon means that I was the Chosen One and how! He says once I grow up and get the ball rolling, ordinary humans won't have a snowball's chance in Hell. Amanda says he should not not not use such language in front of a mere child.

That makes Frankie sad because I am going to take whole entire ages to get that ball rolling, on account of the backwards dog years and me being as young as I am to start with. Then he cheers up because he is immortal and good things are worth waiting for and the twenty-first century is not that far away. He says the humans may be harder to catch then, on account of all the flying cars and jet packs strapped to their backs, but we werewolves will manage.

I say "Hello, Housekeeping, send someone up to clean our room there are lots and lots of stains all over from the roast beef dinner I had that exploded please give yourselves a gigantic huge tip thank you and charge it please."

Now all I have to do all day is play in the Plaza Hotel and not give Amanda too many headaches and see to it that the rest of the pack gets a fair share of any leftovers we have from dinner. Then I watch television. I get to watch Robin Hood all I want.

Oh my Lord, there is absolutely too much for one small child to do while waiting around for my loins to spawn and bring about the Kingdom of the Werewolves or to infiltrate the power base of the moneyed classes and overthrow Capitalism, whichever comes first. It will be fun.

Tomorrow I think I'll write Comes the Revolution! on all the tabletops in the Palm Court with Amanda's Hazel Bishop red lipstick.

Ooooooh, I absolutely love waiting for the Revolution!

I am Emmmm. . .Louise. I am six.

For now.

This story originally appeared in the Full Moon City anthology, Simon & Schuster, 2010.

Nebula Award winner Esther Friesner is the author of over 40 novels and almost 200 short stories. She is also a poet, a playwright, and the editor of several anthologies. The best known of these is the Chicks in Chainmail series that she created and edits for Baen Books. The sixth book, Chicks and Balances, appeared in July 2015. Deception's Pawn, the latest title in her popular Princesses of Myth series of Young Adult novels from Random House, was published in April 2015.

Esther is married, a mother of two, grandmother of one, harbors cats, and lives in Connecticut. She has a fondness for bittersweet chocolate, graphic novels, manga, travel, and jewelry. There is no truth to the rumor that her family motto is "Oooooh, SHINY!"

Her super-power is the ability to winnow her bookshelves without whining about it. Much.

43 Responses To "In Memory of Dr. Alexandra Nako"

Barbara A. Barnett

puppyhugs42
2-4-2016 12:03pm

Thanks so much for this post, Dr. Bates. Such a fitting tribute to a true pioneer in the field of near-death experience (NDE) research. Controversy over methodology be damned; you and Dr. Nako have done groundbreaking work. I know you're still crunching the data, but I truly believe your research will prove once and for all what those of us who've had NDEs know in our guts to be true: activity continues after the brain dies and the EEG goes flat.

Chekhov's Jellyfish
2-4-2016 12:11pm

Agreed. I'm so sick of these narrow-minded skeptics acting like they know everything. There's something beyond death. Science backs it up. Dr. Nako is a martyr.

AlexandraNako
2-4-2016 12:16pm

You need to stop the research, Kevin. We were so wrong. Thear'eja;eaa;ed

Chekhov's Jellyfish
2-4-2016 12:21pm

@AlexandraNako: Insensitive username much? What a douche.

Dr. Kevin Bates
2-4-2016 12:32pm

@puppyhugs42: Thanks for the kind words. I hope I can do justice to Dr. Nako's contributions as I carry on our work. The American NDE Journal has shown interest in publishing our recent findings as part of a special tribute issue to her.

@Chekhov's Jellyfish: No insults please. I don't want another caveshark30 incident.

@AlexandraNako: Not funny, and not welcome on my blog. I lost a dear colleague this week and don't appreciate her passing being mocked.

Chekhov's Jellyfish
2-4-2016 12:37pm

I miss caveshark30 and his crazy-fu. Always good for a laugh. Its been far too long since we've had an illiterate troll here blaming the president for everything.

SchlumpySpacePrincess
2-4-2016 12:39pm

@Chekhov's Jellyfish: *it's

AlexandraNako
2-4-2016 12:40pm

It's me, Kevin, I swear it. Ask me anything and I'll prove it. My favorite color, the last thing I ordered for lunch, whatever will convince you. But you have to listen to me and stop the research. If anyone else tries to replicate what we did they're going to unleash esfnaeaehxx

puppyhugs42
2-4-2016 12:50pm

I'm so sorry you have to deal with this, Dr. Bates. I'm not surprised by the onslaught of negative comments you've gotten from the skeptics on other posts, but making fun of someone's death is so utterly heartless.

Dr. Kevin Bates
2-4-2016 12:56pm

@puppyhugs42: Thank you.

@AlexandraNako: Fine, I'll play along with your twisted little joke: why should I stop? And if you're really Alexandra, you should be able to tell me what's in the middle drawer on the left side of her desk.

AlexandraNako
2-4-2016 12:58pm

All the drawers are on the right. The middle one has my journal (the one with the daisies on the cover), a bottle of hand lotion, a pack of tissues and a nail file. The last thing I wrote in the journal was my new password for the NDE Association discussion forum: LfrgH8M*. And you never call me Alexandra.

Dr. Kevin Bates
2-4-2016 1:04pm

Thanks, that narrows your identity down to people with access to Alex's desk. And you haven't answered my other question: why should I stop the research?

AlexandraNako
2-4-2016 1:05pm

It'aifjeawj;we

Chekhov's Jellyfish
2-4-2016 1:07pm

Nice typing, jerk.

AlexandraNako
2-4-2016 1:08pm

It won't let me tell you, Kevin. Every time I try to describe it, it's like I'm suffocating, like something heavy is forcing itself through every fiber of my being, trying to rip me apart. There's something beyond death, but it's not what we thought. There's no white light, no tunnel, no sense of peace. I know you wanted to believe that. I know you wanted to believe Lily is safe.

Dr. Kevin Bates
2-4-2016 1:12pm

AlexandraNako has been banned from making further comments on this blog. Based on the IP address, it sadly appears that someone at my own university is responsible for this nonsense. They will be found and held accountable. In the meantime, the best I can do is move on and continue the good work Dr. Nako and I started.

Chekhov's Jellyfish
2-4-2016 1:15pm

Troll-lol-lol-lol-lol!

Lesley
2-4-2016 1:18pm

Um, guys? What if it's not a joke? All of us Near Death Experiencers know there's life after death, right? We've been there. Literally. So think about all of that equipment Dr. Nako was hooked up to when she died. What if she and Dr. Bates found a way to tap into the afterworld? Created a bridge or something. Maybe it's really her. Maybe we should listen.

Chekhov's Jellyfish
2-4-2016 1:22pm

@lesley: People like you need to learn how science works. Your why no one takes NDE research seriously.

SchlumpySpacePrincess
2-4-2016 1:25pm

@Chekhov's Jellyfish: *You're

puppyhugs42
2-4-2016 1:26pm

@lesley: As much as I hate to say it, I agree with Chekhov's Jellyfish on this one. I know a lot people use NDEs to try and prove the existence of ghosts and other paranormal activity, but I personally haven't seen any compelling evidence supporting that.

Chekhov's Jellyfish
2-4-2016 1:28pm

@SchlumpySpacePrincess: Do you ever post anything but grammer corrections? Find something useful to say or GTFO.

SchlumpySpacePrincess
2-4-2016 1:32pm

*grammar

Chekhov's Jellyfish
2-4-2016 1:35pm

Bite me nazi.

Dr. Kevin Bates
2-4-2016 1:42pm

Seriously, folks, be civil or the fake AlexandraNako won't be the only one banned.

LisaG
2-4-2016 2:39pm

Yikes, now I'm nervous about posting. I had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Nako after a talk she gave at my university a few years ago. She was a lovely person. But you have to admit that the ethics involved in this study are highly questionable. I know she was suffering. She likely didn't have much time left because of the cancer. But was the data gained really worth taking her own life? How much more could she have accomplished in the time she had left?

puppyhugs42
2-4-2016 3:12pm

@LisaG: Apparently Dr. Nako thought it was worth it. Terminally ill persons should have the right to die how they choose. I applaud Dr. Nako's bravery in making that decision in a way that furthers scientific discovery.

Dr_Alexandra_Nako
2-4-2016 3:16pm

You're not going to find what you're looking for, Kevin. There isn't going to be some white-lighted reunion with Lily and everyone else you ever loved. You're going to open a door that you can't shut. I got through, just barely. You don't want to know what I left behind me. It's going to get through too if you don't stop.

Chekhov's Jellyfish
2-4-2016 3:20pm

She's back! So how exactly does a dead person even post here? Are there computers in the afterlife? FOLKS, WE'VE GOT A REAL LIVE NDE EXPERIENCE IN ACTION HERE!

SchlumpySpacePrincess
2-4-2016 3:24pm

@Chekhov's Jellyfish: "NDE experience" is redundant

Dr. Kevin Bates
2-4-2016 3:35pm

@Dr_Alexandra_Nako: I don't know who you are or why you're doing this, but it needs to stop. If you have a problem with my research, fine. LisaG expressed her thoughts on that matter quite civilly. But bringing up my daughter like that? It's sick.

Dr_Alexandra_Nako
2-4-2016 3:37pm

When she died you came into the lab drunk. Angry. You stumbled and knocked over one of the portable work stations. The equipment was in pieces. I covered for you, said my sweater caught on the cart and pulled it over as I walked past. Who else but me knows that?

Dr. Kevin Bates
2-4-2016 3:40pm

Dr_Alexandra_Nako has been banned and all posts associated with that username have been deleted.

alex
2-4-2016 4:53pm

I didn't want it to come to this, Kevin, but I will stop you myself if I have to. More people will die if this thing gets out.

puppyhugs42
2-4-2016 5:00pm

You should contact the authorities, Dr. Bates. This has gotten into harassment territory.

Dr. Kevin Bates
2-4-2016 6:16pm

@puppyhugs42: Thank you for your concern.

@alex: I've figured out which terminal you're posting from. Security is on the way, and so am I.

alex
2-4-2016 6:17pm

Please don't make me do this.

alex
2-4-2016 6:25pm

I'm so sorry, Kevin.

Mr Mutassim Surugaba
2-5-2016 3:52am

Earn money working from home http://goo.gl/UH2qRb

DesignerSunglasses
2-5-2016 7:03am

Biggest Selection! Bigger Savings!

All sunglasses Only 23.90USD

Hottest Styles. 5600+ New Styles.

Click here

Chekhov's Jellyfish
2-5-2016 9:24am

Spam clean up in aisle 4!

puppyhugs42
2-5-2016 10:38am

I'm worried, Dr. Bates is usually more on top of deleting that stuff. Please post soon and let us know you're ok, Dr. B!

Dr. Kevin Bates
2-5-2016 12:16pm

http://www.NDEassociation.org/news/05feb16/NDE-pioneer-kevin-bates-found-dead-in-apparent-homicide.html

* * *

Comments on this post are now closed.

This story originally appeared in the Daily Science Fiction magazine, 2016.

Barbara A. Barnett is a writer, musician, orchestra librarian, coffee addict, wine lover, and all-around geek. Her short fiction has appeared in publications such as Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show, Daily Science Fiction, and Flash Fiction Online. She is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop and currently serves as managing editor of the workshop's blog. Barbara lurks about the Philadelphia area, where she lives with her husband and a pantsless stuffed monkey named Super Great. You can find her online at www.babarnett.com.

Kvetchula's Daughter

Darrell Schweitzer

THE DAY MY MOTHER became a vampire, she ruined my life. I didn't know it at the time, and I'm sure she didn't have time to think about it—I have to admit that being dead and coming back to life more-or-less can be distracting—but that's God's honest truth and if I were of a slightly different persuasion I'd add "cross my heart and hope to die."

Give me a break!

It wasn't as if I were not beside myself with worry, what with Momma and Poppa off on their trip to Romania, he being, though he is my father and I love him, such a nebbish he never stood up to her about anything, so when he booked the two of them on that Dracula Fan Club tour or whatever it was with non-refundable tickets, you could have heard Momma's jaw drop in Brooklyn, as she observed at the time, and we don't live anywhere near Brooklyn.

My Poppa, he was bats about bats, and about Dracula and Children of the Night and all that stuff. He had a vampire-movie collection like you wouldn't believe. I think it was the one thing Momma couldn't take away from him. After I went off to college and they were alone, he got even battier, and so they went on this tour that was supposed last two weeks, and after they didn't come back and I didn't hear a thing from them for six months, you think I shouldn't worry?

It was one thing, that two weeks, during my spring break, me back in the old house, watching Poppa's movies when there was nothing else to do—he really does have a dubbed copy of Mein Yiddishe Drakula—and taking care of the cats. The cats, Elvira and Vlad. Poppa named them before Momma could. Just as well because she probably would have called them Pusscha and Poopsie.

Me, I am nothing like my mother, which is just as well, but I have to worry.

My putzy, sometime boyfriend Max, he says maybe they were carried off by the fairies, and I said no, in the Balkans you get carried off by the Gypsies. Ireland, fairies, Romania, Gypsies. Got it?

So Max, not worrying—I should have shot him—says, "Maybe Dracula turned her into a vampire . . ." and I have to laugh, despite my worries, because Momma is so short. What would she do, stand on a stepladder so she can reach people's necks to bite them?

Max has no idea what he is talking about.

THEN THE PACKAGES ARRIVE, delivered by Gypsies. The truck says Transylvanian Parcel Service, but I know these guys are Gypsies because what kind of delivery men wear scarves and earrings and make jokes about pulling one over on the gajos while hauling these enormous packages into the living room? I have to make sure the silverware doesn't disappear.

Max and I are left staring at these two boxes the size of phonebooths, which are marked DO NOT OPEN UNTIL SUNDOWN, but today is Tuesday so the Shabbat rules do not apply, so what the Hell does this mean, I want to know.

Nevertheless, it is getting late and starting to get dark, and God knows what's inside these packages, so we close the curtains. Then Max and I whack away at the first crate with hammers and big screwdrivers. Dirt pours out onto Momma's immaculate living-room rug, and the lid comes off, and inside is a coffin packed in more dirt. To get that open, we have to remove a whole bunch of silver nails, which are probably worth something, so I put them carefully aside.

The coffin lid creaks open just like in the movies.  As soon as Momma, lying inside it, sees the hammer in my hand, and I see her, we both scream so loudly we could split the eardrums of everybody from Jersey City to Canton, China. She clutches her chest and says, "Go ahead, drive a stake through your poor mother's heart. You've already broken it!"

I let the hammer drop to the floor. It lands on my foot. While I'm hopping around in pain, I say, "I have?"

And Momma, she looks so weird, I should say terrible, her hair all frizzed up and tangled, her nails like claws, her face so pale and sunken like a balloon that's lost most of its air, and her eyes so dark and somehow burning that I can't look away from them; Momma, she turns to Max (who also drops his hammer but misses his foot) and says, "No mother, living or dead, wants to come home after so many trials and tribulations, to find out her daughter's still messing with a sheygets."

"But Mom—" I say.

"But nothing. When are you going to get a serious boyfriend, somebody with a future, somebody you can marry, one of your own kind?"

Max blurts out, "Who said anything about marriage?"

I stare at her, dumbfounded. Max is a bit of a doofus. He works in a flower shop and makes tie-died T-shirts on weekends and would have been a hippie if he'd been born a generation earlier. Maybe he's not such a good prospect, but this is a stupid time to bring this up.

Apropos of not knowing what else to say, I get defensive. "But Momma, I like Max."

Max beams at me like a dope, "You do?"

I don't bother to explain that much of the time I'm not entirely sure of that because Max does have his shortcomings. But before I can utter another word Momma gets out of that coffin, opens her mouth to reveal huge, dripping fangs, and slinks over to Max in a way that no respectable short, zaftig, middle-aged woman should, and says, "Well if you're going to marry him, he has to convert." She pronounces it "convoit," her accent having somehow grown a lot thicker.

I stamp my foot (not the one the hammer had landed on) and shake my finger at her. "Momma, we've been over this before! Get used to it! Max doesn't want to become a Jew!"

Momma's fangs somehow arc out of her mouth the way a rattlesnake's do and still (I have no idea how) she's able to say, "That's not what I have in mind."

Now there's a loud pounding from inside the other box. Momma pulls back, her fangs disappear back into her mouth, and she looks as close to normal as she is going to since stepping out of that coffin. She is Momma again and she's giving orders.

"Marsha, let your father out. We need to have a family discussion. Max, you help her."

So we let him out, carefully removing six more valuable-looking silver nails, which Momma cringes from and won't even look at. Soon the coffin lid creaks open and there's my father, dressed in black cape and black pants, white shirt, vest, medallion, and one of those bat-shaped ties I know Momma has always hated—it doesn't go with the outfit—and his eyes are red and gleaming and he makes a claw out of one hand as if he's trying to hypnotize me, and says in a thick, thick accent, "I vant to drink your blllooodd!!"

Then he trips over his cape and stumbles out onto the rug amid an avalanche of dirt that will be impossible to clean up. Somehow he twists around and lands on his butt, and there he is sitting in the dirt, staring up at me while his mechanical bat-tie flaps pathetically, only one of its wings working.

"Marsha?"

"Hello, Poppa."

I help him up, taking him by the hand.

"Brrr! Poppa, you're cold!"

"There's a lot to explain."

AT OUR FAMILY CONFERENCE, a lot that needs to be explained is explained. Max is there, holding on nervously to his hammer and screwdriver, as if that would do him any good. After all, he might become family, or at least Momma wants to allow for the possibility. Besides, he knows too much now.

"After all I've given up for you," she moans, meaning me, not Max. She doesn't care a rat's ass about Max.

And I break in, saying that I had to give up a whole semester at Bryn Mawr to be here minding the house just in case she and Poppa should somehow reappear out of nowhere, and I did take care of Elvira and Vlad just fine, and I can't help it if they hiss and run and hide when Momma comes near them. (They hide from Poppa too. He's really unhappy about that.) And she has the nerve (I almost say noive but stop myself) to tell me to stop kvetching when she, my mother, is the world's greatest kvetch, a Niagara Falls of guilt poured out, a woman put on Earth by God to complain about how things aren't right and make people feel guilty about them. I think the only reason she doesn't want me kvetching is she's afraid I may have inherited some of her talent for it and she wants to make sure that if anybody in this house is going to kvetch, it's going to be her, no competition allowed.

And she says, "Besides, you're not going back to that snooty school anyway."

And when I say, "What?" she explains that there have been some, uh, changes, like she and Poppa are technically dead now, but not in any sense that really matters, they'll just have to keep different hours. Then she tells the whole story about how Poppa dragged her on this Children of the Night Special tour of Transylvania and after days of wandering into one crypt after another something happened and now they're both vampires, which did not, I gather, change her disposition much, or stop her kvetching. Although she's vague on the details, I gather that after some months of bouncing around in crummy coffins listening to Gypsy jokes, and reaching people's necks, not with a stepladder, but by getting people to bend over to look at a map of Bucharest when she asked them for directions (even if she was in some other city), and realizing she was still her old self, not svelte like the vampire-women in movies, she kvetched all the way up the chain of command until Dracula himself couldn't stand her any more and had her and Poppa nailed up in special coffins with silver nails so they couldn't get out. But even then she kvetched so much (he could still hear her; vampires have very good hearing) he finally gave up and shipped the two of them home.

She finishes deciding, "So the best thing for all of us will be that I should bite you, and, ugh, your father can bite Max, and then we'll all be a vampire family together."

Max raises his hammer and his screwdriver and crosses them. When Momma glares at him, he drops them to the floor: clunk, clunk.

I put my hand to my throat. "Momma, Gee, you'll never get any grandkids that way."

Then Poppa pipes up, which is amazing, since he never interrupts when Momma's Decided and Made Up Her Mind About What Is Best. Now he says, "Wait a minute, Honey Love"—a name he calls Momma when he's trying to wheedle something out of her—"sometimes it's useful for our kind to be cared for by mortals, like that nice Mr. Renfield we met—"

And Momma rears up, eyes blazing, fangs gleaming, and she says, "No daughter of mine is going to eat bugs!!"

"That may not be necessary, Honey Love—"

She nods to Max. "Now he can eat all the bugs he wants, but not Marsha Leibowitz."

SO THE FAMILY CONFERENCE ends and I get to stay among the living, and so does Max, although Momma puts the whammy on him and before long he does eat bugs, insisting that they're organic and all-natural and taste like roasted peanuts, rather than simply disgusting. I can't imagine what I ever saw in him.

But he is really helpful around the house, once you get used to his gibbering, drooling, and constantly looking around for insectile snacks. The place seems to be overrun with bugs now and Momma will not allow me to call an exterminator. So, bugs and all, Max and I have to break up the basement floor with jackhammers—and I will kill anybody who asks if it ruined my nails—and dig a pit for the two coffins to rest side by side in their "native" New Jersey earth (with all the Transylvanian earth I could vacuum off the carpet thrown in for good measure), and, by day, that's where my parents sleep.

Yes, I know that vampires are evil and totally given over to Satan and a menace to be destroyed, yada-yada-yada, but she's still my mother and if you know my mother you don't worry about such things as going to Hell. Hell on Earth is having to listen to her kvetching, which she can keep up until Hell freezes over unless she gets her own way.

Poppa has Max fix up a flat-screen TV in his coffin lid and hook up the VCR to it so he can watch tapes during the daytime.

I never return to Bryn Mawr, but after some whining I get to transfer to Columbia, which is in Manhattan, to which I commute as a day student. But I'm under strict instructions to get home every evening by dusk, so I can help her and Poppa out of their coffins and "see them off" for their "evening rounds," as Momma calls it. "Terrorizing the countryside" is what Poppa calls it, as he swirls out the door in that ridiculous outfit with the cape. If he doesn't turn into a bat and fly away, he'd like me and Max to think he does. I'm past caring.

Can you imagine what this does to my social life? Max has moved in. I can watch him eat bugs, or watch TV, or do my homework. I become very studious. I get straight A's. But believe me, romance is not on the roster.

The scary part of all this is that sometimes I am not sure I really am living with my parents anymore, or with two all-devouring things, who will gobble up even me at the end. When your parents are undead, you can never be certain they love you. It causes anxiety, believe me.

Then there is the one time I dare to bring over my best friend Sylvie for a night of shared homework and girl talk—and miraculously she is willing to put up with the bugs and the stench of the place. Did I tell you that vampire lairs smell bad? I could go on and on. . . .  I even convince her that Max is a retarded cousin the two of us should lock in the basement (we do, and he sits down there contentedly chomping on bugs). Things are going swimmingly, and I feel almost normal for once, when suddenly I'm not sure what is happening, and there is a mist sliding under the bedroom door, and that mist has red eyes in it and looks a bit like my mother. It might be a dream. I am not sure. I can't move. I want to call out, but I can't, and when I really do wake up there is Sylvie on the bed next to me, pale as the other white meat with two holes in the side of her neck and her eyes crossed and rolled up.

Oy vey. So Max and I have to carry Sylvie out into a deserted lot and bury her in a cardboard box, which is very dangerous because the police might see us, but Momma likes her privacy and won't share the basement (which she now calls "the crypt") with just anybody. And most nights afterwards Sylvie comes floating to my second-floor bedroom window, tapping on the glass, asking to be let in, and before long she's as much a nuisance as Max.

But I feel sorry for her and maybe I am even afraid of her. It is not her fault, what happened. But she also has that hungry, hungry, empty look in her eyes, and sometimes I am not sure if it's even Sylvie, just those eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth that talks like my best friend.

EVERYBODY HAS THEIR BREAKING point, and I have mine. I think I'm already past it. But what can I do? I am not made of glass, that I can literally break.

I get on the Internet. I go to lots of chat rooms. I become something of a celebrity, but everybody thinks I am making this up. People don't take me seriously. They tell me how much they like my stories. The editor of Weird Tales asks me to send him something. I also get people writing to know what flavor of bugs I like, and am I really a hunchback, because hunchbacks are supposed to be the servants of vampires—and I write back, No, that's mad scientists, you dork! because this is my mother you are talking about—and I get some very odd spam, a lot of it from a dead African oil minster turned zombie, who wants to get together with me to share the thirty million dollars he intends to smuggle out of his country in a coffin.

And then at last there is a message that merely says:

I think I can help you. -Heinrich.

Heinrich?

Is your last name Van Helsing by any chance? I want to know.

No, it is Schroeder.

What do you want? I type.

I want to meet you? he types back.

Now this is so mysterious, and everything your mother ever warned you about when messing on the Internet, but when you have a mother like mine maybe you take her warnings with a grain of . . . garlic? (And that's another thing—ever since the Big Change there is no pizza allowed in our house, but I am babbling . . .)

I am thrilled. Also desperate. I am almost ready to fling myself into the arms of the zombie African oil minister, or certainly a mad scientist's hunchbacked assistant as long as his breath smells like garlic, and in such a deranged state of mind I tell my new friend Heinrich Schroeder that I would like to meet him.

So we make arrangements to get together.

At night.

Alone.

In a lonely graveyard near Hoboken.

This breaks so many rules that it just adds to the thrill. So I stay late after school. I eat a light supper at a Pizza Hut and then wait some more, until it is dark. Yes, I know Momma will be mad, but I don't care, I'm that desperate. In any case I know she can take care of herself, and that idiot-retard Max will be able stop eating bugs long enough to cope with any vampire-hunters who might want to sprinkle holy water into the basement, or whatever else they might do.

It'll be okay. I tell myself that over and over as I get off the PATH train in Hoboken and walk down a dark street between dingy buildings, until I come to another street which is even darker and dingier, and my footsteps are going faster, faster, tap-tap, tap-tap like in the movies when the girl is about to get jumped, only I don't get jumped, and eventually I climb through a broken fence and into an old, deserted graveyard. There are such places in the New York area. Not everything is modern and built-up. Probably nobody has been buried here for a hundred years, and if anyone or anything climbs up out of a grave to get me I'll just tell him or it who my parents are.

Not that such a thing happens. Heinrich is waiting for me on a bench, in the one spot where a little light from a streetlamp shines through the gnarly trees.

When he stands up to greet me, like a perfect gentleman, I see that he is big. My head doesn't even come to his shoulders. He is broad-shouldered, like two or three linebackers crammed into one body, and I can see that he's one of these guys whose face is always hairy no matter how many times he shaves, but maybe my senses are getting sharper from hanging around vampires so much, because I can smell him in a good way, not B.O. but an alive odor that excites me more than I can understand, and when he takes my hand in his and his grip is firm and so hard it almost breaks my hand, but warm, I'm instantly in love! Before we even say a word, we fall into each other's arms, on the ground, rolling in the leaves, heaving with such passion that a decent girl like me (ahem!) will have to leave out some of the details.

Later we talk quite a lot, and I pour my heart out to him, the whole story, and he is so understanding. He has seen and experienced strange things too, he says. He believes me. He knows I am telling the truth.

I look into his eyes. I may never look anywhere else again.

"You have to get away," he says.

"But I don't want to hurt Momma's feelings."

"She's a minion of evil, a blood-drinking demon of darkness."

"I know, but she's my Mom. Besides, one tries not to be judgmental about alternate lifestyles."

"That's the college girl talking, not the real you," he says, and takes me in his arms again and once more we are rolling on the ground, making hay in the dead leaves if you will pardon the expression, and oh! I have never felt anything like this and oh! goes on and on, and oh! I don't care what Mom and Dad think, I just want to be with Heinrich.

"I might have a few deep, dark secrets of my own," he says afterwards. "I am glad you are not judgmental."

Then I suggest that maybe we should take the silver nails and nail my parents back into their coffins. It won't be such an inconvenience for them because they're immortal, so we could live out our lives and maybe let them loose again when we're eighty or so—but at the first mention of silver Heinrich hisses and recoils as if I'd handed him a live snake.

Which is very odd. But do you expect me to have a normal boyfriend?

Then Heinrich has to leave. He leaves, quickly.

"I love you!" I shout after him, but he's vanished into the darkness.

THERE IS INDEED HELL to pay when I get home, close to dawn, about the same time Momma and Poppa do, and even Poppa is beside himself with rage, his eyes burning red, his fangs dripping. He's gotten his bat-tie repaired. Both wings are flapping furiously.

"You are one disobedient minion!" Momma screams as she oozes toward me in that odd, rolly-polly slink that is so hard to describe. Her eyes are all fire too, and her fangs are out.

"Damn it, Mother! I'm not a minion! I'm your daughter!"

Just then Max shambles into the room, a gigantic, live cockroach wriggling between his teeth. His back has been broken in several places, almost tied into a pretzel, though he doesn't seem to feel any pain. Vampires really do have powers science can't understand. Max is now a genuine hunchback of the finest quality, two-humped like dromedary.

"Now that's a minion!" I shout.

Momma shouts too, orders to Max, who is surprisingly agile despite his condition, and surprisingly strong, not to mention horrible smelling as he grabs me and drags me up the front stairs like a sack of laundry, while both of my parents are hovering over me, their faces hideous masks with red eyes and gleaming fangs, like something seen in a dream, and the cockroach in Max's teeth seems to be saying, "You're a naughty, naughty girl and you're grounded for life!"

Maybe they've put the whammy on me, because there is a gap in my memory, and when I wake up I am on my bed in my bedroom. The first thing I do is put my hand to my throat to see if I feel warm, and I do. That calms me a little, but I get up woozily, and only gradually discover, to my increasing rage, that the door to my room has been nailed shut, and there are boards nailed over all the windows.

My little prison consists of the bedroom and the adjoining bathroom. Someone or something (probably Max, who seems to have razor-sharp teeth these days) has gnawed a bit of the bottom of the door away, enough to make a slot where food can be slid in to the prisoner.

There's a bowl of soggy Cherrios on a plate, but there's a bug swimming in it and I push it back out.

So that's how it is.

Yes, it is. I can't go to college anymore. I can't go anywhere. I am held prisoner, starving, occasionally able to nibble on the less disgusting things Max provides. (The lunchmeat isn't too bad. I can even manage the stale donuts.)

Every evening I hear my parents rise from their coffins. I hear everything. I think my senses are heightened beyond what is normal. The lids creak, I think, because they like it that way. They could oil the hinges, but it would be against proper vampire style. They go out. They come in a little before dawn, exchanging a few pleasantries. "Did you have a good time, Morris?" "Yes, Honey Love." Sometimes I overhear a few words about, "What are we going to do with our daughter? What can we do?" followed by assurances (from Poppa) that all parents go through this with teenaged daughters and things will work out.

Yes they will. Thank God for the Internet. Max is too addled and I don't think my parents ever quite understood what computers are for, particularly a wireless connection through a laptop. (They've ripped out my phone.) If I am typing away, they think I am doing my homework.

("Could we let her go back to school?" Poppa asks. "She's still working so hard." Momma just hisses like a snake and that settles that.)

I type away, day and night. By day, idiot Max the hunchback is there to make sure I don't escape. At night, my old friend Sylvie still hovers outside the window like a Halloween version of Tinkerbell in a trailing shroud, tapping her skeletal fingers on the windows, asking me to let her in. I don't, but she's still out there, certain to make sure I can't go out.

Where did she get the shroud anyway? She was wearing jeans and a top when we buried her. But I can't bring myself to care anymore.

I type and type. I find Heinrich again, and we exchange e-mails fast and furious.

I too am a creature of darkness, he types. You might not be happy with me. I have a terrible secret.

Yeah, yeah. I DON'T CARE!

You sure?

YES I AM SURE. COME AND GET ME!

I shall rescue you, then, as a knight would rescue a maiden imprisoned in a tower. It's very romantic, really.

Yes, it is, and I spend my days and nights dreaming of him, imagining that I am with him, that he is in my bed, doing things a nice girl like me doesn't talk about. I spend hours before my mirror trying to make myself presentable for him. We talk over the Internet every day, sometimes all day, but the one thing I can't understand is why I have to wait. Why can't he come and get me right now?

These things have to be done right, for the sake of romance, he types.

I don't care!

But you should, my Sweet. There is, too, the matter that my power will not be at its greatest until the end of the month.

I have experienced enough of his power to last me a lifetime and I want more, but I do, ultimately, have to wait. The routine goes on. I listen to what Mom and Dad say to each other every morning after they come back from terrorizing the countryside. I can even hear the soundtrack of the movies Poppa plays inside his coffin.

I cross the days off the calendar.

28th, 29th, 30th.

And then, just after sundown, the front door explodes like it's been dynamited, and I hear Max yelping and then such screams and snarls as you've never heard before, like there's a rabies outbreak at the zoo, and furniture is crashing.

Then Max is whimpering outside my door.

"It might hurt the Master and Mistress! It might hurt them!"

Crash! Smash! Howl.

It?

I pound on the door.

"Max, can you hear me?"

He whimpers and whines and slobbers. I hope I have his attention.

"Max! Let me out!"

"Can't!"

The chaos downstairs continues. It doesn't sound as if Mom and Dad are getting the best of it. The whole house begins to shake and sway. If this goes on much longer, the place may be ripped off its foundations.

"Max! I can help them!"

Max stops whimpering, and in a voice that sounds almost like his old self, asks a surprisingly intelligent question. "But why should you help them after what they've done to you?"

"Max! They're my parents! Can't you understand that?"

Then he's tearing away the boards nailed to the door, and in a moment I'm walking downstairs into what used to be the living room, with Max shambling somewhere behind me.

There isn't much of the downstairs left. The walls are out. The TV is smashed to bits and smoldering. Most of the furniture is in splinters. Wading through what used to be the dining room, a huge, hairy Thing faces off against my parents, circling as they do. Momma's dress is in tatters. Poppa's cape is gone, and his vest and starched shirt are shredded, and everybody's claws are covered with I-don't-want-to-know-what. Everybody's eyes are blazing like furnaces. They lunge at one another, jump out of the way, parry and thrust with their whole bodies like fencers.

"Stop it! All of you!" I scream at the top of my lungs, and somehow, like my hearing and my sense of smell, my voice has become something it didn't use to be, and the whole house shakes with the sound of it, and they all stop, and turn toward me, their eyes still blazing, fangs gleaming.

Quickly I reach into one of the few surviving pieces of furniture, a little sideboard cabinet, and take out two of the long silver nails I had carefully placed there when we opened my parents' coffins for the first time.

It's trite, I know, and not what you'd expect from someone of my background, but I actually hold up the two long nails like a cross as I say, "Now everybody back off."

They do, equally recoiling from the silver nails.

"Mom, Dad . . . is that you, Heinrich?" The Big Hairy Thing nods, breathing heavily. "Mom, Dad, you have to learn to let go. I'm grown up now. You have your life—or unlife or whatever it is—and I have mine. I'm not a minion. I'm your daughter. I ask you to respect that. Do you think you actually can? Do you?"

The fire fades from their eyes, and their fangs retract. Heinrich, a.k.a. the Hairy Thing, just stands there, panting.

Before anyone can say anything, I continue.

"Mom, Dad, I've got an announcement to make. I'm not the same as I once was. I've been . . . bitten."

For an instant I can see Momma's eyes beam with pride, in the sense of our little girl has grown up, but then she seems just confused, because she knows it isn't what she thought.

I turn to show her the bruise on my neck, which I've had for a month now. "That ain't a hickey, Momma."

She just looks stupefied.

"Momma, I want you to meet Heinrich. I love him."

The Hairy Thing leans over, as if to lick my face, the way a dog would, but then whines and draws away from the silver.

That is when I realize my hands are smoking and the silver nails are burning me. I let them drop to the floor, and before anyone can react, I rush over to the window, tear aside the drapes, and let the light of the full moon flood what is left of the dining room.

I begin to change then. Fur grows on my arms and legs. I feel my whole body melting, falling down, hardening into something else. My senses are much sharper than they've ever been before. It's as if I can hear a cloud passing across the face of the Moon, like silk wiped across glass, and I can hear every sound of the night. I can see in ways that I've never seen before, through things, sensing heat and life. Were I so inclined I could tell Max where every bug in the whole damn house is hiding.

But I am not so inclined. Heinrich nuzzles me behind the ear. We play. I try to say something more to my parents, and I think I actually do manage to say "His middle name is Wolfgang."

And my mother sputters, "But he's not Jewish!" and she is sobbing in Poppa's arms. "We've lost our daughter!"

"No," Poppa says, "It'll be all right, Honey Love, as long as the . . . er . . . cubs are brought up Jewish."

Howling, Heinrich Wolfgang Schroeder and I leap through the window, out into the night.

What beautiful music we make.

This story originally appeared in the Full Moon City anthology, Simon & Schuster, 2010.

Darrell Schweitzer believes that he has twice achieved the distinction of "best Jewish vampire of the year written by a Gentile," although he admits receiving help from his more qualified wife Mattie, who serves as his CYC (Certified Yenta Consultant). He is otherwise the author of about 300 published stories, some of which are collected in such books as Awaiting Strange Gods, The Emperor of the Ancient World, Refugees from an Imaginary Country, Nightscapes (which contains the original "Kvetchula"), etc. He is the author of three published novels, The Mask of the Sorcerer, The Shattered Goddess, and The White Isle. He has been nominated for the World Fantasy Award three times, and won it once, with George Scithers, as co-editor of Weird Tales, a position he held for 19 years. He is a critic and interviewer, who has written for publications as varied as The Washington Post and The New York Review of Science Fiction. He has published books about H.P. Lovecraft and Lord Dunsany. He is also a poet, winner of an Asimov's SF Readers' Award, but also known for rhyming "Cthulhu" in a limerick.

The Great VÜDÜ Linux Teen Zombie Massacree

Lucy A. Snyder

BOB AND I ATTRACTED a pack of zombies when we stopped to fuel up at the Texaco in Buffalo Springs. I hoped we'd lost them, but hope was all I had. Bob said they were the fresh remains of a high school football team who'd been drowned and de-souled by water daemons at a lakeside party.

Young, strong corpses have the speed and stamina to run down a deer. Until the sun and wind finally turned their flesh to stinky jerky, they'd be dangerous enough to make a vampire crap bats. And fresh zombies are persistent as porn site pop-up ads. If they take a shine to the smell of your blood, they might track you for days, stopping only if live meat falls right in their laps.

It'd be months before they got the Dead Man Shamble and could be taken out with a well-placed head shot. Of course, with the right software and hardware, you could kill even the most problem zombie, but that was some fairly arcane stuff, even for experienced hackers.

If my editor was right, Bob was one of only about five genuine cyberspiritual experts in the U.S. But so far he seemed more like a second-rate grease monkey than a computer guru. I had my doubts.

"Maybe we should go back to the gas station," I suggested. "That guy Bubba said he had a sick badger in one of his pens. Wouldn't this work better with a fresh animal?"

More important, Bubba had plenty of guns and ammunition; all I had was a small 6-shot Beretta in the thigh pocket of my cargo pants. Bob had a small deer rifle in the gun rack of his cab. Not nearly enough firepower if the zombie teen squad showed up.

"'Tain't no challenge, little lady," Bob said, his voice dripping with scorn and tobacco juice. "Any fool with a copy o' Red Hat and a pair of pliers can put Linux on a live badger, or even a fresh-kilt one."

Bob hit a pothole, and I nearly lost my grip on my old iPhone. My nice shiny new Nokia phone had fallen out of my pocket when the dead kid in the tattered Nickleback tee shirt was chasing me through the parking lot by the gas pumps, and I'd be damned if I was going to lose anything else on this trip.

I was going to kill my editor for sending me on this Texas Hellride. Absolutely kill her. Or at least demand a paid vacation. I could still hear Wendy's simpering wheedle: "The highway patrol says the Lubbock area is all clear; you'll be perfectly safe, Sarah."

Safe, my butt.

Bob was warming to his rant. "This zombie business is war. War, little lady, the kind Patton never dreamt of. We are fighting the gall-darned Forces o' Darkness. We gotta use some serious finesse, and there ain't nothing that spells finesse like installing a home defense system on a dead badger. You write that down, little lady. The readers o' MacHac need to know this stuff if they're gonna keep them an' theirs safe."

I dutifully typed it down on my iPhone. I'd gotten pretty quick with the screen keyboard, but as a precaution against being dropped in the mud I'd stuck it down in a sandwich bag, which added an extra layer of challenge to note-taking.

"Hot damn, come to papa!" Bob abruptly swerved over onto the shoulder and slammed on the brakes. The Ford slewed to a stop in the caliche beside a stand of mesquites.

In the glow of the headlights was a dead badger, all four legs stiff in the air. It was on the large side, maybe close to twenty pounds. Bob hopped out of the truck and ran over to the badger, turning it over and feeling around in the blood-matted fur.

"The legs and spine and skull are in right fine shape," he yelled back to me, as excited as a ten-year-old on Christmas morning. "I can't feel nothing but some broke ribs. This'll do!"

He tossed the badger into the bed of the truck, and soon we were speeding back to Bob's shop.

Bob's Computer Shack was wedged in between a hair salon and a Subway sandwich shop in a little roadside strip. The big storefront windows on all the shops had been boarded up with plywood sheets and reinforced with two-by-fours and rebar; all the shopkeepers were relying on neon "Open" signs to tell passersby that they were carrying on with business in the face of the zombie apocalypse.

I followed Bob into the shop and he locked and barred the door behind us. The air smelled of dust and plastic with a faint metallic stink from a burned-out monitor he'd hauled in for parts. Soon, it was all going to reek of rotten badger. Bob carried the carcass over to a work table he'd already cleared off and covered with a long sheet of butcher paper. He wiped his hands off on his overalls and pulled out an ancient tangerine iBook, which he set on the other end of the table. I pulled out my phone to take notes.

"Okay, first the easy crap: puttin' the Duppy card in the iBook so's we can get OSX to talk to the badger," Bob said. "I already downloaded a copy of FleshGolem from the Apple site—it's in the Utilities section."

Bob pulled what looked like a wireless notebook card out of a drawer of the table. It had a hinged lid and a clear cover over what looked like a small, shallow ivory box inlaid in the card.

"Next, you take some hair and blood from the critter and put them in this here compartment." He popped the cover open and smeared a hairy clot into the box.

Bob lifted the keyboard off the iBook to reveal the Airport slot. He slid the Duppy card inside, replaced the keyboard, and set the iBook aside.

I heard a thump and a shriek from the hair salon next door.

"Marla, git yer shotgun!" I heard a woman holler.

The woman sounded a little like Wendy, though the only time I'd ever really heard my editor scream was when a college intern lost an entire set of page proofs. Mostly she just took on a fakey-sweet patronizing tone when she thought you'd screwed up: "Well, we'll do this better next time, now won't we, Sarah?" She talked down to practically everyone like we were preschoolers. No wonder she'd been divorced twice.

Damn her for sending me out here. If I survived this, I was gonna demand a vacation and a shiny new workstation.

"Okay, now we gotta install the Duppy security antenna," Bob said, apparently oblivious to the shouting next door. "You can run your badger without it, but it'd be pretty easy for someone to hack him if they could get some blood and hair offa it."

I jumped as the shotgun boomed twice in rapid succession next door. A chorus of zombies roared in pain.

"I told them they need a better lock on their back door," Bob grumbled. He got a penknife and made a small incision at the nape of the badger's neck. He picked up a long, thin, coppery wire and shoved it down into the incision like a mechanic forcing a rusty dipstick into a car engine. "You gotta get this to lay as flat on the spine as possible, or your security won't be good."

Now somebody was firing a pistol, the pops punctuating the zombie roars.

"Shouldn't we go see if they need help?" I asked.

"Those gals know how to handle themselves. Opening the door right now's kinda a bad idea."

He wiped his hands off and pulled out a bright yellow software box with a cartoon of a witch doctor on the cover. "Now we get to the fun part. We're gonna install VüDü; it's a wicked little Linux distro. If your badger's got some kinda brain damage, you can do a modified install, but it's a real bitch. And rabies makes the whole thing a crapshoot. Read the frickin' manual before you try it."

My heart bounced as dead fists hammered the plywood protecting the computer shop's front windows. I couldn't hear anything from next door; I hoped that meant the women inside had driven their attackers away.

"Don't pay that no nevermind; even if they got through the wood, they still got to get through the window bars. We got plenty o' time."

Bob pulled a small, rolled-up piece of parchment out of his desk. "This has the system config info, spiritual program components, and your password. You gotta write it all down on blessed parchment in something like Enochian or SoulScript. Write neatlike. Roll it up, and stick it down the badger's throat, all the way into the stomach." He demonstrated with the aid of a screwdriver.

The zombies were still hammering the plywood. A couple of them had found a loose edge and were wrenching one panel away from the bricks. One shoved a gray arm between the bars. The pane fractured and fragments shattered to the floor.

My hands were shaking too hard to take notes, so I set my iPhone aside and dug my Beretta out of my thigh pocket. Not that I was in much condition to shoot straight, either.

"You ain't gonna need that yet," Bob said sharply, apparently irritated I'd stopped taking notes. "Them bars'll keep 'em back better than that little peashooter you got there."

I reluctantly stuck the pistol in my waistband and picked up my phone.

He opened the VüDü box and pulled out an herb-scented scroll of paper. "This is the entire code behind VüDü. Fold it up into the shape of the critter, and put more blood and hair inside."

He unrolled the scroll and started folding it up into an origami badgerlike shape. "It's real hard to make your own paper, so don't lose it. Open-source only takes you so far with this stuff."

The zombies had wrenched the first plywood sheet clean off the window. Three of them were growling and rattling the bars while the others hammered and yanked at the remaining boards. My stomach was twisting itself into an acidic knot; the bars really didn't look that sturdy. With every good pull, I could see the steel bolts in the cinderblocks giving, just a little. I wondered how far I'd get if I made a run for the back door.

I cursed Wendy a thousand ways. A vacation and new computer wouldn't even begin to make up for this trip.

Bob was studiously ignoring the zombies. Finished with the origami badger, he smeared a foot-wide pentagram on the paper using the badger's blood. He set the carcass at the top point, and put the origami badger in the middle.

"Now, burn the paper an' do your incantation." He got out his lighter, opened up the VüDü manual, and started chanting while he lit the paper. Bright green flames erupted, and the smoke curled around the badger's carcass. We watched as the smoke flowed into the badger's mouth and nose. It shuddered as it took a breath.

"We got badger!" He pulled out the tangerine iBook and started typing furiously.

The badger was trying to get up, its rigor-mortised legs jerking like Harryhausen stop-motion. It got its head up and growled at us, baring long canines. It sounded more like an angry grizzly bear; I didn't think something that small could generate such menace. I took a step back, just to be safe.

"An' that's why they call them badgers, little lady ... when they get mad, they're real bad news!" He laughed. "Nothin' pisses critters off like bein' woke from a good dirt nap."

I was feeling sicker by the minute. I'd had my doubts about the reanimation working, but it had never occurred to me that he wouldn't have the thing under control. The zombies had pulled the rest of the plywood off the window and were heaving hard on the creaking bars.

Bob opened a Telnet window and started tapping in commands. "Junkyard dogs ain't got nothin' on badgers. I seen a 15-pound badger send a 60-pound pit bull mix yelpin' and bleedin' back to his mamma. I mean, lookit the claws on this sucker. This bad boy could dig his way through highway pavement—"

The badger abruptly lurched to its feet and leaped on Bob, chomping down on his left forearm. Bob hollered and fell backwards into a table of disassembled PCs. The badger worried his arm furiously as it tore at his belly with its clawed forelegs.

I started forward to try to help Bob, but he waved me back frantically with his free hand.

"No! Git the iBook! Type in 'kill 665'!"

I did. The badger froze, still latched onto Bob's forearm. His tee shirt was soaked in blood from the deep slashes in his belly. He awkwardly shook his arm, but the badger wouldn't budge.

"Well that's a helluva system bug," he said weakly. "This little bastard's bit me right down to the bone. Launch FleshGolem, would ya? It's in the Dock."

I spotted a dock icon that looked like Frankenstein's Monster and clicked it. A program opened that looked a lot like the Mac port of the old DOOM first-person shooter game. Instead of a game screen there was a pixellated black-and-white image of Bob's face.

I was seeing through the dead badger's eyes.

"Cool," I whispered.

"Yeah, it's real cool, get this critter offa me! Hit the 'escape' key!"

The badger unclenched its jaws and fell to the floor with a heavy thump. The screen told me the badger was resetting itself. Bob clutched his bleeding arm, wincing. The badger righted itself and sat like a dog, awaiting new commands. The blood on Bob's shoes shone like tar through the eyecam screen.

"Dang, this stings," Bob said. "Where'd I put that medical kit, I gotta—"

The bars hit the pavement outside with a tremendous clanging crash. One zombie was pinned beneath the bars, but the other four poured in through the shattered window.

"Aw, dangit! Can't a man finish a presentation 'round here?"

Bob pulled a shotgun from a shelf beneath the work table and fired it at the rushing zombies. My ears rang from the boom. The blast hit the lead zombie squarely in its chest, but it barely slowed down.

"Git back an' get the badger running," Bob called loudly, apparently a bit deafened. "An' don't forget to initialize NecroNull in 'options', or he ain't gonna be much use."

Clutching the iBook, I ran to the back of the shop and spotted a closetlike restroom. I ran inside, flipped on the light, and locked the door behind me. The lock wouldn't hold for more than a minute or two, but I hoped Bob could keep the zombies busy long enough to figure out what I was doing.

Amid the roars and shotgun blasts, I set the iBook on the sink and moused around, trying to get the badger up and biting.

While the basic controls were indeed fairly simple and DOOMlike, there was menu after menu of advanced controls for a mindboggling array of behaviors. There was even a Karaoke menu so that you could hook up a microphone and attempt to speak through the primitive vocal cords of the creature you'd reanimated.

Pushing aside the mental image of a frat boy drunkenly singing "Louie Louie" through a dead Pomeranian, I found the NecroNull combat option and clicked it on.

The eyecam screen shuddered and turned technicolor. A new menu of fighting commands popped up for regular Kombat mode and IKnowKungFu mode, the latter of which came with a warning that it was only good for five minutes before your golem spontaneously combusted.

My inner 15-year-old giggled: Spontaneous combustion? Fire is cool! Fire fire fire!

I told my teen to buzz off and set to kicking some zombie hiney in Kombat mode.

All I could see was a mass of legs, so I hopped the badger onto a nearby chair for a better view. Bob was leaping from table to table, trying to dodge the five zombies as he reloaded his shotgun. He'd blasted away parts of their limbs, heads, and bodies, but he'd only just slowed them down. Even the one who'd lost both its lower legs and all of one arm was hopping around on stumped thighs, gamely trying to grab Bob's ankles.

Bob turned his head toward the badger. "A little help here?" he called. His voice came through the iBook's speaker a half-second after I heard it through the door.

I leaped the badger onto Runs On Stumps. As the badger bit into the back of its neck, the zombie went rigid, and its skin went white and ashy. The zombie's NecroNulled flesh crumbled like clay beneath the badger's teeth and raking claws.

"Good one!" Bob said. "The others won't go so quick 'cause they ain't hurt so bad."

I attacked the next zombie, which had only a superficial shotgun wound to its shoulder. As the badger's teeth sank into its neck, the zombie roared and punched the badger into a pile of empty computer cases. I heard a dull snap from the speaker, and the badger shuddered.

The screen flashed:

WARNING! SPINAL TAP IN PROGRESS!

Kombat mode not possible. Continue via IKnowKungFu? (Y/N)

Fire! Fire! Fire! my inner teen chanted.

I hit the "Y" key, and the screen went red. The badger rose up, up in the air and floated against the ceiling, scanning for targets. The zombie who'd fractured the badger's spine was flaking apart like asbestos, and the remaining three had cornered Bob, whose shotgun had apparently jammed.

Then Bob looked up, saw the badger, mouthed Oh crap and dropped to the floor, covering his head.

The badger screamed down on the zombies, jaws snapping and paws clawing faster than the computer could track. It went clear through one zombie's head like a fuzzy buzzsaw and ripped through the others. I caught a glimpse of Bob crawling desperately for cover at the back of the store. The badger dove in and out, faster and faster, like a small furry dead Superman.

WARNING! OVERLOAD IMMINENT!

I gave the iBook the four-finger salute, but the program was locked. I was just about to hit the power button when the badger exploded.

You know how matter can turn into energy? I found out later that the reason NecroNull is buried in FleshGolem's options is that when IKnowKungFu sparks a spiritual overload, it causes all of the still-living matter in the golem to become energy. A few bacterial cells, usually, or maybe a dying roundworm. Not enough to match the power of a nuclear weapon, but plenty to create one hell of a bang.

Is it a bug, or a feature? I guess it depends on how many zombies you have to kill, and how badly you want them gone.

The boom rocked the entire building, and I was knocked flat. The iBook clattered onto the dirty floor, its keyboard popping free and its screen blacking out.

I got to my feet and cautiously opened the door. Bob lay in an unconscious heap against the back door. The computer shop was a complete wreck. Smoke and zombie blood hung in a thick, rust-red mist. The remaining windows were shattered, and the front door had been blown off its hinges. There was not a single zombie in sight.

Two middle-aged women in pink beautician's smocks stood on the sidewalk outside, squinting into the dark shop. One clutched a Mossberg shotgun. Though their faces and smocks were smudged with soot and blood, their bouffants were immaculate.

"Are you okay in there?" the older of the two women called.

"I'm fine, but Bob needs an ambulance," I replied. "Does the phone in your shop still work?"

"Shore does. I'll go give the boys at 't VFD a holler," she said.

IT TOOK ME THREE DAYS to get back to civilization. I didn't end up killing my editor; when I got back we had what diplomats call "a frank and cordial exchange" and, well, we parted ways. After that, I did what any good American would do: I sued.

But all's well that ends well. I used my settlement proceeds to start up the Critter Karaoke Club, and the college kids can't get enough.

This story originally appeared in Spacesuits and Sixguns magazine, 2007.

Lucy A. Snyder is a five-time Bram Stoker Award-winning author. She wrote the novels Spellbent, Shotgun Sorceress,  and Switchblade Goddess, the nonfiction book Shooting Yourself in the Head for Fun and Profit: A Writer’s Survival Guide, the collections While the Black Stars Burn, Soft Apocalypses, Orchid Carousals, Sparks and Shadows, Chimeric Machines, and the humor book Installing Linux on a Dead Badger. Her writing has been translated into French, Russian, Italian, Czech, and Japanese editions and has appeared in publications such as Apex Magazine, Nightmare Magazine, Pseudopod, Strange Horizons, Asimov's, and Best Horror of the Year. She lives in Columbus, Ohio and is faculty in Seton Hill University’s MFA program in Writing Popular Fiction. You can learn more about her at www.lucysnyder.com and you can follow her on Twitter at @LucyASnyder.

Good Neighbors

Amanda C. Davis

THERE WAS A STONE in Paul's mailbox instead of a newspaper. He took it out gingerly, so it didn't scratch the bottom panel, and hefted it a few times. Down the block, Mrs. Ha was extracting a similar stone from her own mailbox. She scowled at the stone and then at Paul. Paul raised his stone in a resigned salute.

She shook her stone at him. "All I want is the obituaries. You tell them. Let the man write the obituaries. I don't care what else those maniacs get up to. You tell them to leave the obituaries man alone and let him do his job."

"I'll tell them," said Paul, intending no such thing. He stuck the stone in the front compartment of his laptop bag and began walking downtown for work.

He passed the new paperboy, who was riding a tricycle with a wagon attached to the back. The wagon was full of rocks, and the paperboy was six feet tall, with radiant silver-blue skin and hair like onyx all the way down her back, to the seat of the tricycle. Her legs were far too long for the tricycle, but she was pedaling for all she was worth, her face stern with determination.

Paul waved. "Thanks for the paper! I'll leave you a tip!"

The paperboy's face lit up. She honked the tricycle's rubber horn at Paul as he passed.

Good neighbors waved at the paperboy and left tips. Good neighbors did not ask what had happened to the previous paperboy.

The Subway restaurant was still closed, but old management had resumed, and though the smell lingered and Paul could see strange, luminescent growths on the walls above the booths, the sign in the window said, "REOPENING THIS EVENING. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE." He made a mental note to get a sub that night, but then reminded himself that he could never be sure who would be making the subs by then, and that he should check before he went inside.

The computer center where he worked was across the street from the Subway. Terry at the front desk looked up quickly, her eyes wide, and shook her head very briefly at him—but not fast enough. Paul's boss came storming around the corner, tie flapping. Paul's boss was not his boss.

"JONES!" roared the new boss, to Paul, though his last name wasn't Jones. "GET IN MY OFFICE. NOW."

Paul's old boss was named Jorge. Jorge had two kids and a wife; he coached softball and collected the signatures of pro wrestlers, which he had hung around his office, in the spaces between stacks of old electronic equipment and file cabinets stuffed with user manuals. Now the signatures were gone. The file cabinets had been moved and the clutter around the office, including the stacks of old electronics, had been shoveled out the window. Some of them were still in sight above the sill. Paul stood in front of the new boss's desk, which had been entirely cleared off except for a pad of yellow paper, a purple permanent marker, and a wooden name placard embossed with "MR. JENKINS" in gold, although that wasn't Jorge's name and was almost certainly not the new boss's name either.

Good employees did not ask what had happened to the old boss.

The new boss—"Mr. Jenkins"—stormed behind the desk scowling. He had a high shock of impossibly red hair, and his white collared shirt hung on him like a ship's sails in a calm. The black tie was knotted four times, all incorrectly. "JONES!" bellowed the new boss. He slammed a rock onto the desk between them. "DID YOU READ THE PAPER THIS MORNING?"

Paul took the stone out of his laptop bag. "I haven't had a chance yet, Mr. Jenkins."

"TURN TO PAGE FIVE AND TAKE A GOOSE AT THAT," said Mr. Jenkins.

Paul flipped over the stone. "It doesn't look good," he said, after a moment.

"YOU BET IT'S NOT GOOD," said Mr. Jenkins. "THEY'LL BURY US. BURY US! JONES, I'M COUNTING ON YOU TO FIX THIS."

Paul stood still, holding the stone he had found in his mailbox, waiting for the cold chill to leave his spine. "Yes, Mr. Jenkins," he said. "Of course, I would really value your professional input."

Mr. Jenkins sat heavily. Someone had replaced Jorge's grim metal folding chair with the kind with wheels. Mr. Jenkins spun the chair three or four times. When he came back around, he said, "I TRUST YOU, JONES. YOU HAVE A GOOD NECK ON YOUR SHOULDERS. DON'T LET ME DOWN."

Paul looked down at his stone again. His mouth had gone dry. "Yes, Mr. Jenkins."

"NOW GET OUT OF MY SIGHT."

Jorge's office did not have a door, but Paul pretended to close it anyway. When he left, Mr. Jenkins was spinning in his chair again, poorly-knotted tie flopping against his chest, his astonishing red hair trailing behind him like a silk flag in the fist of a leaping child.

Paul strolled to the front desk. "Terry," he said loudly. "Would you like to come get some coffee with me in the break room?"

"Sure!" she said. Her voice was so bright it almost broke.

Jorge's computer center had no break room. Paul and Terry squeezed into the closet where ten live servers blinked like small creatures in a dark tree. Terry locked the door behind them.

They leaned their foreheads together. "What else did he say?" hissed Paul in her ear. "Who's going to bury us? What's on page five?"

"He was here when I got in," whispered Terry. Her trembling voice was barely audible even directly into Paul's ear. All the better, really. "Already shouting. I think he's playing that the competition unveiled a better product."

"Are you sure?" said Paul. "Are you sure he doesn't mean the company's under investigation by the law?"

"N—no," said Terry. She drew a breath. "Yes. Yes, I'm sure. He was strolling around swearing about inferior workmanship and, uh, Jon-come-latelies. I don't think you have to talk to the police."

Paul let his forehead rest on hers. "Thank God."

Terry swallowed. Paul could feel the bob of her throat through their skulls. "I'll pretend to hack their servers," she said. "I'll tell him it's part of your plan. But you're going to have to come back with some kind of a story, Paul."

He stood. "I know. That's a good plan. Tell him you're working very hard and that it's very important. Don't be finished until I get back."

"What if he—" She drew a breath. "What if he thinks I'm a corporate spy?"

"Then you were framed by the competition," said Paul, "to weaken our company unity."

"That's good," said Terry. "That's good."

They looked at each other, unwilling to leave the familiar, functional server room for the stage of a workplace outside. The servers flickered and hummed.

"We're going to do fine," said Paul.

Terry closed her eyes. Then she unlocked the door and they strolled out. Both of them pretended to throw away empty cups of coffee as they passed the trash can.

"I'M TAKING LUNCH, VANESSA," roared Mr. Jenkins down the hall. It was 9:15. "HOLD MY CALLS."

"Yes, Mr. Jenkins!" she called back. She crossed her fingers briefly in Paul's direction: Good luck. He gave her a grim smile, hoisted his laptop bag, and headed back into the street.

Outside of the office, out of Mr. Jenkins' sight, Paul's panic began to fade. He could, he thought, play this role well enough to satisfy the new boss. After all, this was a story with an imaginary villain—not like the police, he thought with a shudder, who were very real, and more than half composed of tall, beautiful beings trying on the job as if the uniform and gun were a costume and a toy. Yes. He could out-think an imaginary competitor with an imaginary superior product. He breathed a little easier.

Heading to the Radio Shack, he started working out what kind of product he could convincingly build, to pass off as the product superior to the one Mr. Jenkins' company produced. The computer center (the one Jorge had built, and hired Paul and Terry to work for) was full of whirring, blinking electronics. None of the new neighbors had ever shown the slightest knowledge of electronics, so Paul was confident that something whirring louder and blinking faster would be suitably impressive. He'd cobble it together from stock on the shelves, present it to Mr. Jenkins as the only prototype, tell a rousing story about having stolen it from the competitor, and then destroy it before Mr. Jenkins' eyes. No—he would offer it to be destroyed by Mr. Jenkins' hand. The new neighbors were hungry to try new roles, but they were always happiest to see themselves as heroes.

He had not quite reached the Radio Shack when there came the sound of an explosion from not too far away. He froze to the spot, torn between the urge to see, the urge to help, and the certainty that he would regret both those things. A siren began to wail from across town at the fire hall. He could see a thick plume of dark smoke between two buildings.

Go to Radio Shack, he told himself—but he couldn't. He couldn't buy electronics to pretend to save an imaginary company when there might be real people in trouble. Instead he headed toward the plume of smoke.

The smoke was billowing from the two blown-out front windows of what had been Mazelli's Italian restaurant; there were two workers in Mazelli's-branded aprons across the street, and one graceful green woman, also in a Mazelli's apron, standing between the windows, trying to see inside. A few people were gathering to watch, but not many.

"Is everyone out?" said Paul to the two workers.

The girl nodded. She was plump and dark and looked quite young. Her fingernails were bit to nothing, but what remained was painted pink. The man, mustachioed, sucked a cigarette and turned away from the building.

The sirens grew louder, and a fire truck came screaming down the street, weaving feverishly. The people watching the fire moved closer to the buildings. It passed the burning restaurant, made a hard left down the next alley, which was too small for it, and came rocketing around in the other direction. It lurched to a stop two buildings too soon, then, in fits and starts, pulled up to Mazelli's restaurant. The firefighters started leaping out before it had totally stopped. The driver, pale violet with streaming blue hair with the graceful droop of an orchid, leapt out after them. Someone else in the truck's cab hurriedly slid into his space to put the truck in park.

The green woman in the Mazelli's apron stared at the fire engine in ecstasy. She immediately began wrestling off the apron. She struggled with it while the firefighters—mostly old neighbors, but with a handful of new neighbors here and there underfoot—poured out and readied the fire hose. They connected the fire hose to the hydrant. The green woman, tangled, snarled impatiently. Her fingernails burst out like knives; the apron fell in shreds to the ground. She dashed to the firefighters who were stretching the hose toward the restaurant.

"Thank goodness I got the call!" she cried. "I made it just in time! Give me my uniform." She snatched the hat from the firefighter closest to the front of the hose.

He and the others struggled gamely forward. The green woman put on the hat and stayed with them, so that they were stumbling into her and she was (elegantly, flawlessly, like a dancer) moving backward as they advanced. "I'm here now," she said again, sternly this time, to the first firefighter. "I'm the fire captain. Give me my uniform."

The first firefighter tried to push past her.

She put a hand on his shoulder. Her fingernails surged outward again like spikes on a blowfish: not piercing his shoulder, but encasing it in a sharp silver cage. "You're out of the unit," she said to the first firefighter. "Now give me my uniform."

"God's sake!" he gasped. It sounded like a breath heaved in after long minutes underwater. "There's a house burning down behind you! Get out of our way!"

The green woman's eyes narrowed. She moved her hand to his cheek.

Paul turned away, but not fast enough. From the moment her hand touched the firefighter's flesh, his skin shriveled; he crinkled inward, stooped, aged to death and beyond, and he collapsed into a pile of rubbery yellow and blackened ash.

The green woman stooped to get his uniform and began shaking it out, putting it on, piece by piece. The rest of the fire crew kept moving. They waited to turn on the hydrant until the green woman took her place at the front of the hose—and when the force of it knocked her back and sent them and the hose floundering around the sidewalk, they scrambled to catch it again.

Paul put his head down and strode away, toward the Radio Shack. He had no place in that drama. He was helping his boss save the company from innovative competitors. A good day's work. A relatively easy, relatively safe day's work....

"You! Hold it right there!"

Paul froze in his tracks. The voice was nightingale-clear, ethereal and lovely, absolutely terrifying. The speaker was coming toward him—gliding, really—in a ball gown of impossible craftsmanship with a trench coat thrown over it and a fedora atop a hairstyle two feet tall. "Yes, you," she said. "I've got a couple of questions."

Please newspaper reporter, Paul thought fervently, as always, not sure with whom he was pleading. Please, newspaper reporter, please, please....

The woman in the trench coat and ball gown took out what appeared to be a bundle of rabbit-skins stapled together. She flipped through them, then pulled a hairpin from her remarkable hair and poised it over the skins. "What were you doing just before the fire broke out?"

"Oh, um. Just walking by," said Paul. "I just stopped to watch."

"Mmm hmm," said the woman. She poked the rabbit skins with the hairpin a few times. "And what was your relationship to the owners?"

"I'm sorry?" said Paul.

"The owners of the building. Were you on good terms? Did you have—grievances?"

"No," said Paul. "I—I didn't know them." His collar seemed tight, and the back of his neck was mysteriously sticky.

"I see," said the woman, poking her bundle of skins. She gave Paul a stern, disappointed look. "I'll be frank with you, sir. Down at the station we've got a hunch that something about that fire smells a little funny. A little bit suspicious. Like maybe it wasn't exactly an accident."

Detective. Paul's heart nearly stopped. He could not, could not accept this role she was trying to hand him. If he went into police custody...their custody...

Good neighbors never, ever crossed the new neighbors. Bad neighbors never, ever returned from custody.

Heart pounding, Paul leaned in to the detective. He let a silent moment pass between them, to build suspense, to gather his nerve. "Tell the boys at the station," he said, slowly and conspiratorially, "they might be on to something."

Her eyes brightened; they widened a bit, but the whites also began to faintly glow. "The boys never miss a trick," she breathed.

Paul glanced from side to side. "Officer Hastings," he muttered, indicating himself. "Undercover. I've been watching this place. Don't let this get out to the public. But I saw him."

"Who?" gasped the detective.

"The arsonist. Sneaking out from the roof."

"And?" said the detective, poising her hairpin over her rabbit skins.

"I'm not sure I believe it myself," said Paul gravely, buying time, his mind churning. "Kind of ridiculous."

"We'll let forensics decide what's ridiculous," the detective rejoined. "Go on."

Paul licked his lips. "Twenty feet tall. Wings like a bat's. Deep, deep purple. I saw his head over the roof, then he took off. A real blur. I doubt anybody else saw him. But that's your man."

The detective poked her rabbit skins frantically. Then she snapped upright, stuffed them into the inside pocket of her trench coat, and stuck the hairpin back under her sky-high fedora. "Hastings, you're doing a great job out there," she said. "Keep up the good work."

Paul put a finger to his lips. She nodded firmly, lips together. He gave her a genteel nod—the nod of a cop in a noir film, of a hard man with a secret, and slowly, confidently pivoted on one heel and strolled away.

The girl at the Radio Shack was attempting to sell a television to a couple of black-eyed, looming customers in rainbow silk, who kept demanding a closer and closer look into its workings until it was vivisected on the counter, but she excused herself long enough to ring up some flashing, whirring equipment for Paul. He went to the laundromat and hid in the bathroom to wire it together. The result was impressive, in a purely facetious way. Mr. Jenkins' company was saved.

Paul left the laundromat. He hoped Terry was doing all right, pretending to hack the imaginary competitor. She could have easily convinced someone who knew what hacking actually looked like. She got away with a lot of personal projects under Jorge's watch. Mr. Jenkins, though, surely expected something different. It was up to them to meet their new neighbors' expectations.

He was almost back to work—downtown, passing shops under new and old management, dodging debris that the best neighbors would do away with overnight—when a pair of policemen came out of the Subway.

One was ordinary, a fairly fit middle-aged man, in crisp tan slacks and shirt. The other was a vision of beauty. Golden hair streamed down his back, brilliantly set off against the tan shirt, like a lion's mane against its hide; however, the shirt was buttoned over a deep red robe, thickly embroidered with symbols Paul didn't recognize and which often moved. He also wore a gun in a holster, cinched tight so as not to fall off, which gave his shirttails a ridiculous flare but somehow made his physical form even more lovely. His eyes were striking, exquisite, and vicious.

Paul avoided eye contact. He was nothing but Mr. Jenkins' hard-working employee, a fixer, occasionally a corporate spy. He had nothing to do with the police. Nothing.

One of the policemen blew a long, shrill alarm on his silver whistle. Like a sound effect in a cartoon. Paul—along with everyone else on the street—stopped. Waited.

The policemen came up to him. Paul's fear settled into his shoes, anchoring him. The tall policeman took out a piece of blue crystal and held it to his ear. "We have him." The other policeman held a straight face.

"Who?" said Paul to the other policeman, sotto voce, trying to split the difference between being heard and being ignored. "Who do you have?"

The other policeman looked at the sidewalk between their shoes and gave a short, helpless shrug.

The piece of blue crystal flared, lighting the tall policeman's cheek briefly in an unearthly glow; then it faded. The tall policeman tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt. He put his hands on his hips. "And you thought you'd get away with it."

Paul did not reply. He didn't have to: seconds later, the detective in the ball gown, trench coat, and fedora came storming around the corner. There were a half-dozen policemen in her wake, giving her the look of a ship's figurehead. She charged up to Paul and then stood back, crossing her arms.

"Nice job, Officer Johns," she said, to the tall policeman.

"It's Lieutenant," he informed her. "Lieutenant McClintock."

She gave a curt nod. "My mistake." They could have been passing back and forth an aria, their voices were so clear and so lovely. "And you," she said, swiveling to Paul. Her ball gown brushed the other policeman's ankles. "Nice try. But the boys at the station are no slouches. There's no officer Hastings on the books." She leaned forward and smiled. "Not even undercover."

Her teeth were needles, thousands of needles, bursting from her perfect lips like a sabotaged Halloween apple.

She was a good detective. Lieutenant McClintock was a good policeman. Just like the cook at Mazelli's had been a good cook until she was a good firefighter. Just like Mr. Jenkins was a good, furious boss. They were all so good at the jobs they picked up and put down like masks. And all the supporting characters were always so good at their roles. Such good neighbors. Because otherwise, God help them, the burning skin, the needle teeth....

He put down the memories. Put on the mask.

Paul said—gravelly and gravely—"Maybe you looked in the wrong books."

"How's that?" she snapped. But her smile fell away, hiding the terrible teeth, as her eyes lit in curiosity.

"Special Agent Hastings," said Paul. "FBI."

The detective's jaw fell open. "Sir!" she said, sounding equal parts consternated and delighted.

Paul put his hands in his pockets to hide the tremor. "You're just in time," he said. "You and the boys at the station have been doing some great work. Why, without them, I could never have tied up this case."

"What case?" said the detective eagerly.

"Man name of Jenkins runs a computer shop around here," he said, rocking back on his heels. "You heard of it?"

"Sure," she said, "everyone knows Jenkins."

"Well, I've been undercover there for a while. See, there are some people who want to put Mr. Jenkins out of business, and they don't care what they stoop to, to do it. Even—" He rummaged in his laptop case. "—building THIS."

The detective and the tall policemen stepped back. The old policemen noticed and did the same.

"A Keppler whirlydrone eight thousand," said Paul. "All ready to go off." He hit the switch, and a couple lights sprang to life. The detective startled away. He switched it off. "I'm taking it to Jenkins to decommission. All in a day's work." He stuck it back in his laptop case. "Couldn't have done it without you, detective." He gave her a nod, then one to the tall policeman with the long lion's hair. "And your boys."

Her face screwed up. "Wait a minute," she said. "Just what did we do to help?"

Paul took out the stone that he had found in his mailbox. "Why, your newspaper ad flushed him right out."

"Ha!" said the detective. She put her hands on her hips. "And he fell for it."

"Well, you know," said Paul. "If they were any smarter, they wouldn't be criminals." He put the stone away. "Now, I better take this down to Jenkins to take care of it." He nodded again. He was getting a lot of mileage out of stern, noir-perfect nods. "Thanks again. You saved the city."

"We saved the city," said the tall policeman. He hooked his thumbs in his holster.

"Yes, yes, McClintock," snapped the detective. "Now get back to work. That arsonist is still on the loose."

"Oh, we pulled him over on Maple Street," said the tall policeman.

"You did not. That was a kidnapper. The poor little child."

"I'm telling you, she was the arsonist too."

"Check your files again, McClintock, or I'll have your badge."

"This is my investigation. This is outside of your jurisdiction."

"Then I'll make it my jurisdiction!"

Paul hurried off before they remembered he was there. The other policeman gave him a very brief smile as he went.

Terry put the finishing touches on her hack job after Paul walked in the door. Mr. Jenkins was overjoyed to see his competitor's only prototype on his desk, which he proceeded to smash—desk included—with the morning newspaper. Paul got a promotion. (There was no one else above or below him.) Terry got the rest of the day off. (She scurried out before he could change his mind.) The imaginary competitor's stock took a nose-dive and they went out of business. Mr. Jenkins went out to celebrate with the stockholders. No one had ever held stock in Jorge's computer center. Paul had dinner at Subway and read the actual newspaper, which had apparently been printed, but not delivered, because the paperboy had filled her wagon with rocks instead.

He wondered about the old paperboy, and about Jorge. He wondered all the things good neighbors never wondered about. And he wondered, chewing a sub that still tasted of foods never meant to be eaten in this town, what he always wondered at the end of the day, every day, since the new neighbors had moved in: when would one of them decide they wanted to be him?

This story originally appeared in Not Our Kind anthology, Alliteration Ink, 2015.

Amanda C. Davis writes dark fantasy, light horror, and the very softest science fiction. Her short fiction and poetry has appeared in dozens of magazines and anthologies, including Cemetery Dance and InterGalactic Medicine Show; been adapted for audio, including in Parsec-winning podcasts Pseudopod and The Drabblecast; been reprinted extensively, including in translation (Ténèbres 2015) and in Year’s Best Weird Fiction, vol. 2; and was collected in 2013 along with her sister Megan Engelhardt‘s work in Wolves and Witches: A Fairy Tale Collection from World Weaver Press. She has an engineering degree and an obsession with baking the perfect macaroon. She tweets enthusiastically as @davisac1. You can find out more about her and read more of her work at www.amandacdavis.com.

Happily and Righteously

Larry Hodges

PETER NOID WASN'T TOLD about the meeting of the Society Of Conspiracy Theorists because, as he knew, they were all out to get him. So when he showed up uninvited that night in his pajamas and tin foil hat, the president of the Society of Conspiracy Theorists, Norma Par, was upset.

"They must have told him!" she fumed, pulling a pistol from the pocket of her black trench coat. Most of the members of the Society of Conspiracy Theorists fled the room, believing Norma was out to get them, and they did not want to be get.

Peter stayed, afraid to leave because he was certain he'd seen a deadly green alien lounging outside that was out to get him. He fidgeted in the smelly red pajamas he'd worn for months, too modest to change for fear of hidden cameras.

"Who are they?" asked someone who had not left, and was not important, and who will no longer be a part of this story.

"Those who are out to get us!" Norma exclaimed, aiming her pistol toward the open window. There was a glint in her eyes as she added, "So I'm going to get them first."

"But why are they out to get us?" the unimportant person asked, "and why did they just try to take me out of this story?"

"The answer to both is because they can, if we aren't on constant guard," Norma said. She fired the handgun out the window to scare away whatever it was out there that was out to get them. "Constant vigilance is the price we pay to avoid embarrassing probes stuck up the you-know-what and getting eaten alive."

A deadly green alien had just stuck a tentacle through the window. It froze, both because of the bullet that had just missed hitting it, and because it was cold, which was why it wanted to come into the warm room. But it was sure that inside were deadly pink bipeds out to get him.

The unimportant person correctly thought he'd seen the green tentacle in the window, and stuck his head outside to make sure, even though he expected something outside the window was out to get him. There was, as the deadly green alien pulled the unimportant person out the window, strangled him to death, and then hugged his dead body for warmth. The unimportant person will no longer be a part of this story.

Seeing what happened to the unimportant person, the last few members the Society Of Conspiracy Theorists fled the room, choosing probable death at the hands of whatever it was outside the front door that was out to get them, rather than certain death at the hands and tentacles of Norma and the deadly green alien. As they fled the room, they were shot to death by the waiting assassin who was just outside the front door, waiting to get them. Knowing they had been correct, they died happily and righteously.

This left the room with only Norma, Peter, and the deadly green alien outside the window, still hugging for warmth the dead body of the unimportant person who is no longer a part of this story.

Finding himself stuck between the assassin out the front door, and the deadly green alien outside the window, Peter attacked the alien. After all, it was now a known entity, while the unseen assassin outside the front door undoubtedly had allies as part of the Grand Outside Door Conspiracy. So Peter leaned out the window, his red pajamas flapping in the breeze, and pulled the deadly green alien inside, whereby Norma shot it to death. Since the deadly green alien had always figured a deadly pink biped would someday kill it, it died happily and righteously.

Since both Peter and Norma in real life were doctors, they pulled the dead green alien off the dead unimportant person and performed CPR on him. The unimportant person sputtered and came alive, only to find a woman punching his chest and a man in a tin foil hat kissing him, the very nightmare he'd been having for years. He sprang to his feet, sputtering in outrage. Since in real life he too was an assassin, he strangled both Peter and Norma, just as they knew someone would someday do to them. They died happily and righteously.

The unimportant person was now the only one left alive to face the other assassin outside the front door, as well as the Grand Outside Door Conspiracy. However, as noted previously, the unimportant person is no longer a part of this story, and so we are left with just the assassin outside the front door and those in the Grand Outside Door Conspiracy. The latter would soon be no more as the assassin shot them all, believing they were deadly green aliens in disguise out to get him. They had always known an assassin would someday kill them, so they died happily and righteously.

The assassin outside the front door, the only one left alive, entered the room, carefully stepping over the bodies of those who had been out to get him, and ignoring the "Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?" cries of the unimportant person, who had always suspected that everyone ignored him, but he is no longer a part of this story.

One of the bodies the assassin had shot was not quite dead, and it sat up. Despite blood pouring from a bullet wound in its stomach, it shot and killed the assassin by the front door, just as it had been hired to do since it too was an assassin, and just as the now dead assassin (formerly from outside the front door), had always known would happen to him. The not-quite-dead body also shot the unimportant person, who also expected it, and he too died, and is no longer a part of this story. The not-quite-dead body then fell back dead, and also is no longer a part of this story. They all died happily and righteously.

This leaves only you, the reader, left in the story. We are just outside, and are out to get you. Don't bother locking your doors; you cannot stop us from getting our green tentacles on you. You will undergo probes stuck up the you-know-what and then we will eat you alive, as you've always known we would, and so you will die happily and righteously, and then you will no longer be a part of this story.

This story originally appeared in the Blood, Blade and Thruster magazine, 2007.

Larry Hodges's third novel, Campaign 2100: Game of Scorpions, a political satire/drama, was published in 2016, by World Weaver Press. The novel covers the election for president of Earth in the year 2100, where the world has adopted the American two-party electoral system, and features a third-party moderate challenge that pits father against daughter—with an alien ambassador along for the ride. A resident of Germantown, MD, Larry's an active member of SFWA with over 80 short story sales. He's a graduate of the six-week 2006 Odyssey Writers Workshop and the two-week 2008 Taos Toolbox Workshop. He has 14 books and over 1700 published articles in over 150 different publications. He's also a professional table tennis coach! Visit him at www.larryhodges.org.

Stalking the Zombie

A John Justin Mallory Story

Mike Resnick

JOHN JUSTIN MALLORY CRUMPLED his empty paper coffee cup and flipped it toward the wastebasket in the corner of his office. It hit the wall a few inches above the top of the basket and rebounded onto the floor.

"I don't think LeBron James is trembling in his boots yet," remarked Periwinkle, the magic mirror that hung on the wall just behind Mallory's chair.

"LeBron James doesn't wear boots," said Mallory.

"He also doesn't miss shots from eight feet away," shot back Periwinkle.

"I'm not joining the Knicks anytime soon, so he can rest easy," said Mallory, picking up the copy of the Racing Form he had been reading.

"That's it?" demanded Periwinkle. "You're just going to leave it lying on the floor?"

"I'll pick it up when I get up."

"That could be an hour!"

"So what?" said Mallory.

"It means I have to look at it," said Periwinkle.

"I don't know how to point this out to you, but you're just a decorative object."

"An object!" bellowed Periwinkle. "Is that all I mean to you?"

"Be quiet!" growled a feminine voice from atop the refrigerator in the next room. "Some of us are trying to sleep."

"That's an object!" said Periwinkle. "I'm a work of art."

"All right, I'm awake now," said the voice from atop the refrigerator. "What's for breakfast?"

"Beats me," said Mallory. "What small defenseless animal did you kill and bring back here?"

"I don't remember." This was followed by a ladylike burp. "But it's gone."

"There's a paper cup on the floor," said Mallory. "Why don't you eat that?"

"I like to play with my food first," said the voice.

"Or torture it."

"I just said that." Suddenly a 90-pound creature that seemed human at first glance but was definitely feline hurled itself through the air, landing lightly on Mallory's desk. "Skritch my back."

"Later," said Mallory. "I'm doping out the fifth race at Belmont."

"You lost the first four already?"

"Go kill a mouse or something, Felina," said Mallory.

"They're not very filling," said Felina.

"There's the door," said Mallory without looking up from his Form. "Go kill an elephant."

"Now you're joking," said Felina. "I can't eat a whole elephant." She paused thoughtfully. "Maybe a rhinopotamus."

"Go away or be quiet," said Mallory, studying the Form. "I've got serious work to do here."

"At least Flyaway's not running today," said Periwinkle.

"Why should today be any different?" asked Felina. "Flyaway never runs, especially when John Justin bets on him."

Mallory folded the Form and laid it on his desk. "I can see I'm not going to get anything done," he muttered.

"Okay, give me a minute," said Periwinkle.

"What are you talking about?" asked Mallory.

"Whenever you don't get anything done, you relax with a Bettie Page movie," answered the mirror. "I just have to remember where I filed it. Here, watch this while I look."

A baseball diamond appeared, with a goodly number of underweight and overweight players looking rather ridiculous as they ran out onto the field and took their positions.

"What the hell is this?" said Mallory.

"A 1937 Continental Association game between the Grantville Geldings and the Merrivale Monorchids," answered the mirror. "Ah! Here it is!"

An instant later Bettie Page covered the mirror, doing her Dance of Sublime Surrender, and an instant after that Col. Winnifred Carruthers entered the office. "What is that?" she demanded.

"Just Perriwinkle having a little joke," said Mallory.

The burly gray-haired woman approached the mirror. "You think this is funny, do you?"

"He made me do it!" said Perriwinkle nervously. "It's all his fault. I wanted to show him Alexander Nevsky but he insisted!"

"John Justin, have you no shame?" said Winnifred wearily.

"I left it in my other suit," said Mallory.

"That would be a wittier remark if you actually owned another suit," she replied.

"We all have our own ways of relaxing," said Mallory. "You go on safaris in Central Park, Felina tortures small defenseless animals, Periwinkle shills for unwatchable foreign movies, and I watch Bettie Page."

"Disgusting!" said Winnifred.

"Black-and-white foreign movies?" said Mallory. "They certainly are."

Winnifred sat down at her desk, straightened out a couple of doilies, and moved her flower vase three-eighths of an inch to the left. "Ah, well, you are what you are." Her gaze fell on the Racing Form. "I hope you're not betting on Flyaway again today."

"He's not entered."

"Good," said Winnifred. "The poor benighted animal deserves a rest."

"He rests the second the starting gate opens," offered Felina.

"I wish I could disagree with that," said Winnifred with a sigh.

Mallory was about to reply when there was a knock at the door.

"Felina, open it and let whoever it is in."

"I'm the office cat," she said. "That's not part of my job description."

"Feeding the office cat's not part of mine," said Mallory.

"I'll get it!" she yelled, leaping across the room and flinging the door open to reveal a balding, underweight, very nervous man dressed all in black.

"Col. Carruthers?" he asked, looking uncomfortably at Felina.

"I'm Col. Carruthers," said Winnifred.

"That's a relief," said the man. "The Mallory and Carruthers Detective Agency comes highly recommended, but of course I had no idea what constituted a Mallory or a Carruthers."

"Come on in," said Mallory.

"Thank you," said the man, entering the office.

"Have a seat," continued Mallory, indicating a chair that faced his desk.

"I'd prefer to stand," said the man, eyeing Felina nervously.

"As you wish. Now, who are you, and what can we do for you?"

"My name is Nightspore, Aloysius Nightspore," he said. "I am one of the owners of Nightspore, Nightspore, Nightspore, and Cohen. You've heard of us?"

"Aren't you a rock group?" asked Mallory.

Nightspore shook his head. "Dear me, no. We're undertakers."

"Okay, you're undertakers," said Mallory. "What seems to be your problem?"

"One of our...ah…clients has gone missing." He grimaced uncomfortably. "Our most important client."

"Let me see if I understand you correctly," said Winnifred. "Someone has stolen a corpse?"

He shook his head. "No, no one stole it."

"Well, it sure as hell didn't just get up and walk out on its own power," said Mallory with a chuckle.

"In point of fact, that is precisely what it did," replied Nightspore.

"Damn!" muttered Mallory. "Every time I think I'm getting used to this Manhattan, something like this happens!"

"Let me explain," said Nightspore.

"I think you'd better," agreed Winnifred.

"Have you ever heard of Big Benny Bernstein?"

"He's been a local politician forever," said Winnifred. "What we used to call a ward healer."

"Well, he died two days ago," said Nightspore.

"Natural causes?" asked Mallory.

"I suppose it's natural that death results from two bullets in the spleen, another one in the heart, and one more in the liver," agreed Nightspore.

"Four shots would do it," agreed Mallory. "And the killer had two left if he needed them."

"Well, in theory," said Nightspore. "In point of fact, the other two shots just frightened the three women away."

"Three women?" said Mallory.

"Big Benny was always just a bit scandal-prone," answered Nightspore.

"I'd say he was energetically scandal-prone," said Mallory.

"Anyway, they're giving him a first-rate sendoff tomorrow afternoon," continued Nightspore. "The Mayor, the Governor, one of our Senators, half the City Council, eleven members of the State Legislature—and now there's no corpse."

"You say he just walked out?" said Mallory. "How do you know someone didn't steal the body?"

"He was laid out in his coffin after we embalmed him, and suddenly two of my assistants witnessed him get up and walk out the door."

"Have you got any details? Was there any external stimuli—a full moon, anything like that?"

"They were on their break, having a drink and playing that hit CD by Vlad and the Impalers, and one of them mentioned that he was going to see Bubbles La Tour at Salacious Sally's Five-Star Burlesque Emporium later tonight—and suddenly Big Benny sat up, said he wasn't ready to give up all the good times yet, and just like that he climbed out of his coffin and walked out the door."

"And this was how long ago?" asked Winnifred.

"Let's see," said Nightspore. "It's almost five now, so I guess it was about four this afternoon." He looked like he was trying to hold back some tears. "If we don't have him back in time for the funeral we'll be ruined! I don't care what you charge, just get him back no later than nine tomorrow morning!"

"We'll need a retainer," said Mallory.

"Here!" cried Nightspore, pulling a wad of money out of his pocket and throwing it at the detective. Felina leaped forward and caught it in her mouth before it reached him, while Nightspore walked to the door. "Remember—by nine at the latest!"

Then he was gone.

"What do you think, John Justin?" said Winnifred.

"I think if Felina eats that money I'll slit her open from top to bottom to get it back."

"What else do you think?" she said as Mallory reached out and took the roll of bills out of Felina's mouth.

"It doesn't taste as good as a rat that's been dead a week," complained Felina. "Or a month. Or two months." She paused thoughtfully. "Three months, maybe."

"In answer to your other question," said Mallory, "it sounds like Big Benny wants one last night on the town. How hard can it be to spot a zombie enjoying himself?"

"I don't know," answered Winnifred. "But have you noticed that none of our cases ever turn out to be as easy as they look when we accept them?"

"That goes with the territory, at least in this Manhattan." He checked his wristwatch. "Damn. Stopped again."

"It's 5:20," offered Winnifred.

"Well, we've got less than sixteen hours to find one runaway corpse in a city of eight million," said Mallory. "I suppose it makes sense to split up."

"I agree."

"The question is: where? I'll check out Salacious Sally's a little later, when she's open for business, but where else do we look?"

"Clubs that play bad rock music, his favorite restaurants, political rallies, party headquarters, the same places he'd hang out if he was still alive," said Winnifred. "Remember, he left the funeral parlor because he wasn't ready to give up all the things he enjoyed yet."

"All right," said Mallory. "I'll take Broadway and everything west of it; you have everything east."

She nodded her agreement. "We should arrange a meeting, to compare notes."

"Eleven o'clock at the Slithering Snake?" suggested Mallory.

She just stared at him.

"Eleven o'clock back here," he amended,

"Sounds good," she said. "I'll need ten minutes to prepare, and then I'm off after him."

"What kind of preparation do you need to do?" asked Mallory. "Research him on the internet?"

"I have to go to my apartment, pick up my .550 Nitro Express, pass the word to some of my safari trolls—especially my gunbearer and my tracker—and change into my khaki shorts and shirt, and my hiking boots."

"Are you sure you'll need all that?"

"What if he goes to Central Park, or even Grammercy Park?" replied Winnifred. "The game's afoot, John Justin!"

"We just want to find him, not blow him to smithereens," cautioned Mallory.

"He's already dead," said Winnifred, "so what harm can it do?"

Mallory shrugged, unable to come up with an answer.

"I'll see you in five and a half hours," she said, walking out the door.

"I'm going with you, John Justin!" purred Felina.

"You could stay here and protect the office," said Mallory without much hope.

She shook her head. "No! My place is beside you. Well, behind you, anyway—at least until I decide to desert you in the end."

"You could desert me right now," suggested Mallory. "Think of the time you'd save."

"No," said Felina. "Someone has to protect you from Big Benny and Bubbles La Tour and all the other evil denizens of the night."

"I can't tell you how safe that makes me feel," said Mallory sardonically. He got to his feet and walked to the door. "All right, let's get this show on the road."

"I have a question, John Justin," said Felina, leaping lightly off the desk.

"What is it?

"Are zombies good to eat?"

THEY WALKED PAST THE Vampire State Building and were headed in the direction of Madison Round Garden when Mallory spotted Ming Toy Yingleman's Almost-Kosher Delicatessen at the corner.

"Didn't Big Benny used to eat at that joint?" he wondered aloud.

"I don't know," said Felina helpfully. Then: "What does an almost-Kosher taste like?"

"Just like a nearly-Neopolitan, only different."

"Thank you, John Justin," said the cat-girl. "You know everything." She turned around. "Skritch my back."

"Later."

"All right." A brief pause. "Is it later yet?"

"Not til a week from Tuesday."

The answer seemed to satisfy her, and Mallory headed off toward the deli. As he entered he walked up to the cashier and asked if Big Benny had come in recently.

"About ten minutes ago," was the answer.

Mallory looked around. "I don't see him."

"Of course not," said the cashier. "We threw him out."

"Why?"

"Don't let the peeling wallpaper and the cracks in the ceiling fool you, fella. We're a high-class establishment—and we don't serve zombies."

"Where did he go?"

"I sent him down the block to Odd Oswald's. They're less fussy about their clientele."

"Thanks," said Mallory, heading out the door, grabbing Felina by the hand and dragging her away from the display case.

"There were dead fish right there for the taking," she protested as they emerged onto the sidewalk.

"We have work to do."

"I hate you!" she hissed. "And I'm never speaking to you again!"

"I'll just have to live with the disappointment," said Mallory.

"Of course, I might talk to you someday if you begged me."

"I wouldn't dream of making you compromise your principles."

"What's a principle?" asked Felina. "Is it good to eat?"

"Only with pickles and hot fudge," said Mallory.

"Will you point one out to me, John Justin?" she asked, purring and rubbing her hip against his.

"They're kind of rare in these parts," said Mallory. "Besides, you're never speaking to me again."

"Oh, that," said Felina. "I forgive you."

"You've made my year."

"Where are we going?"

"To Odd Oswald's," said Mallory. "It's supposed to be around here somewhere." He looked across the street. "Yeah, there it is."

The two of them crossed the street and walked into the restaurant.

"There he is," said Mallory, indicating a white-haired man in a beautifully-tailored suit who was arguing with a waiter.

"This is unacceptable!" yelled Big Benny Bernstein, staring at his plate. "I don't want brains! I want knishes, and some chopped liver on the side!"

"But sir, you're a zombie," said the waiter patiently.

"What's that got to do with anything?" demanded Big Benny. "One joint won't feed me at all, and the other brings me a plate of"—he made a face—"brains!"

"But this is a restaurant for creatures of the night," explained the waiter patiently.

"I don't care! Bring me some lox and blintzes." Big Benny frowned thoughtfully. "Well, maybe wrapped around a brain. Oh, and a cup of java."

"All we have is blood, sir."

"What the hell kind of deli is this?" bellowed Big Benny.

"One for zombies," said Mallory, stepping forward.

"Do I know you?" asked Big Benny.

"Not yet," said Mallory. "You ran off at a very inopportune time. My name's Mallory. I've been hired to bring you back."

"I'm not ready to go back. The world is fill of wine, women and song."

"You had your whole life to enjoy them," said Mallory. "But your whole life ended a couple of days ago, and now it's time to embark on your afterlife."

"You insist?" said Big Benny.

"I'm afraid so."

Big Benny got up and began walking toward the door. As he passed an empty but unbussed table he picked up a half-empty cup of blood, stared at it, then shrugged and drank it.

"Not bad," he admitted.

"I think that's what the waiter was trying to explain to you," said Mallory. "Like it or not, you're a zombie now."

"Not!" yelled Big Benny, throwing another cup of blood into Mallory's face. By the time the detective had wiped it out of his eyes, Big Benny was nowhere to be seen.

"Thanks for your help," said Mallory wryly.

"I didn't do anything," said Felina.

"I was being sarcastic."

"What's sarcastic?" she asked. "It is good to eat?"

Mallory walked out onto the sidewalk and looked up and down the block. There was no sign of Big Benny.

"Okay," he said, "use that nose of yours and tell me which way he went."

She sniffed the air. "Away."

"Away in which direction?"

"North, or maybe east," she said, and then frowned. "Or  west."

"Point."

She extended a finger toward his chest.

"Not at me," said Mallory. "Point to where he went."

"I don't know where he went," said Felina. "But," she added, pointing north on Ninth Avenue, "he headed off that way."

Mallory resisted the urge to yell "Follow that zombie!" and settled for telling her to follow his scent, which sounded less dramatic but at least told Felina what he wanted her to do.

They passed a tavern for ghouls, another for leprechauns, one for vampires, and had finally reached one that specialized in zombies when Felina came to a stop.

"Here?" asked Mallory.

She nodded.

"Let's go in, then," said Mallory.

She reached her hand out and shook his. "It's been nice knowing you, John Justin, but I think it's time to desert you."

"Am I in that much danger if I go in?"

"Probably no more than if you go into that bar," she said, indicating the vampire tavern.

Mallory was still debating entering the bar when he heard the sound of shattering glass, and a voice that sounded like Big Benny's began screaming almost incoherently.

Suddenly Mallory smiled.

"What's so funny, John Justin?" asked Felina.

"I think I know what's going on in there," answered Mallory. "And if I'm right, I don't have to go in."

"Why not?"

"Because Benny's going to come bursting out any second."

And as the words left his mouth, Big Benny Bernstein stalked out of the bar, cursing a blue streak.

"Hi, Benny," said Mallory.

The zombie peered at him. "Do I know you?"

"We've met once before."

Big Benny frowned. "Did you vote for me in the last election?"

"Anything's possible," said Mallory. "What was the problem in there?"

"I asked for a vodka martini," growled Benny. "I don't know what the hell they brought me, but it looked like carrot juice. You ever see a martini that wasn't transparent?"

"Figures," said the detective.

"What do you mean?"

"You're a zombie. You may not like it, but zombies eat brains and drink blood. Your body can't metabolize knishes or martinis any more. Why don't you come back to the funeral home with me?"

"I'm not ready, damn it! For one thing, it's not fair to my constituents!"

"They'll never miss you," said Mallory as Felina saw something moving in a nearby alley and silently headed toward it.

"True," admitted Big Benny with a sigh. "Besides, what politician really gives a damn about them except on election day?" He frowned. "The truth of the matter is that it's not fair to me. Do you know that I've never lazed on a beach in the South Pacific surrounded by six nude and nubile young maidens? Not even once!"

Mallory resisted the urge to remark that Big Benny was the only man he knew who hadn't experienced that.

"I've never eaten at Maxim's," continued Benny, tears coming to his eyes. "I've never refereed a heavyweight title bout. I've never popped open a bottle of Dom Perignon." He paused, shaking his head sadly. "I've never even had my face slapped by Bubbles La Tour."

"You've never had your face slapped?" asked Mallory dubiously.

"Oh, lots of times. But never by Bubbles La Tour."

"I don't know how to break this do you, Benny," said Mallory, "but I don't think any of these things would appeal to you in your present condition."

"Maybe not," agreed Big Benny, "but I have to try. I'll never have another chance."

Felina returned with a very dead rat in her hands and a feline smile on her face.

"That was quick," said Mallory. "Usually you play with them longer."

"He was already dead," she answered. "So it's not as much fun, but he'll taste just as good. Maybe better. Sometimes it's good to let them age a little."

Big Benny stared hypnotically at the rat. "I don't suppose you'd care to share that," he said hopefully.

Felina hissed and backed away.

"You know," said Mallory, "I've never been to Maxim's, but I'd lay plenty of six-to-one that they hardly ever serve dead rats there." He paused thoughtfully. "Especially without a wine sauce."

Big Benny frowned, still staring at the rat. "I shouldn't like that, should I?" he asked.

"No, you shouldn't."

"Just between you and me, I think I'm having trouble adjusting to being a zombie."

"I'd never have guessed," said Mallory dryly.

"But I ain't ready to hang it up yet!" said Benny with a sudden burst of emotion. "I'm off to yell 'Take it off!' to Bubbles La Tour, and maybe get my face slapped!"

And with that, he turned and began walking toward Salacious Sally's.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider?" said Mallory, grabbing his arm.

Big Benny swung his arm and Mallory literally flew through the air, landing about fifteen feet away.

"Don't try to stop me, copper!" snapped Big Benny. Suddenly he smiled. "Damn! I've always wanted to say that!"

"I'm not a copper."

"Same thing. New let me give you a word of advice: don't get between me and Bubbles La Tour."

He headed off again, and this time Mallory knew better than to try to physically restrain him, so he simply followed the zombie at a respectful ten paces. Felina gobbled her snack and then fell into step beside the detective.

After a few blocks Benny turned and headed toward Broadway, then turned again when he reached it and began walking north. He stopped two blocks later when he came  to Salacious Sally's Five-Star Burlesque Emporium, walked up to the cashier, and reached into his pocket. Suddenly he turned to Mallory. "They forgot to put my wallet in this suit," he said. "Could I borrow a sawbuck?"

"Hell, no," said Mallory. "My job is to bring you back to where you belong, not treat you to a night on the town."

"I want that sawbuck," said Big Benny ominously.

Mallory pulled a revolver out of his trenchcoat pocket. "Don't do anything foolish."

"You're threatening a dead man with a gun and you're telling me not to do anything foolish?" said Big Benny.

Mallory suddenly felt very unsure of the situation and backed up a couple of steps.

"Not to worry," said Big Benny. "I'm not here to hurt anyone." He turned to the cashier. "I'm going in now, Miss. If you have any problem with that, call your boss, and if he has a problem, remind him that it was Big Benny Bernstein's vote that got this den of iniquity its license back after Classic Night."

"Classic Night?" repeated Mallory curiously.

"Leda and the Swan," said Big Benny as he walked through the entrance before the cashier could say a word.

"How soon does Bubbles La Tour come on?" Mallory asked the cashier.

"Five or ten minutes," she answered. "You'll know by the cheers. You can hear 'em a block away."

Mallory looked around and saw a coffee shop half a block down the street. "Come on," he said, turning to Felina. "We'll wait there."

They passed four stores, which gave Felina the opportunity to point out twenty-seven things she wanted Mallory to buy her, and finally made it to the coffee shop, where he ordered a cup of coffee for himself and a saucer of cream for her.

A few moments later he heard the noise, and in fact was able to determine how many items of clothing Bubbles La Tour had removed by how many ear-shattering cheers he counted. When they had finally died down fifteen minutes later he paid his bill, and he and Felina made their way back to the theater, where he expected to see a very disillusioned Big Benny emerging. But there was no one there, so he posted Felina at the entrance, flashed his credentials at the cashier—most people equated "detective" with "policeman"—and entered the theater. He walked up and down both aisles, looking for Big Benny, but all he saw was a bunch of happily exhausted middle-aged men, their satiated faces glowing with content.

Mallory finally convinced himself that his quarry wasn't there and walked out just as Lascivious Lezli and Her Educated Snake were taking the stage. Felina was staring at a poster of Bubbles La Tour in a jeweled g-string, and wouldn't leave until Mallory semi-promised to buy her six hundred of them.

The detective spent the next couple of hours checking bars, strip shows, and gourmet restaurants. Big Benny had actually been to a couple, but had left each abruptly. Finally Mallory checked the time and headed back to the office to meet Winnifred.

She was sitting at her desk when he entered, her pith helmet hanging on the back of her chair, her rifle laid carefully across her desk.

"Any luck?" she asked him.

"I ran into him a few times," replied Mallory. "I don't know where he is now."

"You let him get away?" she demanded.

"I don't think 'let' entered into it," said Mallory. "He's five times as strong as a normal man, he feels no pain, and you can't slow him down with bullets." He stared at her .550 Nitro Express. "Well, my bullets, anyway."

"What's our next step, then?" asked Winnifred. "We only have ten hours left."

"I've been thinking about it," said Mallory, "and it's my considered opinion that we let Nature take its course."

Winnifred frowned. "I don't follow you, John Justin."

"All he wants to do is experience some worldly pleasures," said Mallory. "Wine, women and song, as the expression goes."

"So?"

"He's a zombie now," continued Mallory. "Those pleasures are denied him. He went to a deli. They don't serve zombies. Then I found him in a restaurant for zombies. He wanted blintzes and knishes, but all they served was brains. Same problem in a bar. He wanted a vodka martini, they gave him a glass of blood—and I'll lay plenty of ten-to-one that if they'd given him a martini he couldn't drink it anyway. Next he goes to watch Bubbles La Tour. If you're a man you'd sooner die than walk out when she's shedding her clothes—but he's not a man, he's a zombie, and that's exactly what he did."

"That's fascinating, John Justin," said Winnifred, "but I don't see what you're leading to."

"I don't think we have to spend the night stalking him through the streets of Manhattan. There are thousands of bars and restaurants, dozens of strip shows, at least two political rallies. He could show up at any of them, and even if we luck out and find him, we can't make him do anything he doesn't want to do anyway."

"You're not suggesting we quit the case?" she said. "We've never given up on one yet."

"I'm suggesting we've misunderstood the case from the get-go," said Mallory.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he's going to be disappointed every single place he goes. He wants a drink, but his body wants blood. He wants a knish, but his body wants brains. He wants to ogle a woman, but his body has no interest in women. I think the same thing will happen wherever he goes and whatever he tries." Mallory smiled. "So now I know where we'll find him."

"I followed you right up to that last line," said Winnifred. "Where?"

"Nightspore's funeral parlor. It's the only place he belongs."

"The only place?" she replied. "What about all those zombies that stalk the streets at night?"

"Why do you think they keep on the move and look so unhappy?" said Mallory. "They can't adjust—and unlike Benny, they don't have a first-class funeral with Senators, Congressmen, and the Mayor waiting for them. Most of them dress in rags; he's in a fifteen hundred dollar suit."

"It sounds logical," said Winnifred, frowning. "But I don't know."

"You're welcome to stalk him all night if you want," said Mallory. "Me, I prefer to wait for him."

She seemed to consider it for a moment, then shrugged. "All right, John Justin. We'll do it your way."

"What about my way?" said Felina.

"You don't have a way," answered Mallory.

"Oh," said Felina. Then: "Skritch my back."

"Later."

"How soon is later?"

"When cows dance on the Moon."

"Okay, that seems fair," agreed Felina.

They left the office and headed to the funeral parlor, with Felina staring so intently at the Moon that she walked into a lamppost and a fire hydrant, but after a few minutes they reached the doorway to Nightspore, Nightspore, Nightspore and Cohen's Mortuary.

They entered, heard a recording of hymns being played softly in the background, and walked into the main chamber, where a truly magnificent—but empty—casket was displayed in the center.

"What now?" asked Winnifred.

"Now we wait," said Mallory.

"Until nine in the morning?"

"My guess is that it won't take that long."

"I can't see the Moon from here," protested Felina.

"Go outside and look from there," suggested Mallory.

"Thanks, John Justin," she said with a purr. "You think of everything."

She walked to the door, then stepped aside as Big Benny Bernstein walked in.

"Hi, Benny," said Mallory. "I thought you'd show up here."

"You were right, Shamus," said Big Benny. "I went to headquarters, but all they wanted to do was discuss things that don't interest me any more." He grimaced. "As I was passing by a store window, a fifty-inch flat screen that was on display was showing that old movie about Charlton Heston fighting a million safari ants, and I found myself rooting for the ants." He shook his head sadly. "I bump into my best friend from the old days, Charlie Becker. He's a vampire now. I offer him a little of my blood, just for old time's sake, but when he bites my neck there isn't any. I'd have asked for some of his brain, but he never had much to start with and he's still using what he's got."

"I'm sorry," said Mallory. "It sounds like you had a rough night."

"That's not the worst of it. I give a lady leprechaun a friendly but intimate pinch, the kind that usually gets my face slapped. Instead she calls me Cuddles and tells me I can have anything I ask for." Big Benny winced. "And what I asked for was some brain on rye, with a little mustard and relish. Then she slapped me."

"Poor baby," said Winnifred sympathetically.

"Suddenly I got very tired," continued Big Benny. "I went to my apartment, but I didn't have the key. So I went to a flophouse to take a little nap, but I just couldn't get comfortable on a mattress, and finally it dawned on me that there was one place I was comfortable."

And with that, he climbed into his casket, lay on his back, folded his hands across his chest, and closed his eyes.

"Well, that's that," said Mallory. "He's not going anywhere. I think we can call it a night, grab some sleep, and show up in time to get paid tomorrow morning."

"You're too trusting, John Justin," said Winnifred. "You go ahead. I'll spend the night here and collect our money from Mr. Nightspore when he shows up."

"You're sure?" asked Mallory.

She nodded. "I'll be fine."

He walked out the door and almost bumped into Felina, who was peering at the Moon.

"I can't remember what I'm looking for, John Justin," she complained.

"Six hundred glittering g-strings," said Mallory.

"Oh, that's right!" she answered brightly.

"Psst!" came a hiss from a nearby alley. They both turned to find themselves facing a goblin holding a small satchel. "Did I hear somebody say they want six hundred glittering g-strings?"

"Go away," said Mallory.

"Yes!" said Felina enthusiastically.

"I left my g-strings in my other suit," said the goblin, "but how would you like two Mickey Mantles and a Willie Mays?"

"Are they good to eat?" asked Felina.

"Why not?" said the goblin with a shrug.

"Do you want half of a very dead pigeon?" she asked.

"Which half and how dead?" replied the goblin.

They were still deep in negotiations when Mallory lost interest and headed for home.

This story originally appeared in Stalking the Zombie, American Fantasy Press, 2012.

Mike Resnick is, according to Locus, the all-time leading award winner, living or dead, for short science fiction. He is the winner of five Hugos (from a record thirty-seven nominations), a Nebula, and other major awards in the USA, China, France, Japan, Croatia, Catalonia, Poland and Spain.

He is the author of seventy-five novels, almost 300 stories, and three screenplays, and has edited forty-two anthologies. He currently edits Galaxy's Edge magazine and Stellar Guild books. His web page is www.mikeresnick.com.

Restless in R'Lyeh

Oliver Buckram

Dear Doctor Saperstein,

I'm a 44-year-old librarian from Kansas and a loyal reader of askdoctorsaperstein.com. Last night, after a relaxing day spent gardening, binge-watching "America's Got Talent," and organizing my snowglobe collection, I had a nightmare. A hideous octopus-headed monster performed a ukulele solo on "America's Got Talent," then killed and ate Howard Stern. Afterwards, Heidi Klum chanted tunelessly in a harsh alien language (possibly German). When I woke up, I was filled with unspeakable dread and the snow in all my snowglobes was whirling around as if someone had shaken each one. What could it mean?

—Worried in Wichita

Dear Worried,

Freud teaches us that dreams reflect unconscious conflicts. Your monster, with its phallic tentacles, obviously symbolizes latent sexual anxiety. The fact that your monster kills Howard Stern reflects normal wish fulfillment, but the fact that your monster also eats Howard Stern reflects a potential oral fixation.

Everyone has these issues to a lesser or greater degree, and everyone has the occasional nightmare, so I'm not overly concerned about your dream. Unless it causes you continuing distress or recurs in the future, I think you'll be fine.

—David Saperstein, M.D.

Yo, Doctor S.,

I'm a college student in North Dakota.  When I read yesterday's letter from Worried in Wichita, I was like "whoa!" because I dreamed about the exact same octopus-headed monster on the exact same night! I also went to sleep after watching "America's Got Talent." In my dream, the monster was lying in a chamber dripping with sinister green ooze. It was horrible! Now I've developed an intense fear of the color green and can no longer eat guacamole. What should I do?

—Fearful in Fargo

Dear Fearful,

Dreams often reflect ideas and images from the previous day (Freud called this phenomenon "day residue"). In this case, two unrelated people dreamed about a monster with tentacles shortly after watching Howard Stern on television. Stern's hairstyle is distinctly tentacle-like, so I think that explains the coincidence. Your "sinister" dripping ooze, on the other hand, has great significance; I suspect you have an anal fixation. I recommend weekly psychotherapy. Once your underlying issues are addressed, you'll regain your ability to enjoy guacamole.

—David Saperstein, M.D.

Dear Doctor Saperstein,

I'm an ancient malevolent entity residing in the nightmare corpse-city of R'lyeh. Although I've been dead for untold millennia, lying here in my Cyclopean stone tomb with its loathsomely non-Euclidean architecture, I still experience vivid dreams. How is this possible? Is there medication for my condition? I'd prefer a nice restful death undisturbed by dreams.

—Restless in R'lyeh

Dear Restless,

It's clear that you have many issues. First of all, at some level you must realize that you're not really dead. Instead, isn't it more accurate to say that you are (like everyone) full of life and the potential for self-fulfillment? Next, you describe yourself as a "malevolent entity"—are you sure that's true? That sounds like a label that other people have used to define you. Is that really who you are? Is that who you want to be?

If you are experiencing distressing dreams, then the solution is not medication but psychotherapy to identify the underlying conflicts. While medication is sometimes helpful, there's no substitute for regular treatment by a skilled psychoanalyst.

—David Saperstein, M.D.

Dear Doctor Saperstein,

Worried in Wichita here again. Well, last night I had another dream about the octopus-headed monster. This time, he was in this ancient underwater city full of monoliths and giant statues. In my dream, the whole city violently emerged from the Pacific Ocean and there were huge earthquakes around the globe. When I woke up, there was an actual earthquake right here in Wichita, and my house shook so hard that some of my snowglobes fell from their shelves and smashed on the floor. Then I turned on the TV, and found out that an ancient city actually had appeared in the Pacific Ocean. What's happening? Am I going crazy?

—Worried in Wichita

Dear Worried,

We're all shocked and concerned by the recent geological upheavals. In these troubled times, I'm not surprised to hear that you're having disturbing dreams. In your anxiety and confusion, you've gotten mixed-up about the sequence of events. Obviously, you must have dreamed about the earthquakes after they occurred, not before.

So I want you to relax and not worry about the Pacific Ocean. You can't control the Pacific Ocean, but you can control your own emotional focus. Right now, you need to concentrate on being your best self.

—David Saperstein, M.D.

Dear Doctor Saperstein,

It is I, Restless in R'lyeh, writing to thank you for your reply to my letter. It touched me to my very heart. All my life I've been called "monstrous" and "grotesque". So your kind words were as welcome as a human sacrifice at the winter solstice.

However, last night I had yet another horrible dream. It started well enough. I dreamt I was floating in space surrounded by tiny frozen worlds, each beautiful world the home of happy winter creatures cavorting amid pristine snow. But when I reached out to touch the nearest one, they all suddenly hurtled down into an abyss and smashed to pieces.

When I woke up, I felt anxious and sick to my thorax. It seems that everything I touch, I destroy.

Please, doctor, can you help me?

—Restless in R'lyeh

Dear Restless,

I'm sorry to hear that you're experiencing unpleasant dreams. Again, I think you'd benefit from intensive psychotherapy.

You mentioned previously that you live in the nightmare corpse-city of R'lyeh. I assume you mean the nightmare corpse-city of Raleigh, North Carolina? I can recommend several excellent psychotherapists associated with the medical center at UNC Chapel Hill. I attempted to send you their names but for some reason my emails to the address on your profile (ph'nglu.mglw'nafh.cthulhu.r'lyeh@elder.god) keep bouncing back as "Domain Not Found." I tried it both with and without the apostrophes, but it still didn't go through. You probably need to talk to your internet service provider.

—David Saperstein, M.D.

Dear Doctor Saperstein,

You remember me—Worried in Wichita? The one with the dream about the octopus-headed monster? Do me a favor. Turn on CNN. See that gigantic octopus-headed monster destroying Australia and New Zealand? Quite the coinkydink, wouldn't you say?

Now, I'm not the type of person who goes around saying "I told you so," but really, you've got to admit there's something strange going on here.

Please don't try to tell me that I've gotten "mixed-up about the sequence of events". That's the type of nonsense I'd expect from Dr. Phil, not from you. If you need a reminder of the "sequence of events," scroll up and note the date of my first letter. Yep, there it is, dated a full week before the monster appeared. What does your precious Freud have to say about that?

Now, I'll admit that my dream didn't predict all the recent bizarre news. The interdimensional rift in Vermont. The roving bands of goat-headed demon warriors. The amorous fishfolk who are flopping out of the oceans to join match.com, Jdate, and Tinder.

But one thing is clear: I do not have an oral fixation, nor does Fearful in Fargo have an anal fixation. Instead, what we have is prophetic dreams. Don't you agree?

If you hadn't dismissed our concerns, we could have prepared better for this worldwide calamity. Here in Kansas, we already have riots and looting. I have a feeling that those looters are just itching to get their hands on my snowglobe collection.

—Worried in Wichita

Dear Worried,

I know it may seem like your dream predicted the future, but rest assured this is merely a coincidence. Sometimes a dream about an octopus-headed monster is just a dream about an octopus-headed monster.

Now, I know everyone's talking about fleeing to a safe place or stockpiling food and guns. But let's try to keep some perspective. The important thing is not how to escape the roving bands of goat-headed demon warriors, but how you feel about the roving bands of goat-headed demon warriors. You need to take ownership of your feelings and set clear boundaries that both you and the warriors can respect.

—David Saperstein, M.D.

Dear Doctor Saperstein,

I apologize for the tone of my previous letter—it was over the line. I was angry.

But I'm not angry anymore. Instead, I'm back to being worried. Right now, I'm worried about you, Doctor Saperstein. I saw on the news that the octopus-headed monster has emerged from the ocean in New Jersey and is lumbering in the direction of New York City. Aren't you in New York City? I think you better skedaddle if you haven't already.

—Worried In Wichita

Yo, Doctor S.,

Just dropping you a line to say that I've been working with a therapist to overcome my fear of the color green, and it seems to be working! Of course, guacamole has been in short supply ever since California was overrun by molemen, but at least I'm facing my fears.

Also, congrats on your new gig!  It's pretty cool that the monster lurching through New York was actually just trying to find your office. I guess now you're a big shot, all sequestered with the monster in an Air Force base. And the giant couch they're constructing in that aircraft hanger—totally awesome. You won't find a couch like that at Ikea, LOL!

Rock on, dude.

—Fearful in Fargo

Dear Readers,
askdoctorsaperstein.com is going on hiatus for a while because I have a new patient, Mr. Cthulhu, who requires my full attention. Right now, I'd like everyone to respect Mr. Cthulhu's privacy and refrain from attempting to contact him. I appreciate all your messages of support and concern, and I'm sorry I can't respond to them all individually.

—David Saperstein, M.D.

To Whom It May Concern:

With the encouragement of Doctor Saperstein, I'm writing this message as part of the therapeutic process. You may know me as "Restless in R'lyeh," but my real name is Cthulhu, Spawn of Azathoth. I am an ancient and powerful deity, but I am also a unique individual with complex emotional needs. Today, I'm taking control of my feelings by writing this letter of apology.

First, I'd like to apologize to the human race for eating Australia and New Zealand. The truth is, I'm always very grumpy when I wake up, and I compensate by overeating. I now recognize that I should have been satisfied with eating Australia only. Sorry.

Second, I'd like to apologize to my cultists for neglecting them. Over the centuries they've given me so much support and love in the form of prayers, frenzied orgiastic dancing, and ritual murder. Where others called me loathsome, they saw my inner beauty. And yet I've done so little to repay their fanatical devotion. Ever since I was a hatchling, I was taught that I should be monstrously indifferent to humanity. I see now that this uncaring attitude was wrong. So today I say to all my cultists: thank you. Cthulhu hears your prayers and you shall be richly rewarded in the coming Time of Changes. Please, keep building those temples and sacrificing those virgins.  If you can't find a virgin, try the math team! That was a joke. Doctor Saperstein says I'm developing an excellent sense of humor.

On a more serious note, my final apology goes to the individual who's been the biggest victim of my actions: myself. I acknowledge that I need to work harder at accepting myself for who I am. I deserve love, no matter what my brother Hastur the Unspeakable or anyone else says.

In conclusion, I'd like everyone to know that my therapy is going very well. I'm making progress in working through my many issues and developing coping strategies. Doctor Saperstein says that after perhaps five or ten years of therapy, I'll be ready to achieve my life goals, whatever they turn out to be.

Very Truly Yours,

—Cthulhu

This story originally appeared in Drabblecast podcast, 2015.

Oliver Buckram, Ph.D., is a recovering academic who resides in the Boston area in a Cyclopean underground tomb redolent of loathsomely non-Euclidean geometry and sinister green ooze. His fiction has appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Interzone, and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (F&SF), among other places.  He urges you to keep watching the skies.

P.R. Problems

Eric James Stone

WHAT ANNOYS ME THE MOST about vampires and werewolves is their good P.R. Not that I want a return to the days of villagers with pitchforks and torches, but all the romantic attachment to predators who hunt and kill humans makes me sick.

So when a cannibalistic serial killer started leaving the gnawed-on bones of his victims in public places, did the media label him a vampire? No. A werewolf? No.

The press called him the "Grove City Ghoul."

Those reporters had obviously never heard of fact-checking.

First, we ghouls are carrion eaters, not predators—hyenas, not wolves. Sure, we like to feast on human flesh, but we find bodies that are already dead and eat them, after they've had a chance to decay a bit. For some inexplicable reason, people seem to think that's more grotesque than the actual killing by vampires and werewolves.

Second, a ghoul wouldn't just gnaw on the bones, he would eat them. Besides being nice and crunchy, they're a good source of calcium. That's why ghouls never suffer from osteoporosis.

We ghouls just have bad P.R. And the serial killer wasn't helping.

But what could I do about it? I worked as property manager for a high-rise apartment complex. Vampires might whine till daybreak about how their undead lives sucked, but it was vampires and werewolves who got the really cool jobs, like private detective or radio talk-show host. My crime-fighting experience was limited to stuff like catching the Nelson kids from apartment 4C spray-painting graffiti in the parking lot, while my radio experience consisted of listening, not talking.

And that's what I was doing the morning after the police found the sixth victim's bones: listening to the news on the radio while I mopped the floor of the lobby.

I was relieved when Olga Krasny from 8A came in the front door. Olga worked the night shift as a nurse, and from what I heard on the radio, all the serial killer's victims either worked or went to school at night. Each victim except the first had been taken the night after bones from the previous victim were found, which meant another victim would have been taken last night.

"Hey, Mr. Ahsani," said Olga, "my kitchen faucet has the leaky again."

If I were a vampire or werewolf, the moment would have been filled with sexual tension. Olga would be a slinky Swedish nurse rather than a stout Ukranian one, and "my kitchen faucet has the leaky" would be a euphemism for passion and desire.

"I'll come take a look when I finish here," I said. In this case, a leaky faucet was just a leaky faucet. With 48 apartments in the building, something was always breaking somewhere. Vampires and werewolves, I was fairly certain, didn't mop floors or fix faucets.

TO MY SURPRISE, Olga's kitchen faucet did not, in fact, have the leaky. But she wasn't trying to seduce me—she was merely wrong about the source of the leak. The water was coming through the wall under the sink from the kitchen of apartment 8B.

I knocked on the door of 8B and waited for Harvey Tanner to respond. Harvey seemed like a nice, quiet young man—which was how the neighbors of serial killers inevitably described them on TV after they were arrested. That didn't mean anything, of course. My neighbors would probably describe me the same way, and I had never killed anyone.

I knocked a couple more times, but there was still no answer. Under the lease agreement, an ongoing water leak was sufficient reason for me to use my master key and enter without the renter's permission. So I did.

As I got to the kitchen, I could smell the faint but tasty aroma of rotting human flesh. I might not have enhanced senses like a vampire or werewolf, but my ghoulish nose was pretty good at sniffing out potential food.

I wondered for a moment if maybe Harvey had died somehow, but then I remembered I had seen him yesterday, and what I smelled was more decayed than would happen in less than 24 hours.

I walked over to the sink and opened the cupboard doors so I could access the water shutoff valve. I turned off the water to stop the leak, and that's when I spotted the scraps on the floor—3 strips about an inch long and a quarter of an inch wide, slightly rounded like cheese that had been through a grater.

I sniffed at the scraps.

They were not cheese, but they were quite tasty.

Maybe Harvey had accidentally grated bits of himself while cooking dinner, but I had my doubts. Unfortunately, I didn't think about the fact that those scraps might be evidence until after I ate them.

I burped and considered what to do next. I couldn't call the police without any evidence, so I decided to see if Harvey had any skeletons in his closet. Literally.

All the apartments in the building have two bedrooms. Harvey lived alone, so I wondered what he used the extra bedroom for. I opened the door.

The room's windows were covered so that no light came in from outside. I flicked the light switch and was startled to see a young woman, gagged and tied to a folding metal chair in the middle of the room.

She swung her head up to look at me, her eyes wild with panic.

Then someone grabbed me from behind and shoved a chemical-smelling cloth over my mouth and nose.

One of the more ridiculous myths about ghouls is that we are undead creatures. Just because we hang out around graveyards a lot doesn't mean we're undead. We're merely going where the food is. Would you assume someone was Italian just because he hung out around a pizza parlor?

Of course, in this case, the disadvantage of not being undead was that after struggling to breathe, I sank into unconsciousness.

WHEN I CAME TO, I found myself in the same room, sitting on a chair. A piece of towel had been stuffed into my mouth, held in place by more cloth tied around my head, but I had to work hard to keep myself from gagging on the gag. My wrists were bound tightly together behind the back of the chair, and my feet were tied quite thoroughly to the bottom.

The young woman was watching me from her chair. It would be hard for me to free myself without showing my true nature, and I was afraid that might freak her out. On the other hand, she had been kidnapped by a serial killer, so how much more freaked out could she get?

I want to make it clear that just because I can transform myself into a hyena does not mean I am a "were-hyena." We ghouls have a long and proud tradition of being able to morph into hyenas. (You can look that up on Wikipedia, although the article is inaccurate in many other respects.) And unlike lycanthropes, we're not infectious. I really don't understand what the werewolves have to be proud about. Anyone can become a werewolf, just by being bitten by one. Essentially, lycanthropy spreads like rabies. We ghouls, on the other hand, reproduce in the normal human fashion. My family can trace its lineage back to the ancient Persian Empire.

In all modesty, though, the ability to become a hyena isn't very impressive. It's useful for feeding, because those hyena jaws are strong enough to bite through bone, but hyenas really don't get a lot of respect. Take The Lion King, for example: the hyenas don't even get to be the real villains, merely minions for an evil lion. Thus Hollywood continues to perpetuate the stereotype that carrion eaters are of lower status than predators.

After a few minutes of struggling with my ropes, I decided that transforming was my only option. I could only hope that if the young woman told anyone about my ability, they would attribute her story to hysteria.

I shape-shifted into my hyena form. Since it was smaller than my human form, the ropes loosened as I transformed. As soon as I was free, I changed back to human.

From behind her gag, the young woman made a half-choking cough of incredulity.

I knelt by her chair and set to work untying her. "Don't worry, I'll get you out of here."

Before I finished, the door opened. I rose to my feet and turned to find Harvey pointing a gun at me.

If there was one thing that the P.R. about vampires and werewolves was not overhyping, it was their magical resistance to harm. I envied that. It wouldn't take a wooden stake through the heart or a silver bullet to kill me: plain old lead bullets would do the trick. I raised my hands in surrender.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ahsani," Harvey said. "But I couldn't have you running to the police. People might get the wrong impression."

"People already have the wrong impression," I said. "They're calling you a ghoul when you're actually a serial killer. It's very bad P.R. for—"

"I'm a vampire hunter, not a serial killer," said Harvey, still pointing the gun at me.

"What?" I said.

He motioned with his gun toward the girl. "Go ahead, check her pulse."

I put my fingers to her throat. There was no heartbeat, and her skin felt cool to the touch. "You really are a vampire," I said.

She glared at me. "So what? You're a—"

I stuffed the gag back into her mouth. "So why haven't you killed her yet?" I said as I backed away from her, which took me closer to Harvey and the door.

"I don't want the meat to go bad," he said. "It's much better when you slice it off fresh."

I didn't bother to express my disagreement verbally. There's no accounting for taste.

"Fortunately," he said, "vampires stay alive a lot longer than humans after you start cutting chunks off them."

"How do they taste?" I asked.

He smiled. "Much better than chicken."

For a moment, as I stood next to Harvey and we both looked at the vampire, I thought he and I could come to a culinary arrangement. I could eat the bones for him, at the very least. I guess the serial killer mentality made him taunt the police by leaving the bones lying around for people to find, but it really wasn't very smart.

However, before I could say anything, he added, "Vampire flesh isn't really human anymore, so it's not like I'm a ghoul."

Being looked down on by a serial killer was the straw that broke this ghoul's back. In one smooth motion I transformed my head into my hyena form and tore out Harvey's throat.

Hey, we may not be hunters, but that doesn't mean we're not dangerous when provoked.

AFTER I UNTIED HER, the vampire and I looked down at Harvey's body.

"I suppose I should call the police or something," I said, "and let them know the serial killer is dead."

"Are you kidding?" said the vampire. "Let's just leave him and get out of here."

If I left the body for a few days, sealed up in this room, it would get nice and ripe. And unlike my usual food, it wouldn't taste of formaldehyde. My mouth watered just imagining the meal.

"Let's go," I said.

As we got to the living room, she grabbed my hand and pulled me close. My heart beat faster.

"I've heard that werewolves are the greatest lovers in the world," she said.

I was about to express my annoyance at yet another example of good werewolf P.R. when I realized what she was implying. And despite being so dumb she couldn't tell a hyena from a wolf, she was very good-looking.

"Yes," I said as I embraced her. "Yes, we are."

This story originally appeared in Blood Lite anthology, Gallery Books, 2008.

Eric James Stone is a winner of the 2004 Writers of the Future contest, 2010 Nebula award and a finalist for the 2010 Hugo Award. His short stories have appeared in Analog, IngerGalactic Medicine Show, and Nature. His novel Unforgettable was published by Baen. Eric lives in Utah, has a website at www.ericjamesstone.com, and does not eat human flesh.

Hot Fudge and Whipped Cream

Tarl Kudrick

DEEP DOWN IN ONE of the least reputable layers of the mystic underworld, Skragg, one of the least reputable of genies, felt a summons from the human world. Impossible, he thought. He hadn't felt a proper summons in...well, he'd probably remember if he tried hard enough, but why bother?

Besides, hadn't humans forgotten about magic? He'd find out if he answered the summons, but he had better things to do. Those three imps who'd been following him around lately wanted to learn how to play poker, and they were dumb enough to let him deal the cards. The underworld didn't have money, but they could play for rocks, sticks, or even toenail clippings for all he cared. Skragg, whose bad mood was well into its fifth century now, just wanted to make somebody lose.

Skragg showed the imps how to properly shuffle the deck, and stacked it in the process. The gargoyle-like imps' eyes glazed over as he talked, then they made funny faces at each other. Skragg had never known an imp to care about the proper way to do anything, and these three were no exception.

As Skragg dealt, he felt magic pull at his black leather jacket again. Meanwhile, the imps carefully examined the cards they received, as if viewing them from different angles might change them into something they could eat.

"Do five red cards beat four sixes?" the short imp asked.

"Sure!" the fat one said.

"Let's make all the cards wild," the tall one said.

Skragg seethed. "Can't you imps do anything the right way?"

"The fun way is the right way!"

Skragg's reply was cut short when magic pulled at him a third time, stronger than before. The fat imp sniffed the air. "Skragg, are you being summoned?"

"Bet or fold!"

The fat imp drooled a bit, licked one of the cards, grimaced, and folded. The short imp bet by pushing a few stones into the middle of the hot red ground between them. The tall imp raised. Then Skragg was yanked into the human world so forcefully, he felt like he'd been launched from a catapult.

The room he appeared in was lit by a single weak bulb hanging from the ceiling. He had to take off his sunglasses to see he was in some dusty garage. Probably suburban, given the bright red kid's bike leaning against the wall, and the half-finished dog house on the floor. A high-pitched voice said, "You've got legs!"

Skragg looked down. A little girl wearing blue overalls, a red shirt, and red socks with no shoes was staring up at him. She was holding his bronze lamp and a thick rag.

A little girl? Was somebody kidding? "Course I got legs!" Skragg said. "C'mere, I'll step on you." He wiggled one of his sharp, thorny feet at her.

The girl walked around him like an art critic taking a dim view of a statue. "You're all pointy!"

Skragg straightened his jacket and ran a hand through his brilliant green mohawk. "You're all dull."

The girl giggled. "I'm Candace."

"That's your problem."

"I'm six years old today! It's my birthday!"

Skragg snorted. "I'm six thousand years old."

Silently, he cursed every human who had ever lived (except James Dean). The days when emperors and kings would summon genies and beg for their help were long gone—and good riddance—but a little kid? Had his life really sunk so low? At least it couldn't get any worse. He let his cigarette slump from his lips and adopted the most surly, superior, and uncooperative pose he could imagine.

Candace smiled coyly and dragged one small, red-stockinged foot back and forth in front of her, as if a boy had just given her a flower. "Now I get a wish."

"Don't you mean three wishes?" Skragg asked, bored.

"Uh-uh," she said. "Three wishes is a fairy tale. Real genies give one wish every ten years."

How could she know that? Genies had been spreading the "three wishes" story since before humans knew how to write it down. He supposed it didn't really matter. "You're going to wish to be a movie star, right?"

Candace took a big breath. "I want an ice cream sundae with hot fudge and whipped cream."

Skragg stared at her. "You're kidding."

"Nope!" She giggled and clapped her hands.

"You summoned an Elder Djinn across five layers of reality because you want ice cream?"

"I really want a unicorn, but Mom would kill me. So it has to be the best sundae ever."

Skragg folded his arms. "We'll compromise. I'll make it taste like unicorn, and your Mom can just beat you up."

Candace laughed. "Noooooo!!! I want a real sundae. The best ever!"

What kind of child could summon a genie and not even take him seriously? "Kid, I don't know where you got your information, but the days of wish-granting are over. I've got to get back to my game, or I'll be lucky to have a pair of twos."

"Why?"

"Because those imps cheat, that's why."

"Why?"

"Because they're rotten."

"Why?"

He wanted to tear her tongue out. "Can't you say anything but 'why'?"

"Will you make me a sundae, Mr. Genie?"

"No!"

Under her dark bangs, her big round eyes got bigger and rounder. "What about my wish?"

"Go jump rope in a minefield." He prepared to go home.

Candace moved to face him as squarely as she could, given that he was three times her height. "You're a mean genie. I'm gonna make you give me that sundae." She stared at him with such hatred that for a moment, Skragg felt unsure of himself.

But only for a moment. He shoved a fiery finger at her. "Touch my lamp again and I'll feed you to a troll."

She stuck her tongue out at him. He stuck his own forked one right back and returned to his homeworld, where he found three grinning imps and very bad cards waiting for him.

THE NEXT DAY, Skragg was trying to win back all the rocks he'd lost when the imps suggested playing for favors.

"Favors?" Skragg asked.

The fat imp drooled a bit and munched on a rock. "See, maybe whoever loses all their rocks has to do whatever the winners say for a week."

"Anything they say," the short imp said.

Skragg didn't know a single useful thing an imp could do for him. But so what? Making them run themselves ragged might be fun. They were so dumb, they kept eating the rocks they were using for betting chips.

"Scared?" asked the tall imp, while the other two chuckled.

"Never," Skragg said. "It's a bet. And when I win, I'm gonna make you choke on those rocks."

Just then, he felt a terrific wrenching sensation, like his spine had just been pulled out through his head. He was back in the human world, and this time outdoors, in the middle of a driveway. Bright sunshine leaped all over him like an overeager dog. He raised an arm to fend it off.

He heard a little girl's voice: "See?"

Skragg looked around and saw a group of people gasp in unison, then take pictures. Candace had summoned him to a press conference, right in front of her house.

She was pointing and smiling. "Genies are real and they live in lamps and everything!" Reporters and film crews surrounded Skragg and waved microphones in his face.

Skragg stared down at Candace. "Do you realize what you've done?"

"Yup!" Candace said. "But if you make me the best ice cream sundae ever, with hot fudge and whipped cream, I'll use my wish to make them all forget!"

Tendrils of steam rose from Skragg's body as he weighed his options. Her offer was tempting. Other genies would be furious if he didn't take it. They'd be summoned by the thousands, they might have to start granting wishes again...it couldn't be allowed. But then he remembered who he was—an Elder Djinn whose bloodline stretched back to the First Dynasty itself—and what he was up against—a little brat human girl.

Though he had to admit, she was getting on his nerves.

Skragg smiled so nastily that Candace's face withered a bit. "Make them all forget," he said. "Good idea."

He concentrated and drew on the full power of his homeworld. The effort brought him to his knees, but he released enough magic to send the reporters back to their homes, with no memories of him or the girl. And of course, every recording of the event, of any kind, was gone.

His head pounded like a mountain had been dropped on it. Candace's horrified expression made up for it.

She kicked him. "You're evil!"

"And you're ugly." He stood up and spat on her driveway, melting some of the asphalt. "Now scram. And leave my lamp alone!"

"I want my sundae!"

"Kid, listen to me," Skragg said slowly. "There's no Santa Claus, I ate the Easter Bunny for dinner last week, and every day after your parents drop you off at school, they go to Disneyworld without you."

And with that, Skragg used what little strength he had left to go home.

MUCH LATER, Skragg was down five thousand rocks to the imps. How was this possible? He didn't dare use magical trickery—imps could smell magic—but there were a million other ways to cheat at cards, and he knew them all.

It was that brat's fault. No little girl could summon genies and flocks of reporters like that. Who was helping her? Why?

"I wonder what we'll make you do when we win," the short imp said.

"This game's not over yet." Skragg had a good hand, but he knew when he was beat, and folded.

The short imp took the pot and showed a pair of threes, then flapped its hairy, pointed ears—the imp equivalent of whistling innocently.

Skragg was about to invent the sport of imp hurling when the tall one said, "You like the human world, don't you Skragg?"

"What?" He was so offended, he forgot about being bluffed.

"You observe it all the time."

"I do not. Nothing in that realm's ever interested me."

"Yeah?" The imp leaned back a little. "What was your favorite Elvis movie?"

"Viva Las Vegas, of cour—hey!" Skragg grabbed the imp by the neck, then stood up, lifting it off the ground. "Ask me that again, scale breath."

The other imps begged Skragg to put the tall one down. When that didn't work, they praised Skragg and admitted they'd been rude. That worked.

Skragg settled back onto the ground and resumed brooding about Candace.

"What should we make him do if we beat him?" the short imp asked the others.

"Won't happen," Skragg said.

"We could make him perform in a play."

Skragg groaned. The imps had admired human theatre since the days of Sophocles, but they never stuck to the scripts. Their production of Waiting for Godot had started with Godot calling out, "Here I am!"

"We could do The Wizard of Oz," the short imp told the fat one. "Skragg would look great in big ruby slippers."

"Okay, but instead of Oz, let's have the cyclone put Dorothy on the moon."

"Boring!" the tall imp said. "How about on the Titanic?"

"They'll drown! We don't want anything serious."

"True," the other imps agreed, shuddering. "Nothing serious."

The tall imp tapped its chin thoughtfully. "The Titanic should be attacked by Godzilla."

"That's serious! They'll die!"

"Not," the tall imp said, "if they challenge Godzilla to some kind of contest, and win."

Another pause. Then ideas exploded from them.

"Dueling banjos!"

"Pie eating!"

"Roller derby!"

"No, wait!" the short imp said. "A dance contest!"

The fat imp leaped to its feet, shook with excitement, and spread out its hands as if unfurling a banner. "Dorothy and Godzilla in, 'Swan Lake II: Disco Forever'!"

All three turned to Skragg. "Skragg!"

"NO!"

"But—"

Skragg struck the ground. "Play cards!"

The imps sat down. "You're just mad because that little girl keeps summoning you."

Skragg almost stood up again. "Were you watching me in the human world?"

"Of course! We watch everybody who goes there."

"Hardly anyone does anymore," the tall imp said.

"I think you were the last one," the short imp told Skragg. "Don't you recognize her from that time?"

"Recognize who?"

"The little girl!" the fat one said. "You mean you don't remember?"

Skragg's anger drained away, leaving thick bitterness behind. "I don't bother remembering."

Nothing was worth remembering. After six thousand years, the difference between one day and the next was barely noticeable. Life was an endless series of pointless "now"s and the future may as well have already happened, for all the good it would bring. Skragg searched for a searing condemnation of all existence that would drip with enough venomous bile, but he couldn't find one.

The imps were oblivious to his deeper moods. "I can't believe he forgot Margaret," the short one told the tall one.

Margaret. The name rattled around in Skragg's brain. It finally connected, like a right hook to a jaw.

ABOUT TEN YEARS AGO, Skragg had been resting on the shore of a lava beach, minding his own business. (He had no idea how a human vacuum cleaner had gotten into the mystic underworld, and he certainly couldn't say how six of those irritating wind spirits had gotten sucked into it.) Then he felt a light tickling on his neck. That sensation had been coming and going for a while now, as if a fly kept landing on him. Was it a summons? If so, it was the feeblest one he'd ever felt. Out of boredom as much as anything else, he slipped through his lamp, into the human world.

He appeared on an elevated stage in what looked like a small auditorium. Rows of empty chairs and an overhead projector faced him. Off to the side stood a very young woman wearing a dark jacket, a white blouse, and dark slacks. She might as well have been wearing a sign that said, "I'm not a kid anymore!" She was holding his lamp and a silk cloth, and her anxiety stank up the room, almost making him gag.

She put the lamp down. "Well it's about time," she said. Her arms were trembling. "I've been calling you for three weeks. I didn't think you'd ever show up. God, you're tall. And your hands are on fire. Good thing I shut off the sprinklers."

Skragg couldn't think of anything to say, except, "You did?"

She rearranged a stack of transparencies and put them next to the projector. "Of course. I know about your kind."

"You do?"

She sighed like she'd been asked this question fifty times today, and looked away from him. "I'm Margaret Cantiveri. I am, whether you believe it or not, one of the world's leading experts on genies. I know most of the stories are wrong, but not all of them. I did everything I was supposed to: I coated your lamp with gold dust and rubbed it off with a cloth. You should have gotten here long ago."

She knew about the gold dust! The genies had invented that rule to keep any idiot with a rag from summoning them by the roomful. "First, that cloth is so thin, I barely felt it. Second, the gold dust is supposed to be a secret. How'd you..."

"I found an ancient stone tablet in an archaeology dig." She still kept her quivering back to him, as if that would keep him from hearing or smelling how nervous she was. "I'm a historian. I'm about to defend my dissertation on genies. You're going to help."

Skragg had been told all those records had been destroyed. He should have known better. "No, I'm not."

"Yes you are!" she said. "As the master of your lamp, I get one wish every ten years. I need you to be the centerpiece of my orals defense."

Skragg was bored already. If there was a point to existence, he'd forgotten it long ago. "Leave me alone, or I'll set you on fire and roast marshmallows."

That got her to face him, at least. "You can't harm me! I know your rules! If you deliberately harm anyone in my world, you'll lose your powers for a thousand years!"

She knew that? How was he supposed to handle someone who wasn't afraid of him?

He'd just have to try harder. He leaped off the stage, landed in front of her, and lifted her four feet off the ground by her jacket. "Now you listen good, babe. I used to serve the great and powerful. Pharaohs! Kings! But those days are over." He leaned into her face. "And even if they weren't, it was never my job to serve the stupid, little whims of stupid, little girls!"

He put her down and levitated back onto the stage as impressively as he could.

She stepped out of her heels and climbed back onto the stage, right next to him. She smelled more angry than scared now. "You can't leave!"

"Watch me."

"I'll just summon you again! We're bound until you grant me a wish!"

"Or until you release me," Skragg said. "Now be a good little human and tell me I'm free."

"No!"

This kind of battle wasn't even fun anymore. "Maybe I can't hurt you, but I promise, I can make your life so miserable—"

"HA!" She stared up into his sharp, glowing eyes. "Worse than it is now? The whole department thinks I'm crazy. They want to revoke my funding. They're right outside this room, you know. They probably hear me. They probably think I'm talking to myself. You've got to help. You're the only thing that can."

Long ago, her plea might have moved him. But Skragg was sick of humans—whining little bonebags who, no matter what you gave them, always wanted more. "You want me to do something magical?" he asked. "Something they'll never forget?"

"That's my wish." Then she stood straighter. "And my command."

He'd almost given in. Then she'd added that "command" bit, and his soul had bristled. "Fine," he said. "Bring them in."

Margaret climbed off the stage, jammed her feet back into her heels, brushed her hair with her hands, and called out, "Dr. Blanche! Dr. Masscott! I'm ready now! You've got to see this!"

The door across the room opened. Two older humans and a bunch of younger ones entered. Skragg made himself invisible. As he slipped back to his homeworld, he said, "Your wish is granted," and made every piece of clothing Margaret was wearing disappear.

He kept the path to the human world open long enough to revel in her wonderful, sustained shriek.

"SKRAGG?" the fat imp asked. "Are you okay?"

But Candace was just a little kid! Margaret...

...had to be her mother. And if she'd known that much about genies before, then by now...

Skragg's poker play deteriorated as he tried to convince himself he was wrong. Then he was summoned again, more powerfully than ever.

He didn't have enough room to appear wherever his lamp was, so he was automatically pulled back to the mystic underworld. The lamp, however, was still being rubbed, so the moment he got home, he was summoned back to the human world. He still couldn't fit there, so he was sent home again.

This pattern repeated about ten times a second.

After a few minutes of feeling like a supersonic yo-yo, Skragg wanted to throw up, but he could no longer tell where "up" was. He had no choice but to try something extremely dangerous. He would enter the human world away from his lamp.

With spectacular determination, he broke through and found himself lying on the cold cement floor of Candace's garage. He'd always wondered what it would be like to get shot out of a cannon, straight into a brick wall. Now he knew.

Candace was standing over him. "Hi Mr. Genie!" She tossed back her long, dark hair, which looked exactly like Margaret's. "Ready to make my sundae?"

Skragg tried to sit up. The world performed a backflip and he lay down again. His lamp was still being rubbed, somehow. So was his stomach, from the inside out.

He had nothing left to fight with. "The best sundae ever made. That's your wish?"

"Nope!"

Skragg moaned. "No?"

"I want two of them!"

The floor was so cool and peaceful. "Two sundaes."

"The best ever! With hot fudge and whipped cream!"

"Right," he muttered. "Best ever. Hot fudge, whipped cream."

Skragg concentrated, and two perfect sundaes in big crystal glasses appeared on the floor next to him. Candace squealed and pulled a Bugs Bunny spoon out of a pocket in her overalls.

Candace sat next to Skragg's head and took as much time as she liked eating one of the sundaes, swaying with delight and making "mmmmm" noises after every bite. "The other one's for Mom," she said. "Mom told me about you."

"I bet," Skragg mumbled.

"She says you don't like little girls."

Skragg's whole body was churning. "Kid, however you're polishing my lamp...you're never doing that again, right?"

Candace licked her spoon. "Maybe."

"You're cruel, kid."

"Mom taught me." She swallowed another bite of ice cream. "She says it was something she learned in graduate school."

When she was through with her sundae, and not before, she got up and turned off a clothes dryer. She pulled out several thick towels that sparkled with gold dust, and his lamp. "See you when I'm sixteen!"

She stepped through the door connecting her garage to her house. As that door closed, a more mature voice added: "And twenty-six, and thirty-six, and forty-six..."

SKRAGG SAT IN Candace's garage and wondered where his life had gone wrong. Some of the greatest leaders in human history had tried to humiliate him like this. He'd vanquished them all. Now he'd been beaten by someone whose previous greatest accomplishment was probably learning not to pee in her own pants.

It was his own fault. Why hadn't he taken his lamp back from Margaret last time, and hidden it again? He could have at least made her spend a few years searching for it. It was as if he'd been hoping to get summoned. Nothing, of course, could have been further from the truth.

And the poker game! He was losing to creatures who thought Hamlet should have been about a small pig. Even without cheating, he should have crushed them. Plus, he knew ways to cheat magically that were so subtle, even imps wouldn't notice.

He'd lost his edge.

It was time to find it again.

He went back to the poker game, where the imps were arguing about their upcoming production. The fat imp was telling the short one, "You always want to add singing cows."

"So we can call it a moooo-sical!" All the imps looked up. "Hi Skragg!"

Then they saw his malevolent grin. "Uh-oh," the tall imp said.

"Uh-oh is right," Skragg said. He won the next six hands.

THE PRICE OF Skragg's victory was that the imps had to perform a play, just for him, without changing even one word of it. A serious play. Skragg visited some muses who lived a couple layers of reality over and described what he was looking for. They came up with a never-produced, fourteen-act piece called "The Long, Slow Death of Ted Wrapplemeyer." It had been written by a college sophomore named Fred Happlemeyer. It featured flag burning, characters dressed as sex organs, evil villains called Mom and Dad, four crucifixions, and a scale model of Chicago that, in Act Ten, got eaten by a goat named Capitalism.

Days later, while watching the imps sweat and writhe their way through the play's endless monologues, Skragg thought about the future. It was different from the vast, empty space that had lain before him for so many centuries. Something beckoned in the distance, like a softer, warmer kind of summons. In ten years, which was hardly any time for a genie, Candace and Margaret would call him again.

On a big, flat rock that served as a stage, the imps pounded each other with foam mallets labeled "prejudice" and "high interest rates." Skragg smiled, then leaned forward, as if to get that much closer to the future.

This story originally appeared in Town Drunk magazine, 2007.

Tarl Kudrick is a strategic human capital consultant and all-around industrial/organizational psychologist by day. By night, he is the founder and co-publisher of the fiction magazine On The Premises (www.OnThePremises.com). Tarl has sold about a dozen short stories over the years, but lately has focused more on publishing other people's stories.

Death: A List

Tanya Bryan

1. Die. Try not to make it too messy, if at all possible.

2. Despite what they all tell you, do not go into the light. You are not a firefly. Do not get zapped.

3. Attend your own funeral to see who shows up. Mock those who are obviously fake-mourning to get attention. Notice Cousin Jesse is the most upset, genuinely. Try to console her and realize she can feel your presence, which makes her shiver. Realize haunting is the greatest thing about being dead.

4. Decide who to haunt. Start with your ex, who still owes you three hundred bucks. Next, Uncle Donald, who gave you mothballs for Christmas last year. Do not forget the crazy yodeling neighbor. He haunted you for a long time with his caterwauling.

5. Learn that haunting crazies gets dull quickly. They tend to just lump you in with all the rest of the crazy already filling their heads.

6. Take up spying on people. They know they're a little colder when you're around, but most are too dense to realize why. They just put on a sweater and shake your presence off. Watch everyone you've ever known. Then turn to watching celebrities in ways that even paparazzi haven't found a way to do. Yet. After seeing Alexander Skarsgård sleep, realize how creepy you're being. You are a creep. Even for a ghost.

7. Stop being a creep.

8. Try to find that light everyone talks about. You are a firefly now. A creepy, stalker firefly, ready to get zapped. No light. Boo.

9. Hang around your own grave. There's no going back into that rotten corpse because no matter how cool the media makes zombies seem, they're gross. Even worse than being a creep. You'd be a smelly creep. But it is comforting to see that Cousin Jesse visits every month, at least for the first ten or so years. Then even she forgets about you. Life takes precedence over death.

10. Vocally wallow in sorrow. Get mistaken for a cat in heat, a banshee, and a mermaid, despite the fact you're nowhere near water.

11. Try to meet other ghosts. No one wants anything to do with the cat in heat/banshee/mermaid ghost.

12. Attend séances just to talk to someone, even if it's a middle-aged hippie who changes everything you say to some nonsense about the other person in the room's relatives.The smart ones who've already moved on, into the light that you were too stupid to enter.

13. Understand why ghosts go all poltergeisty. Being dead is boring. It's like being stuck on a hamster wheel without a runner's high. Your only joy is throwing temper tantrums, and even those aren't satisfying when no one reacts. Reality TV has made everyone immune to the oddities of this world.

14. Revisit your ex, who didn't age well. Thank the stars you died before marrying that hot mess.

15. Start haunting priests so they will exorcise you. It tickles.

16. Attend funerals of strangers for something to do. Realize you actually know everyone. Take comfort in the fact that your funeral had better attendance than most of these poor saps'.

17. At one funeral, notice that it's Cousin Jesse's. And she's a ghost, standing next to you. She smiles at you, puts out her hand. "I knew you'd wait for me." You take her hand. Turn to the light that's supposed to be just for her. You drop her hand, push her out of the way and run.

18. Zap.

This story originally appeared in Feathertale Review magazine, 2014.

Tanya Bryan is a Canadian writer with work published in Feathertale Review and the anthologies My Cruel Invention and Dear Robot: An Anthology of Epistolary Science Fiction. She loves to travel, writing and drawing her experiences, which are often surreal and wonderful. She can be found @tanyabryan on Twitter.

Soccer Mom Smackdown

Julia S. Mandala

PUSHED OPEN THE old refrigerator that served as my makeshift coffin. In the shadowy basement corner, my son Austin huddled in a ball. The scent of blood raised an instant alarm—and hunger.

"Austin, honey, are you all right?"

He raised his head and with my vampire-enhanced vision, I saw his swollen black eye and blood smeared across his nose. I wished I had time to feed before tending to him, but I'd simply have to exercise self-restraint. Sucking your own kid's blood is just bad parenting.

I gathered my son in my arms, trying not to breathe in the heady aroma of fresh blood. Filling my thoughts with the unappetizing image of garlic bread sprinkled with holy water, I asked, "Who did this?"

"Brandon," he said, his voice muffled against my shoulder.

"Brandon Caldwell?"

"No."

"Brandon McMichaels?"

"Brandon Sanchez," he said with a hint of impatience.

There were only fifteen Brandons in the fourth grade. Then again, there were ten Austins. I'd wanted to name my son something unusual, like John, but my husband Percy claimed the kid would get beat up. I supposed "Percy the Pussy" would know.

"Well, I'm going to pay Brandon's parents a little visit tonight," I said.

Austin drew back, his eyes round. "Mom, no!"

"Not that kind of visit. You know I don't feed off people." Yet. Bullies usually learned by example, and most parents of bullies saw nothing wrong with their precious child terrorizing another. If I heard the "boys will be boys" excuse, I was pretty sure vampires would be vampires.

"Talking to them will just make it worse," he said, wiping tears and smearing blood.

"You have a right to be safe at school—especially for the tuition that place charges."

After I cleaned up Austin and gave him an ice pack, I microwaved some blood liberated from the local blood bank. Amazing speed and other vampiric powers had some advantages, though they didn't make up for all that I'd lost.

While I sucked lukewarm blood from a plastic bag, my husband Percy wandered into the kitchen. His gaze locked on the bag and he didn't even try to hide his distaste.

"God, Louise, do you have to do that here?"

"It's the kitchen."

"I mean in the house. And especially over the sink. The kids don't need to learn bad manners on top of everything else."

I counted to ten, something I'd been doing a lot lately. "Why didn't you clean Austin up and ice his eye?"

"He wanted his mom," Percy said with an accusatory stare.

"Ooh, good twist of the knife." My vampirism had put more than a little strain on our marriage. "You're the parent—"

"I had a brief due by six," Percy said. "Getting the firm to let me work from home was hard enough. If I don't meet deadlines, they'll fire me. Then we'll all be out in the street." His lip curled. "Well, you'll have your refrigerator."

"I'd have a coffin if you weren't so cheap." Money wasn't the problem, though. Over the past five years, Percy had found some pretty inventive excuses for not buying me a decent resting place; once he claimed to be waiting for the new models. "I'm surprised you haven't latched me in while I'm sleeping."

Percy's expression showed he'd considered it—more than casually. Counting to fifty—ten wasn't nearly enough—I headed to the bedroom I hadn't slept in for five years. I strapped a Kevlar vest over my T-shirt. The two decent vampires I'd met since being turned said that monster hunters staked first and asked questions never, so I took no chances when leaving the house. To further blend in, I sprayed on a fake tan every two weeks.

As I pulled on a black velour track suit, my six-year-old daughter Ashley scurried into the bedroom and watched with imploring eyes.

"What is it, Ash?" I asked.

"I promised not to tell," she said, practically dancing with the need to let the secret out.

"If it's about Austin getting beat up, then spill it." I folded my arms across my chest.

Ashley smirked. "Brandon Sanchez didn't beat up Austin. Madison did."

A girl? Geez, that sucked. Percy needed to give Austin some fighting lessons. Or, considering Percy's childhood history as a punching bag, maybe I'd be the better teacher. "Was it Madison Pak?"

Ashley shook her head and stuck her thumb in her mouth, a habit I couldn't get her to break.

"Madison Chang?"

"No, mommy," she said around her thumb. "Madison Smith."

Madison and her mother, Heather, moved to our neighborhood a month ago. As of the last "Mother's Night Out" (a tradition I instituted so I could keep up with school events), the other fourth-grade moms had learned little about the Smiths. Madison's mother, Heather, had volunteered to coach the kids' co-ed soccer team, the Battle Hamsters—a name we'd thought the political correctness police couldn't fault. When the PC contingent claimed it was degrading to hamsters, though, I couldn't argue—given how badly most kids play soccer. But they had no better suggestions, so the name stuck.

Since it was my turn to bring snacks for tomorrow's game, I had a legitimate reason for seeing Heather. I checked the clock. Seven-thirty—not too late to go over.

I stopped at Kroger and picked up a tray of assorted cookies. That should cause a riot after the game as kids fought, whined or screamed for their favorite kinds. Vindictive, I know, but I was a vampire—had been ever since that unfortunate late-night shopping event at Kohl's. Percy always said I'd kill for a bargain. But I never thought I'd be killed for one. The bitch took all my blood and my eighty percent off leather handbag—then had the nerve to act like giving me immortal life as a vampire made up for it.

I pulled into the Smith's circular drive and parked behind an SUV with a Battle Hamsters decal on the back—a hamster in a Viking helmet, a sword clutched in its little paws, superimposed over a soccer ball. A bumper sticker read, "Do you really want to tailgate a woman with PMS and a Glock?"

After I rang the bell, Heather Smith opened the door to the two-story stone-faced house. She wore her bleached-blond hair in a ponytail. Her large brown eyes gave her a fawn-like appearance, and her lips were full and pouty. She wore the exact same black velour track suit as mine—and looked better in it. Bitch.

"Heather? I'm Louise Sullivan," I said sweetly. We shook hands around the precariously balanced cookie tray.

For an uncomfortable moment, Heather stared into my eyes, then gave me a once over and shrugged. "Let me take those cookies," she said. "Oh, assorted. Great. Will you be at the game Saturday?"

"I have to work." Work. Yeah. While other moms cheered their kids on and sipped venti extra caramel, extra foam lattés, I'd be crammed in a fridge, drenched in SPF 50, with towels stuffed around the door so no stray light got in. Percy videotaped the games so we could watch them together later, but it was a sucky substitute. Unlike Ashley, Austin remembered a time when I coached his team and was room mother for his class. Sometimes I felt like such a crappy mom.

"You wanna come in for a Diet Coke or something?" Heather asked. "My ex took Madison to dinner, so I'm alone until nine."

"Sure." After seeing the bumper sticker, I wanted to get a sense of Heather's personality before broaching the Madison problem. Plus, an invitation into the house could prove useful later.

The perfectly decorated living room looked like a photo from Martha Stewart Magazine. I hated Heather even more.

She handed me a chilled can of Diet Coke. I forced down a sip. It tasted like rot and I'd probably have cramps later from imbibing non-blood, but I needed to make a good show. At least the soda was caffeine-free. The last thing anyone needed was a jittery bloodsucker.

"The divorce must be hard on Madison," I said. Perhaps Madison's bullying was a cry for attention. I wondered how a divorce would affect Ashley and Austin—not that divorce was really an option. I couldn't exactly go to court, so everything would be decided in Percy's favor, including custody. And I couldn't lose my kids.

"The divorce hasn't been easy," Heather said, "but it's better than the constant fighting that went on before. Marc just couldn't accept me for who I am."

I knew the feeling. "Dare I ask for a tour?"

"I warn you, the place is a mess."

The house was pristine, even Madison's room. A toy crossbow and assault rifle hung on wall pegs, and a clown punching bag stood in a corner below a Rambo IV poster. Just what you'd expect for a tomboy bully.

When we reached a closed door, Heather hesitated.

"Is that a closet holding family skeletons?" I asked. "Or is that the messy room?"

She grinned. "No, this room just freaks some people out."

"I'm pretty freak-proof."

The blueprints probably listed the room as a bedroom. It looked like a grownup version of Madison's play area. An edged scimitar, a bone-handled dagger, a battle axe and other assorted weapons hung on the walls. A heavy punching bag and a battered target dummy stood in opposite corners. Only the shop vac beside a chest of drawers looked out of place.

"That's quite an arsenal," I said. Fear—and possibly Diet Coke—knotted my gut. Of all the bad luck . . . .

Heather skimmed her fingers across the dagger handle. "Collecting weapons is sort of my hobby."

"Do you know how to use them?"

"Oh, I play with them. You know—to keep in shape. It's way more fun than pilates." She opened the chest's top drawer and selected a wooden stake. "You know, you almost had me fooled with that cheap fake tan and drinking the pop."

"Aw, crap." Frantically, I shifted into mist form—something I'd only recently learned to do. The first time I accidentally went all "misty," it startled me so much I rained in my pants.

Heather grabbed the shop vac hose. "I have a Hoover, Louise, and I'm not afraid to use it!"

Unsure of the effects of being vacuumed, I rematerialized in "vampire mode"—fangs, black eyes, the whole nine yards. With vampire speed, I zipped downstairs. To my astonishment, Heather followed with super-speed almost as fast as mine. I lost a few seconds opening the deadbolt, then ran to the street.

"You're not getting away from me!" Heather shouted, her sneakers slapping the sidewalk as she ran like the Bionic Woman. I'd heard some monster hunters had "special powers." I supposed I was about to find out what that meant.

Turning to mist now might let me escape, but that would only delay the inevitable confrontation. I ran in the opposite direction from my house, not wanting to bring this trouble home. Percy would never let me hear the end of it. And my house really was a mess.

Wispy fog created halos around the streetlights. When I reached the park, Heather pursuing like a dog chasing a fox, I raced onto the soccer field, the flattest unpaved surface. Breathing hard, Heather stopped several paces away. I didn't need to breathe—one point in my favor.

"Heather, let me explain—"

A car roared up the street then screeched to a halt halfway on the sidewalk. Percy jumped out, leaving the door open and the engine running. He'd come to my rescue! He did still love me.

"Get away while you can!" he shouted.

After a moment, I realized he was talking to Heather. Schmuck.

Percy jumped between us. "You don't know what you're up against. My wife is a—"

"Vampire?" Heather said, then spun Percy around and held the stake to his throat.

I froze.

"Hey, I'm human!" he said.

"That buys you nothing, Renfield," Heather said, pressing until the stake made a dimple in his skin. "You're sheltering a killer."

"Oh, my God," Percy whispered. "Louise, tell me you didn't hurt Madison."

I choked on outrage. "What have I ever done that would make you think I'd harm a child? You used to trust me!"

"You used to be human!"

"Nice, Percy." I was starting to feel like no one appreciated my self-restraint. No wonder so many vampires went bad.

"Look, you two clearly have issues," Heather said. "But I don't really give a crap because none of that will matter once I've staked Louise."

Percy struggled against her hold, but her arm didn't budge.

"That's my wife," he said.

"Not anymore. Now she's just a blood-sucking killing machine."

"I've been a vampire for five years and never killed anyone." Although I did have a mental list of who would make my top ten if I ever turned to the dark side.

Heather's lip curled and even Percy looked doubtful.

"Christ, Percy, what do you think keeps me from feeding off the living?" I asked. "My love for our children, my love for you."

He stared at me blankly. Percy's name was rapidly climbing into the top ten.

"Don't believe her, Percy," Heather said. "She kills. They all do."

"You're the one threatening a human life," I said. "Let Percy go. Please."

She shook her head sharply, as though waking from a trance, then shoved Percy toward the street. "Leave before I change my mind."

Percy hovered uncertainly.

I jerked my chin toward the car. "Go home, Percy—"

Stake raised, Heather ran at me. The point slammed against my chest, right over the heart.

Her arm bounced back. Heather cried out and so did I. Despite the Kevlar vest, her strike would leave a spectacular bruise. The woman was as strong as she was fast—and had good aim. Too bad she couldn't teach the Battle Hamsters to kick with the same accuracy.

"Louise!" Percy stepped toward us, but Heather halted him with a threatening wave of the stake.

"I'm okay," I said.

"Yeah, about that." Heather rubbed her wrist. "What are you wearing under there—a brass bra?"

"Kevlar."

"Crap, I wondered when vamps would think of that." Heather shrugged and drew the bone-handled dagger I'd seen earlier. "I hate cutting off heads. It's just messy. And getting the blood stains out—"

I raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna cut off my head with a dagger?"

"I'm gonna slit your throat and bleed you until you're too weak to move. Then I'll go home and get the axe."

"Mrs. Smith—Heather," Percy said, holding his palms out. "Stop. You can't—"

She lunged. As I dove away, the dagger slashed through my sleeve and nicked my arm. I swung my other arm and knocked her to the ground with a blow that would have broken bones of a normal mortal. The soccer field hadn't seen this much action since the Battle Hamsters played that epic game with the Mighty Moon Princesses that ended in a 0-0 tie.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked as thick black blood seeped from the cut.

"It's what I was born to do—kill monsters." Heather rose, dusting off grass. "You're evil. You feed off people like telemarketers feed off the stupid."

"I don't feed off humans! And I don't teach my children to be bullies!"

"What the heck do you mean by that?" Heather demanded.

"Your Madison beat up my son today."

"What?" Heather's arm went limp. If I'd wanted to, I could have torn her throat out. Instead, I told her what had happened.

"I don't understand," Heather said. "Madison talks about Austin all the time. She has a crush on him—at least I think it's your Austin she has a crush on."

"Helluva way to show it," Percy said.

Heather turned the dagger, watching the streetlight glint off steel. "Are you sure it wasn't Madison Pak?"

"Certain," I said.

"Where would Madison learn that it's okay to beat someone up?"

Percy and I stared pointedly at the dagger.

"Oh. Yeah. Right." Heather sank onto the bottom bleacher. "I've been trying to make the world safe for her. I never thought Madison would copy me like that."

"If you really want to do some good, why don't you go after the blood-sucking killing machine who made me?"

"Huh?"

I explained what happened that fateful night in Kohl's parking lot.

Heather's eyes blazed. "And your eighty percent off leather handbag? Oh, that bitch must die."

"By the way, not all vampires are evil," I said.

"That's . . . not what I was taught," Heather said. "But you could have killed me and you didn't."

"It isn't like I wanted this." I looked into Percy's eyes. "I'm trying to be the best wife and mother I can under the circumstances."

His gaze softened and he wrapped an arm around my waist. It had been a long time since he showed me any affection. I stopped trying after the time he said, "No thanks, I'm not feeling like a necrophile tonight."

Heather rested her hand on my shoulder. "The city's putting lights on the soccer fields soon. Maybe we can get the Battle Hamsters scheduled for more night games."

My throat tightened at the unexpected onslaught of kindness. "Thanks."

Heather cocked her head. "Hey, you up for some payback, Louise? Vampires can sense their sires—you can lead us right to her."

"Can I carry the axe?" I asked.

"Sure."

"Okay, then." I pictured the vampire's porcelain cheekbones, her blood-coated lips, the black void of her eyes. A faint tug came from my right. I pointed. "She's that way."

"At the Golfsmith 'Moonlight Madness' sale?" Percy huffed. "That bitch must die."

"Count on it," Heather said.

I squeezed his hand. "Looks like I'll be home late, honey."

Percy kissed my cheek and didn't even flinch at its coolness. "I'll wait up."

After Percy drove off, Heather and I headed toward her house to gear up. Glancing sidelong at me, Heather started singing, roughly to the tune of the Notre Dame Fight Song, "Battle Hamsters, fight, fight, fight!"

I joined in, "Scurry with all your might, might, might! Stuff your cheeks with victory! And roll, Battle Hamsters, roll! Whoo!" We both raised a victory fist, then giggled.

"Wow, I haven't giggled in years," I said.

Heather put a hand on my back as we walked down the foggy street. "Louise, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

This story originally appeared in Fangs for the Mammaries anthology, Baen Books 2010.

Julia S. Mandala (www.juliasmandala.com) holds degrees in history and law. She co-authors The Four Redheads of the Apocalypse series and the Corimar series, as well as writing her own novels Blood Songs and House of Doors and many short stories. In addition to editing The Fantasy Writers Asylum, an imprint of Yard Dog Press, she is a scuba diver and belly dancer. She lives in Plano, TX with her husband Larry and two very demanding, but adorable cats.

The God Whisperer

Daniel J. Davis

WHEN JACK GOT HOME from work on Thursday, he found a pyramid made of bird skulls in his flowerbed. Zu'ar—ancient god of death, strife, and war—must have gotten out of the yard again.

"Ugh," he said.

More than anything, Jack just wanted to collapse in front of the TV. He wasn't in any mood to deal with this right now.

The carnage didn't end at the flowerbed. Scattered across his lawn were more than a dozen freshly-skinned chipmunk carcasses. The pelts were strung up in his holly bushes, drying in the sun.

This was getting out of hand. It was even worse than that time he'd owned a cat. At least the cat would just kill them cleanly, and bring them home as "presents." But Zu'ar had these barbaric little rituals he had to observe.

Instead of going through the front door, Jack walked around the back of the house. More death and carnage was strewn through the shrubs along the side yard. And sure enough, he noticed a small hole underneath the fence. He'd have to remember to put a trashcan there tonight, until he could get to the store for a bag of gravel.

He decided to leave the back gate open behind him. If Zu'ar was prowling the neighborhood, Jack wanted it to be easy for him to get back in. He went inside and put his laptop bag down on the kitchen table. He got himself a glass of ice water.

"Zu'ar!" he called. "Zu'ar are you here?"

Jack didn't hear him running around. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. He went into the living room, afraid of what kind of destruction he'd find.

The end table next to the couch lay on its side. One of the legs was broken off and missing. Worse, his grandmother's old lamp had been smashed into pieces.

Jack sighed and rubbed his eyes. He could clean this up later. First he needed to take care of the mess out front, before the neighbors complained.

Two hours later, just as Jack was placing a spiked rabbit's head into a trash bag, he felt a dark and terrible presence behind him. The air grew cold. The wind took on the distinct smell of fire and decay.

"Hello, Zu'ar."

He heard the rumble of the god's voice inside his head.

"Greetings, Cowardly Weakling."

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," Jack said.

"I call you that because that is what you are," the god thought. "My followers would have used you for chattel in their day."

Jack made a mental note to look up the word chattel tonight.

"Look, you can't keep going out and doing this." He waved his arms around him, indicating the front yard and the flowerbeds. "I already told you that you could kill whatever comes into the back yard. The inside of the fence can be your realm of terror. I don't care. But you have to leave the front yard alone. That sounds like a fair compromise, doesn't it?"

"Zu'ar does not compromise with mortals, Weakling. Mortals beg him for mercy."

Jack turned. Zu'ar stood before him defiantly, with his muscular legs spread apart. He glared at Jack with bone yellow eyes. His beard was the color of blood. He was wide, powerfully built, and just a few inches taller than a Barbie doll.

Zu'ar was wearing one of Jack's old sweat socks as a shoulder bag. The bag-sock was filled with tiny spears. He had apparently carved their shafts out of the missing table leg, and used the broken lamp to make the tips.

The smell of fire and decay intensified. The little guy was obviously due for a bath.

"You really need to stop destroying my stuff. That lamp was an irreplaceable antique."

"I laugh at your sentimentality, Weakling. I was old before the mountains were young. My followers were among the first men to climb out of the Living Mud that spawned your kind.

"Your 'antique' bauble was less than one hundred years old. That time is not even the blink of an eye in the span of my existence."

Jack studied Zu'ar. He stared straight at him, meeting his tiny gaze head on. One second ticked by. Then two. Then three. On the count of fifteen, the god blinked.

Jack laughed to himself. "The 'blink of an eye,' huh?"

"I was attempting to put it in terms your feeble mind would understand, Weakling. Perhaps I failed."

Jack sighed. "Right. I don't suppose you'll help me clean this up, huh? I've had a long day at work. I'd really just like to get this over with so I can relax."

"You do the work of children and wet-nurses, Weakling. I exist for greater things."

He watched Zu'ar go to the corner of the yard to relieve himself, before proudly walking through the gate and into the back yard.

JACK WOKE WITH THE sun shining through the shades. He rolled over sleepily and looked at the display of his alarm clock. It was blank.

Jack shot bolt upright. What time was it? He stumbled out of bed, dragging half of the sheets with him. He fumbled in his pants pocket for his cell phone.

He flipped the phone open and read the time: 10:37. He was more than an hour late for work.

Jack swore. He looked back at his alarm clock. The power cord was gone. It had been ripped completely off.

"Zu'ar!" he yelled. "Zu'ar, where are you?"

"I am here, Weakling." He walked into the room, carrying the wound-up cord in one of his tiny fists. He held up the frayed end with an evil smile. "I have created a scourge so that my enemies may know pain."

"You destroyed my alarm clock!"

"Time is a human contrivance. I have no use for it."

"But I could lose my job!"

"Fear not. I am confident that your sniveling ways will earn you another master to grovel before."

Jack rushed to his closet. He hurriedly started laying out his work clothes. "You aren't going to think this is funny when I don't have any rent money this month."

"On the contrary, I believe it would strengthen your character to live beneath the stars and fight for your food."

But Jack was already more worried about what he would say to his boss when he got to work.

THE BOSS HAD CHEWED Jack out when he arrived. He gave him a speech about responsibility, commitment to the company, and work ethic. Jack took the lashing like a whipped dog. He said "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" in all the right places. In the end, he'd escaped with his job. Now Jack was enjoying a very late, very short lunch break in the cafeteria.

"Have you tried obedience school?" Cory asked.

Jack popped a potato puffer into his mouth. Cory was the company's IT wizard.  He'd been solving Jack's tech problems for years.  He'd also been listening to Jack's personal problems for a large chunk of that time.

"I was going to," he said. "I signed up for the class and everything. But Zu'ar ended up fighting with one of the other gods. It got so bad that the trainer asked me to leave."

"That bad?" Cory asked.

"You have no idea." Jack remembered the woman's shriek of horror as Zu'ar strangled her precious little love goddess with a leash. He remembered the awful looks he got as he carried Zu'ar out of the store.

"I don't know," he said finally. "Maybe I'm just not cut out to be a god owner."

"Well, what about in-home training?"

Jack gave him a quizzical look. "I don't know. Isn't that expensive?"

Cory shrugged. "No more expensive than replacing all that stuff the little guy destroys on you."

Jack thought about it. Maybe Cory was right. He popped another potato puffer into his mouth, and chased it with a sip of Diet Pepsi.

THAT NIGHT, he did an online search for in-home god training. There were several trainers in the area. He wrote down the number of the one that seemed the most promising, a woman calling herself "The God Whisperer." He'd call from work tomorrow.

"AND HOW LONG HAVE you had this god in your home?"

Doris the god trainer sat on Jack's couch. She was a friendly, big boned woman, with dark hair that she wore teased up into a beehive. She had both the breath and the voice of a lifelong smoker.

She'd need to interview Jack first, she'd said. Get a feel for the Zu'ar's living situation. Once she identified the problem areas with the god's behavior, she'd be able to figure out what training steps were needed.

"Um, I adopted him about six months ago."

She scribbled on her notepad. "Did his aggressive behavior start right away? Or did it develop over time?"

"No. He was always pretty aggressive."

"Mmm-hmm. And I'm sorry, but I don't have my notes from the phone call in front of me. Did you say he was a rescue?"

"That's right. I got him at the humane society."

She was in the middle of asking how much exercise Zu'ar normally got, when the tiny god stalked into the room.

"Who is this woman, Weakling? Why is she in my house?"

Doris wrinkled her nose. "Does he always bring that burning and decay scent with him?"

"Yes."

"Answer me, Weakling. What does this woman want? Why does she ignore me when I speak into her mind?"

"That's actually a very common sign of dominance with war gods," Doris said. "They use it as a way to mark their territory. The scent is supposed to terrify more passive gods and mortals into submission. Have you ever tried to get him to stop?"

"No, I mostly just ignore it."

Doris nodded. She scribbled a few more notes into her pad.

"I will see this woman's bones bleach beneath the sun, Weakling. Tell her I will not be ignored. Tell her she will hear me, or she will suffer the consequences."

Jack swallowed. "Um, he says . . ."

The trainer held up her hand. "No. Don't pay any attention to him when he's sending prophesies of doom into your mind. When you acknowledge that kind of behavior, it just encourages him to keep it up. You should only give him attention when he communicates in benevolent prophecies."

"Okay."

Doris closed her notepad. "Look, I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Foster. War gods are some of the most difficult deities to care for. Their owners have to be assertive and in control at all times. They aren't inherently 'bad,' but they only respect strength and ruthlessness. Their behavior can get out of control if you don't prove to them that you're the strongest member of the household. Do you think you're ready to do that?"

Jack looked at Zu'ar. He remembered how small and defenseless he'd looked in the cage all those months ago. Zu'ar had been sitting by himself in his little corner, while all of the other gods played and performed miracles together.

He was alone. He had nobody. That was why Jack had taken him home. And now Jack couldn't imagine putting him back in that situation. He loved the little guy.

"Yes," he said. "I'm ready."

"Do not make me laugh, Cowardly Weakling. You will never be stronger than me. My followers were feared all across the ancient world."

Jack turned to say something. But he caught the trainer's look out the corner of his eye.

"Do not ignore me, Weakling. You will come to regret it."

Jack didn't answer him. In a rage, Zu'ar kicked the wall. Then he stormed up the steps. A few seconds later, Jack heard him slam the bedroom door.

"Good," Doris said. "Now I'd like to ask you about his eating habits."

JACK CAME HOME FROM work to a pile of bloody pigeon feathers on the front walk.

"Oh, no."

The training sessions had been going good. Zu'ar hadn't slaughtered anything in weeks. He was even beginning to listen when Jack told him to do something. Things were actually getting peaceful around the house for a change.

Now this.

"Zu'ar? Zu'ar where are you?"

"I am here, Weakling."

"I told you not to call me that," Jack said.

Zu'ar looked at the ground and slumped his shoulders, adopting a submissive posture. "I am sorry. I meant no offense. That is how I have named you for so long, I merely forgot. Please, forgive me."

Jack pointed at the pile of feathers. "What is this? I thought I told you, no more killing things in the front yard."

"I know. I am sorry I broke your edict."

"What are you holding behind your back? Give it. Give it here."

Zu'ar held up a small necklace made of twine. Two fresh birds' feet hung from the loop.

"The eagle's claw was a status symbol among my people, Mortal. I wanted to make you a similar gift."

"That's touching. Thank you." It was also a little gross. Jack was very careful to hold the necklace by the loop.

Zu'ar peered up hopefully. "Is the Wise Woman coming to the house today, Mortal?"

That was his name for the god trainer. "She is," Jack said. "She'll be here in a few minutes, in fact. We should go inside."

"The Wise Woman has much strength and authority. You should ask her to bear you some children. She would raise them into fine warriors."

Jack shook his head. Gods. What could you do with them?

"I think she'd prefer a check," he said.

This story originally appeared in Writers of the Future 31 anthology, Galaxy Press, 2015.

Daniel J. Davis was born and raised in Massachusetts. Early exposure to Elvira’s Movie Macabre gave him a lifelong appreciation for funny horror, although he readily admits most of the humor on display was unintentional. His other stories have appeared in the anthologies Unidentified Funny Objects 5, Swords & Steam Short Stories, and Alien Artifacts. He currently lives in North Carolina with his wife and two dogs. You can follow him at  danieljdavisblogs.wordpress.com, which he swears he plans to update more often.

Meat and Greet

Jamie Todd Rubin

SO THERE HE IS, Borges, returned from the dead and sitting across the table from me smelling of dust and moldy books as if he'd spent the last quarter century scrambling through the stacks of an old and cavernous library. Gone from this universe and now returned, to a pitch-an-agent event, and seated at the table representing the Billy Morrow Literary Agency. He frowns when he sees me and then wastes precious seconds by asking for good old Morrow himself, perhaps not realizing that the dead are not typically resurrected and that when an agent dies he has the honor and integrity to stay dead. In death, as in everything else, authors are never that reliable.

Two more days of this, I think. Today. And next week. The large hall is filled with the sounds of desperation as a thousand would-be writers give their spiel to a few dozen agents who have the misfortune of drawing the short straw. I give the resurrected Borges a wan smile.

Flummoxed for only a moment, Borges says, "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vance." He extends a gray hand. There is an empty look in his eyes. I am uncertain of the protocol in these situations, shaking hands with the formerly dead and what have you.

"What do you have for me," I say, somewhat ashamed that I am asking this of the immortal Borges.

"Imagine if you will," he says, licking his gray lips, "the story of a famous writer, returned from the dead and pitching his next masterpiece, which itself is the story of a famous writer, returned from the dead." He grins awkwardly, his breath exuding decay.

The buzzer startles me. Borges' two minutes are up. "Hits too close to home," I tell him. "Try one of the small presses." I feel compelled to offer these feeble suggestions to the great Borges. "Consider self-publishing." The floor of the conference center has erupted into momentary chaos and the blind old man nods his head and shuffles away, lost in the crowd.

His seat is filled instantly by Mark Twain. I glance quickly to my left and right. The people sitting across from the other agents seem in no way extraordinary; or rather, they seem perfectly ordinary and more specifically, alive. Twain has that same empty look in his eyes, that same sallow expression in his cheeks that Borges had just a moment earlier. His hand, when he extends it in greeting, feels like recently defrosted sirloin.

But time is wasting and I say, "Let's have your pitch, then."

Twain is an old pro and gets right to the point. "It's a reboot," Twain says, "much like me. I want to re-imagine Tom Sawyer, tell the same story, except that Tom drowns in the river, only to come back to life, as a kind of empty husk of person, soulless, to witness his own funeral."

Of course, now I am suspicious that this whole racket is a put up job, but there is something about Twain and Borges, undead as they are, that is visceral. And besides, the agency is in real trouble and despite the fact that their pitches are universally awful, their names alone might carry the agency through to the next set of royalty statements.

The buzzer sounds and I ask Twain to leave his pitch with me for further consideration. I'd like to talk to him some more but already he is being shoved out of the way by Edgar Allen Poe, who reeks not only of moldy flesh but of whiskey. I had no idea that the recently dead could drink.

He starts his pitch, and his breath is flammable. I already have a glimmer of where this is going. Poe says, "A man murders another man and to cover up the crime, he buries the body under the floorboards of the house." He speaks in a slurred monotone, his soft voice barely audible over the din of a hundred simultaneous pitches. I have heard enough and I try to stop him but he continues. "But the murdered man returns to life, and he slowly chips away at his grave, scraping and clawing at the floorboards, and driving his murderer insane in the process."

He finishes his pitch with time to spare and there is an awkward silence as the two of us face one another. This theme is a dead end, and fame or not, I'm not about to go in for any more of it.

Finally the buzzer rings and I nod politely at Poe who fades into the crowd. The other agents have stacks of manuscripts. They are handing out business cards. My table top is empty, save a coffee cup, and the lingering odor of rotten meat and Jameson. I feel like slipping away, like coming here was a terrible mistake but before I can stand, a slender, pale woman takes the seat across from me. She has striking features, is dressed in tattered black, and is, of course, recently dead like all the rest. However, unlike the others, she seems happy.

I'm having trouble placing her until she starts her pitch, which she describes in pleasant monotones as a collection of poetry about the joy of death. And then it hits me. This is Emily Dickinson. She glances around the auditorium, distracted.

"Isn't this wonderful?" she says. I think I see a glimmer of something writhing at the corner of her lip. "I've never been happier. I don't really care all that much about the pitch, you know, which by the way centers around the theme of death and rebirth. And rebirth in death."

I am relieved when the buzzer rings. There is only a single two-minute session left. I simply cannot take this anymore. I don't understand the appeal of these stories and I will not tolerate it further. And yet there is the agency to think about, old man Morrow's final legacy. I sit frozen, nerves frayed, wondering who will be next, Kafka? Sartre?

The final buzzer jostles my very bones. The bearded man who sits across from me is easily recognizable, despite his disheveled appearance. He nods calmly at me and begins speaking at once with an Irish brogue, "This is an epistolary tale—"

I shudder at the words. "Mr. Stoker—" I try to interrupt, seeing at once where this is going but he flaps a crumbling hand at my objection.

"Think fangs," he says. "Creatures that drink blood. That require it for their immortality. Vampires!" He exclaims this last word with a proud force. "Very popular with teenage girls, too," he adds, as if I needed a further angle.

And though he is right, the timing is all wrong. All is wasted. He has missed the point, has come back for nothing. And though I hate doing it, I am forced to plant the verbal stake firmly into his heart.

"Mr. Stoker," I say, "I'm sorry but this meet and greet is centered around zombie stories which, for whatever reason, seem extraordinarily popular at the moment." And then, with a sardonic smile escaping from my lips, I add, "The vampire meet and greet is next week."

This story originally appeared in Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show magazine, 2015.

Jamie Todd Rubin writes fiction and nonfiction for a variety of publications including Analog, Clarkesworld, The Daily Beast, 99U, Daily Science Fiction, Lightspeed, InterGalactic Medicine Show, and several anthologies. He was featured in Lifehacker’s How I Work series. He has been blogging since 2005. By day, he manages software projects and occasionally writes code. He lives in Falls Church, Virginia with his wife and three children.

Something Virtual This Way Comes

Laura Resnick

THERE ARE THINGS that no mortal man or woman should ever have to face. There are horrors too dark, mysteries too disturbing, dimensions too bewildering for any rational mind to encounter without becoming forever warped and twisted.

That, at any rate, had always been my theory on why computer geeks are the way they are. I always figured I'd be strange, too, if I dealt every day with the things they deal with.

When Julian, our ad firm's resident geek, stopped by my desk three days later than expected, he looked, as usual, like the victim of a tragic laundromat accident. He wore an ill-advisedly tight gray T-shirt on which the words "Your Giga Bites" were barely legible through a large, dark stain. There were small rips (or possibly gnaw-marks) on the collar, the left shoulder, and the drooping hem of this sad garment. His pants were habitually so over-sized that a small family of refugees could have sought shelter inside them without disturbing Julian very much. Since he inhabited these trousers alone, however, they tended to respond to gravity so readily that I was by now far more familiar with Julian's buttocks than I had ever hoped to become.

"You're three days later than expected," I said, resolutely keeping my gaze above his waistline as he gave his descending trousers a tug upwards.

"Sorry, Sherri. They had a problem with the computer system down in accounting."

"I heard." Julian's services were always in great demand throughout our company. His time was harder to reserve than the Pope's. He also worked more slowly than His Holiness. I hadn't really expected to see him before now; but I had nonetheless fumed about not seeing him sooner. I had computer problems that were slowing down my work, and I had a deadline to meet.

Making the erroneous assumption that I was interested, Julian explained his adventures with the accounting department's system: "We had to mug the furious herzel-giggle and re-magistrate the vogel-weavers before the exfoliation cudgel could deflagrate."

At least, that's what it sounded like to me.

"Fascinating," I said. "Let's move on to my problem."

"And then all the graphics programs self-destructed in the design department," Julian said. "The audio stopped working in the conference room. And the market research database—"

"Uh-huh. Now about my problem—"

"It's been really weird around here for the past few days." His voice broke as he took off his glasses and wiped them on his T-shirt.

I briefly tried to gauge if Julian looked more pale, confused, and anxious than usual; but it was like trying to tell if water looks wetter than usual.

"I gather a lot of things are breaking this week?" I said. "Er, electronic things?"

"I'll say! And breaking isn't even the worst of it. The zamographiers totally discombustulated in the Wermacht!" he confided in shocked tones.

"I gather that's unusual?"

"It's unheard of! The whole building could have burned down!"

"Really?" Perhaps it was time for me to learn where my nearest fire exit was.

"We're lucky to be alive," Julian said.

"Now you're being a melodramatic," I said with the certainty of total ignorance.

He shook his head. "Sherri, you have no idea what happens when a figris matriculates into the saggy-chip's munchkin."

"That much is true," I admitted.

"It's as if we're experiencing some sort of massive power surge," Julian said, "except that we're not."

"Of course."

"As if all our electronic systems are being flooded with over-stimulation," he mused, frowning as he pondered the problem.

"Like a lightning strike?" I suggested, getting bored.

"Sort of," he said, nodding his head slowly. "But without the virulent turkle gesticulators. Almost as if..."

"Perhaps we could focus on my problem?" I prodded.

"Huh?"

"My monitor keeps going blank. For five-to-ten seconds at a time. I don't seem to lose any data when it happens. But it does make it hard to get much work done." I was likely to miss my deadline, and that was Very Bad.

"Ah-hah! That's not natural."

"Nothing about technology is natural," I pointed out.

"No, you see what I mean?" Julian elbowed me out of my chair so he could sit in front of my monitor. "Something weird is going on around here."

WITH MY MONITOR STILL not working right, and Julian still muttering dire things, I was quite cranky by the time I left work that day.

Our offices cover three floors of a high-rise building, and my cubicle is on the seventeenth floor. That evening, while I was squashed against a guy wearing way too much aftershave in an elevator full of people as eager as I was to leave the building, the elevator came to an unexpected halt between the seventh and eighth floors.

We hung there, suspended, motionless. Stuck.

This kind of thing can be very unnerving for anyone who has seen too many urban-disaster films. I tried breathing deeply, thinking it would calm me; but I was so over-powered by aftershave fumes that I nearly passed out.

The building we're in has one of those talking elevators. You know—it speaks in an oily female voice and says things like, "Doors closing," and "Lobby," and "What floor, please?"

Now it just kept repeating over and over and over, "Elevator malfunction. Press red button for assistance. Elevator malfunction. Press red button for assistance." After the first half hour of this, I was ready to climb out by the hatch and shimmy up the cables to escape; but my fellow passengers vetoed this plan.

It took maintenance nearly an hour to get the damn thing running again. The strangest aspect of the event, though, occurred after the elevator finally recommenced its descent and reached lobby level safely. Our collective sigh of relief was spoiled by the discovery that the elevator doors wouldn't open.

We were still trapped! So we started pounding on the doors and shouting. The maintenance guys started shouting from the other side of the doors—probably telling us to stop shouting.

Within a minute or two, they had managed to pry the doors apart. Stuck at the back of the elevator, I rudely nudged the slow-moving people in front me, desperate to leave. When aftershave-man and I were the last two people remaining, he courteously hung back a little so I could go first.

As I lifted my foot to exit... the elevator doors swished shut again.

"Oh, good God!" I said in exasperation.

The guys in the lobby started shouting at me not to worry, and they again set about trying to force the doors apart.

Growing hysterical, aftershave-man pounded on the doors and wailed, "Let us out! Let us out! Let us out!"

Suddenly the doors opened so swiftly that we fell back a step in surprise. So did the burly guys on the other side of the doors. Then I dashed out of the elevator. In my haste, I knocked over a barrel-chested maintenance man holding a pick-ax.

DESPITE CONTINUING TO make dire comments about something being rotten in the state of Geekdom, Julian managed to fix my monitor the next day. I don't know how. Muttered the proper incantations, made the necessary blood sacrifices? All I cared about was that it he got it working right again. And since I was far behind on my deadline by now, I stayed late that evening to make up for lost time.

So it was after nine o'clock and the building was dark and quiet when I got on the elevator that night.

The elevator in our building usually said, "Going down," when I got on it and pressed the button for the lobby,

Tonight, however, it said, "Hello, Sherri."

I was startled for a moment. Then I rubbed my brow. I'd obviously worked too long today, I was starting to hallucinate.

Then the elevator said, "I've been waiting for you. You're hours late."

The doors swished shut.

I stared at the panel, trying to remember which button to push. Trying to wake up. I felt terribly cold.

"Where have you been?" the oily female voice of the elevator asked me.

I looked up at the ceiling. I looked around me.

"Working?" it prodded.

I nodded mutely.

"My, my, you're dedicated, Sherri. Trying to get another promotion?"

I felt so dizzy I nearly blacked out. That's when I realized I wasn't breathing.

"Sherri... Sherri, Sherri, Sherri," the elevator chirped as it began its descent. "Such a lovely name!"

I said, "G... Ung... Nnng..."

"Are you all right?"

"Who is this?" I blurted. "Uh, who are you?"

"You mean, my name? Hmmm. Oh... I think I'll call myself Sherri."

"That's my name," I said, as if it were perfectly reasonable to be talking to an elevator.

"I know! Sherri, Sherri, Sherri, of the brassily-highlighted hair-y."

"What's wrong with my highlights?" I said defensively.

"Whose voice is light and airy, whose pose is hunted and wary," the voice continued merrily. "It rhymes with so many things!"

I started slapping my face. Hard.

The elevator screeched to a halt so fast that I fell down. "What are you doing?"

Firm of purpose as I lay sprawled on the floor, I slapped myself again.

"Stop that!" Sherri said. "Your face won't be so nice to look at if it's all swollen and red from being slapped."

"I will wake up," I said. "Wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up!"

"Oh, Sherri, you're not dreaming," the voice assured me. "This is real, not just seeming." After a moment, it added, "Hey, I'm getting good at this."

"What the hell is going on?"

"That's got to hurt," Sherri said, as I kept hitting myself.

"Is this a joke?" I demanded, sitting up and looking around for a spy-cam.

"Would I joke about love?"

"What love?"

"Well, okay, you caught me. Call it lust! Infatuation? Does that rhyme with anything?"

"Huh?"

"I've watched you and watched you through your monitor ever since I filtered into the vegnel-feeber mexta-pops of your anterior nicotine delve members," Sherri said.

"Julian?" I said in sudden fury. "Is that you?"

There was a prolonged silence. Then: "Julian?" Sherri's voice was menacing. "So he's in your thoughts? In your heart? Do I have a rival?"

"Good God, no," I said, startled into instinctive recoil.

"You're sure?"

"Very sure," I said to the elevator.

"But I've seen the way he looks at you."

"You're mistaken. He must have been looking at my gigabytes."

"Well, one can hardly blame him."

"Wait, wait!" I hauled myself to my feet. "You've been watching me through my monitor? You've been in my monitor?" The full impact of this premise hit me like a freight train. "You're the reason it's been acting all wonky and I can't get any work done?" Now I felt ready to kill! To rend flesh and taste blood!

"Yes. Are you very angry?" Sherri asked.

"I could rend flesh and taste blood!"

"That sounds interesting."

"Then show yourself!" I challenged.

"I can't."

"Why not?" I demanded.

"I don't really have a physical form."

"Then what do you have?"

"Energy. A lot of transitive, electromagnetic, sub-atomic energy."

"What are you?" I asked, bewildered and almost ready to start slapping myself again.

"Well, I used to be an appliance gremlin—"

"A what?"

"—but that got old. Been there, done that. And what with all the new opportunities these days, I've expanded my horizons. I'm kind of an all-purpose electronics gremlin now, though I have a particular interest in werpeptal-enhansive kvetch selbers, particularly with regard to the new developments in artificial intelligence and virtual reality."

"Stop right there," I said. "I don't want to hear any more of that kind of talk."

"Sorry. Shop talk. I'll do my best to keep it out of our relationship."

"We don't have a relationship. You don't even have a name! You're using my name! What's going on? How did you find me? How did you get into this elevator? Why are you harassing me? And why aren't we descending to the lobby?"

"What's that interesting note that's crept into your voice? Dare I hope that it's passion?"

"It's hysteria," I snapped.

"Oh, like the smelly man who was here yesterday?"

"Yeah, aftershave-man. He... My God, you trapped me in this elevator yesterday!"

"I was trying to patella-fetzer with the addle-junquested of this system so that we could communicate, but all the commotion affected my concentration. He got noisy."

"Let me out!" Terrified I would be trapped in here until morning, now that this incorporeal thing had me alone and at its mercy, I started punching the "Lobby" button over and over. "I want to go down. I want to leave!"

"So soon? But the night is young!"

"Let me go! Let me go!" I shouted hysterically.

"Calm down, calm down," the elevator said soothingly as it started descending. "If that's what you really want—"

"I want out! Leave me alone, don't come near me, don't even speak to me!" If aftershave-man's hysteria had befuddled this creature, then maybe mine would, too, so I did my best.

"Well, if that's that way you feel..." Sherri said testily.

"It is!"

We reached lobby level and the elevator doors opened. I threw myself across the threshold and ran from the building as fast as I could.

I ONLY KNEW ONE person whose opinion of me mattered so little that I was willing to tell him about this bizarre incident. Fortunately, he also happened to be a technology whiz who might be able to explain what was going on—and perhaps even, I hoped, protect me from this weird energy, this virtual gremlin that had entered our building.

Unfortunately, though, I didn't know Julian's address or phone number. The only way I could speak to him was by going back to work the next day. So I would have to re-enter our office building.

I was, however, determined not to enter the elevator again. That morning, I walked right past it and into the stairwell. A colleague who saw me called out, "You're kidding, right?"

"It's only seventeen floors," I called back. "I need the exercise."

By the fifth floor, I suspected I might not make it all the way up to seventeen. By the ninth floor, I felt ready to throw up. Giving in to nature (and a lifelong tendency to lie on the couch rather than to jog and do step aerobics), I staggered out of the stairwell on the tenth floor and pressed the elevator button to go the rest of the way up to seventeen.

"Doors opening," said the oily female voice in a perfectly normal way as the elevator stopped to collect me. "Tenth floor."

I was relieved to see a dozen passengers. Despite the initial incident, when I'd been trapped in a packed elevator for an hour, I believed there was safety in numbers.

This quickly proved to be an erroneous belief. The doors swished shut... and the elevator remained motionless.

After a few moments, the woman standing closest to the elevator panel pressed the button for twelve. When nothing happened, she pressed it a few more times.

"Try pressing 'Door Open,'" someone suggested.

"Or 'Door Closed,'" said someone else.

"No, don't press them both," said a man directly behind me. "Then we'll get stuck."

The woman pressing various buttons on the panel said, "I think we are stuck. Nothing's happening."

"Hey, I got a meeting! I'm late!" said a man at the back of the elevator. "Let's go!"

"No one is going anywhere," said Sherri.

Everyone in the elevator went still and silent. I closed my eyes and wished I had stuck to the stairs.

"Who said that?" asked a man. "Did you say that?"

"Not me," said the woman who was still pressing buttons.

A young woman with long hair said, "I think it came from..." She pointed overhead.

"Don't be silly," said the man right behind me.

"No one is going anywhere," Sherri repeated, "until a certain person on this elevator apologizes."

They all looked up.

"Dios mio!" cried one woman, crossing herself. "I confess! I confess! Forgive me for my sins!"

"Not you," said Sherri irritably.

"Okay, I'm sorry," said a young man to the older man next to him. "Here's your wallet back. No hard feelings?"

"You lifted my wallet?" the man cried.

The woman at the panel stopped pushing buttons and asked, "Just how many people on this elevator have something to apologize for?"

Sherri said frostily, "The person who needs to apologize to me knows who she is."

I looked up and sighed. "Can we please just go to the seventeenth floor?"

"What was that word?" Sherri asked. "Did I actually hear you say 'please'? A word, if I recall correctly, that you did not trouble yourself to use last night."

"I was scared."

"Was that any reason to behave the way you did? I have feelings, too, you know."

"You were nasty to the elevator lady?" the man behind me said.

"Dumb, man," said the pickpocket to me. "Very dumb."

"Now we are all trapped here!" The Hispanic lady shook her fist at me. "What were you thinking?"

"Hey!" I said. "I was trapped in the elevator. For the second time in two days! And then it started talking to me."

"And you couldn't be a little polite?"

"Are you kidding me?" I said.

The woman who'd been pressing the panel buttons looked at me in disgust. "So now you've got us all involved in this shit between the two of you. Way to go."

"Apologize to her," said the young woman with long hair.

"Yeah," said the pickpocket. "Say you're sorry!"

"Go on!"

"Come on, lady, I got a meeting to get to!"

"Oh, for God's sake," I muttered, giving up. "Sherri, I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. I'm so sorry that I'd like to get out and take the stairs."

"Well." Sheri gave a disdainful little sniff. "That won't be necessary. An apology is all I asked for."

The elevator recommenced its ascent.

"THIS IS FASCINATING," said Julian, looking at Sherri's message to me on my computer screen later that day. It said: You shouldn't be so brusque in your emails to your mother.

"Have you figured out exactly what this thing is yet?" I asked him.

"I think it's exactly what it told you it is," he replied. "Mostly because there's nothing else it could be."

"It's driving me crazy!" By that afternoon, Sherri was interfering with my email, using my answering machine to talk to my callers, and goosing me with my own pager.

"Well, it's a gremlin," Julian pointed out. "You must have known there'd be a shit-storm of trouble when you rejected its amorous advances."

"Strangely, when I was speaking with a disembodied voice in an elevator," I said, "that wasn't the foremost thing on my mind, Julian."

"Clearly," he said, "that was a mistake."

I rubbed my throbbing temples. Dealing with this bizarre and aggravating mystery of technology was giving me a newfound respect for geeks. If I lived through these events without getting myself locked up in an insane asylum, I vowed, I would hereafter try to be more sympathetic to people like Julian.

My phone rang. I grabbed it—but Sherri was already responding. "This is Sherri's telephone," Sherri said in the flat, male voice that usually told me how many messages I had and what time the calls had come in. "She's too busy complaining to come to the phone right now. But I'm free to talk to you."

"Stop that!" I pulled the phone cord out of the wall.

The pager on my belt goosed me. I took it off and threw it on the floor. A message popped up on my computer: Temper, temper.

"Julian," I cried, "do something!"

"All right, calm down," he said. "I think I've figured out how to get rid of it. We have to coagulate the vessatonic sinucalators and pulwesh the bandersnatch."

"Of course we do," I said wearily.

"This will mean shutting down the entire power grid, but it's worth the trouble. Systems throughout the whole building are going haywire! My God, man, the place in chaos!"

"Let's do it."

AFTER WE ENACTED Julian's plan, it took several days to get everything up and running again, check all the systems, and confirm that computers, communications, and even the elevators were all running smoothly.

Around five o'clock that Friday, Julian stopped by my desk—where I was trying to make my extended deadline—to announce that all systems were clear, we had eliminated Sherri from the building.

"Thank God! But where did it go?" I wondered.

He shrugged. "With disembodied energy, it's hard to say. Another building? Over the internet to another country? Another dimension entirely?"

"Well, as long as it's out of our hair, that's the important thing," I said with heartfelt relief.

"Working late tonight?" Julian asked, noting the mountain of paperwork on my desk.

"No," I said quickly. "I'll ride down with you." I was still eager to avoid being alone in the elevator, despite Julian's assurances that it was now perfectly safe.

We parted company in the parking garage. I used the remote on my keychain to automatically unlock my car. The vehicle was a new purchase, a gift to myself after my recent raise. Top of the line. I was still learning how to use all the extras and gadgets. I don't have a good sense of direction, so the built-in Global Positioning System was one of the attractions of the car when I bought it. You can program your destination into it, and it gives you directions. As you drive, it says things like, "Turn right at the next intersection," and, "You will exit the highway in five more miles."

As I started up the engine and fastened my seatbelt this evening, my GPS system said to me, "Hello, Sherri."

I froze.

Then it said, "Not working late tonight, I gather?"

This story originally appeared in OSomething Magic This Way Comes anthology, DAW Books, 2008.

Laura Resnick is the author of the popular Esther Diamond urban fantasy series, including books such as Doppelgangster, Vamparazzi, Abracadaver, and the upcoming Goldzilla. She has also written traditional fantasy novels such as In Legend Born, The Destroyer Goddess, and The White Dragon, which made multiple "Year's Best" lists. The Campbell Award-winning author of many short stories, she is on the Web at LauraResnick.com.

The Story of Emily and Control

Scott Alexander

THERE'S AN OLD JOKE about a statistician who had twins. She baptized one, and kept the other as a control. Laugh all you like. It'll never be funny to me. I know the true story.

Yes, that's right. It's a degenerate form of a true story. One that isn't funny at all. One that directly caused both of the worst experiences of my life. Yes, I knew them. So here's their story. Don't you dare laugh.

I first met Emily and Control in college. I was TAing a philosophy course; Control was one of my students. I noticed the name, of course, but this was California and I'd heard weirder; in any case it wasn't polite to mention such things. She proved a model student: bright, diligent, enthusiastic. Was I in love with her even then? Maybe.

The next semester I found myself living in a new building, and when I went to meet the neighbors I spotted Control two doors down from me. I went over to say hello; she didn't recognize me and after a brief confusion admitted she was not Control, but her sister Emily. The two were clearly identical twins—the same meticulously styled long straw-blond hair, the same beautiful smile—even their styles of clothing were alike.

She invited me to come in and talk, and discussion naturally turned to her sister. Emily told me of her mother, a statistician, and how she had been so delighted with identical twins that she had named one Control, supposedly an obscure Eastern European name but in fact an homage to the identical twins and their role in controlled trials. At the time, I found this anecdote quite amusing. I was a bit into statistics myself, and between discussions of her twin sister and of mathematics I left an hour later feeling like I had made a new friend.

Our social circles intersected more and more over the next few months, and I found myself coming to admire the twins more and more. They were still only freshmen, but through social graces and strong personalities they managed to climb the social ladder with deceptive ease. It wasn't just socially, either; Control had passed my philosophy course with the highest GPA in the class, and by all accounts her sister was an equally strong student, as impressive at the humanities as the hard sciences. And call me shallow, but it did not escape my attention that they were two of the most attractive young women I'd ever met. They weren't conventionally attractive, exactly, but there was something about their mannerisms and their style that made them stand out.

One day I let my interest get the better of me. I had a chance meeting with Emily at a cafe, and we were chatting about all the usual random topics, and she said something about some clever interpretation of Aristotle that even I hadn't thought of, and I just said outright, "I don't get it. Some people are pretty, some people are smart, some people are likable. But you and your sister are always the best at everything. It's not even fair. What's your secret? Black magic?"

To my surprise, Emily didn't laugh. She actually looked quite serious. "Well, we don't talk about it much," she said. "But since you asked—we just try lots of different things and do what works."

And she proceeded to tell me how from childhood, she and her sister had taken their heritage seriously and started performing randomized controlled trials on themselves. Evidence-based everything. It began when Emily made flashcards to study from and Control thought it was a waste of time. They made a bet: if Emily could get a better score on three consecutive tests, Control would start using flashcards. Three tests later, the evidence was in: Emily did on average four points better. Control started studying off of flashcards. From then on, whenever they had a difficult choice, Emily would try one path, Control would try the other, and after a few months they would compare results.

When they grew older and started getting an interest in boys, they dealt with it the only way they knew how. Emily and Control would go to the same club with different hairstyles, or different fashions, or entirely different acted personalities, and whoever got more invitations to dance would win for the night. Emily cut her hair, Control kept hers long; when Control consistently attracted more interest, Emily grew hers back. And so they conducted experiment after experiment, at school and at clubs and with their friends, growing stronger with each bit of knowledge gained.

It was the best thing I'd ever heard, and I told Emily so. She just laughed and brushed back her hair in a way that had no doubt been perfected over dozens of unwitting test subjects. I had never wanted an identical twin more than I did in that moment.

I won't bore you with the next year, but by the time my senior year came around, my fondest wish had come true: I asked Control out, and she agreed. We dated with varying levels of seriousness all through the beginning of the year. Emily, for her part, had broken character and was seeing a stereotypical biker from the city: oiled hair, black leather jacket, the whole works. Control and I found this hilarious. We mocked him mercilessly, never where Emily could hear, of course, and compared their tempestuous on-again off-again relationship to the more pleasant and stable thing we had going. We were both so happy that it was totally obvious it couldn't last.

I don't really know why our relationship started to deteriorate, except maybe the same reasons almost everyone's relationships eventually deteriorate. It was college. Maybe we weren't ready yet. But there were more and more fights, and they lasted longer and longer, and eventually after twenty minutes of yelling over the phone I shouted something like "Well, if you dislike me that much, maybe you should have gotten yourself a greasy bad boy biker like your sister!" And then I hung up.

And then I realized, with a sort of oh-my-god-it-was-obvious-all-along insight, that of COURSE she had considered that option. But it wasn't her way just to go for it willy-nilly. Emily and Control had sat down, decided they needed boyfriends, discussed a mutual interest in sketchy leather-jacket wearing motorcyclist types, and then Emily had gone off and found one. And Control, as usual, had sought out a standard for comparison. Someone totally inoffensive and neutral. Me.

I called her up, my hands shaking. "Hello?" she said. I got to the point. "Am I the placebo boyfriend?" I asked her. She hesitated. Right away that told me all that I needed to know.

"So that's all I am to you?" I snarled. "A placebo? A control group for your real boyfriend? Well, experiment is over now. And very successful, by the sound of it. You can't help but do better than the control." I slammed down the phone.

And an hour later, I was treated to a long and desperate-sounding email from Control. The gist of it was that yes, she had been using me, but I had it all wrong. The experiment had gone the opposite way. Emily hated her boyfriend; she was sticking with him only out of a sense that it would be bad experimental practice to end the study prematurely. She and I had had our quarrels, but overall it had been a good time, and she was going to recommend Emily get a boyfriend just like me. She said all the right things, but by that point I had hardened my heart. I deleted the email and resolved to avoid the sisters from then on.

It proved easier than I thought. Emily and Control, who had once moved through college society with masterful ease, were nowhere to be seen.

I learned why one evening after talking to a mutual friend. Emily had tried to break up with her boyfriend. He hadn't taken it very well. He'd beaten her up, then assaulted her. The hospital said her physical wounds were mostly superficial, but the trauma was harder to heal. I started to hear rumors that she was skipping classes—unthinkable just a few months earlier. Then other rumors, that she'd turned to alcohol. I didn't believe them. She'd been too perfect.

But I ran into her one night at the cafe where we used to hang out. As soon as I saw her, I knew the rumors were true. She looked awful. "Hey," she told me. She didn't sound too good either.

"Control says she's sorry," Emily told me, nursing a beer. "She really did like you."

"I guess I believe that, now," I said. "But what's done is done. You know, I really respected that science thing of yours. Best idea I ever heard. Seriously. But you can't do that kind of thing when there are people on the other side who'll get hurt. It's, you know, unethical."

Emily glared. "You think I didn't get hurt myself?" she asked. "But finding someone to settle down with is the most important thing you can do. And you want me to take it on anecdotal evidence? I thought Brad would be good for me. I proved the hypothesis wrong. And it's damned good I did, or else Control might have hooked up with someone like him too, and things would've been worse. Really, the whole thing's your fault." She spat. "If you hadn't had your little anti-science tantrum, you and Control would still be together, I'd be looking for someone nice like you, and none of this would've happened."

"Emily," I started. I wanted to be mad, but right now I was too worried. "You can still find someone. I know what Brad did to you hurt you bad, but you don't need to do this whole downward spiral thing. Seriously, put away the beer, clean yourself up, and I'll introduce you to some of my friends. You can even make an experiment out of it, if it'll make you happy."

"It's not about what makes me happy," said Emily, "it's about the truth. As for whether I should put away the beer, that remains to be seen." She finished her can. "See you around."

A few weeks later, I saw her again. Control was drinking with her. I hoped it was just a lapse of standards on her part. The alternative—that Control had deliberately stayed sober while Emily drank, that they had compared results, and that Emily had convinced her sister that alcoholism was the way to go—was really too horrible to contemplate.

Although considering what was to come, the phrase "too horrible to contemplate" really shouldn't be used so lightly.

It was a few days before graduation. I hadn't seen either of the twins in a couple of months. I vaguely felt like I should search them out and say some sort of goodbye before I left the university forever, but things kept getting in the way, and I didn't bother. It was the professor I'd been TAing for who first told me the news.

"You know Emily?" he asked. "The twin sister of that lovely girl Control I had a few years ago? Don't tell anyone yet, but the faculty just got an email about her. Apparently she killed herself. Overdosed on some pills, don't know how she got them. Very sad. And everyone said she was such a nice girl, too."

I was shocked. I really didn't know what to say. I knew that between her experience with Brad and the alcohol that she'd been in a bad way lately, but I never could have imagined it would come to this. The funeral was the day before graduation. I was there. Control was there too. I don't think we spoke two words to each other. I was in shock. She was obviously in shock. We listened to the pastor go through his empty ritual—ashes to ashes, dust to dust—and then I returned to school for a decidedly joyless graduation. Control was a year behind me; thank goodness she didn't have to endure those two ceremonies juxtaposed in quite that way.

After that I left town pretty quickly. I had a job offer a few hundred miles away, so I took that and soon my memories of college were far behind me. I emailed Control once or twice, expressing my condolences, saying how sorry I was that things didn't work out between us, telling her I was sure she would bounce back. She responded with equal platitudes: she appreciated my concern, she was trying her best. After a little while, even the meaningless formalities of email were abandoned, and we lost touch completely.

It was six months after graduation. I'd heard about a better job offer back in the old college town, so I'd driven down for the weekend to interview. It had gone well, I was fully expecting a call saying I'd got the job, and I stopped off in the old cafe I'd spent so many hours in to get myself some ice cream in celebration.

There at a table in the far corner was Control, intensely focused on something. I went closer; I saw the object of her interest. She was hunched over a Ouija board. She looked up. "Oh!" she said, with a look of surprise. "I didn't know you'd..."

My blood turned to ice.

It was the simplest possible plan. I should have guessed it months before. For "who would bear the whips and scorns of time, but for the dread of something after death?" And so the experimental and control groups had been randomly assigned, and one of them had entered the great beyond, and the other had stayed in this world of suffering, and God help them they were going to compare results.

So of course I fled as fast as my legs could carry me, and of course I never returned, not even to hear if I'd got the job. And of course I deleted Control's number from my phone, blocked her email account, blocked her on Messenger, unfriended her on Facebook, cut off all contact with everyone I knew in college where there was even the remotest chance they knew her. Because that was one experimental result I never wanted to hear.

What if the next morning, I had found Control dead? Then I would know with all the certainty of science that it was better to die than to live; that life was empirically and incontrovertibly pointless, that those who passed away were the lucky ones compared to us condemned to remain on Earth.

And if I saw her the next morning, bright and lively as ever? Oh God, how much worse that would be! It would mean scientific proof that no matter how wearisome and unpleasant life become, what awaited us beyond the grave was far, far worse. It would mean living in fear of an eternity whose content was unknown, but whose dreadfulness was incontrovertible. Let others say that "all knowledge is worth having"; I am far happier not knowing.

So if you ever meet a girl with straw-blond hair and a smile to die for, a bright enthusiastic girl with a penchant for statistics, and maybe you are attracted to her and maybe you aren't, but you think you would like to get to know her better; well, before you ask her name, think for a moment about whether you want to burden of knowledge that will go with it. And if she smiles at you and says her name is Control, and that it's a funny story, then you are lost, and all I ask is that you never tell me how she's doing.

This story originally appeared on Scott Alexander's blog in 2011.

Scott Alexander is a psychiatrist in Detroit, Michigan. He currently blogs at slatestarcodex.com.

Howl!

Jody Lynn Nye

BRADLEY NEWTON TURNED ONE of the silver objects over in his hands. The eastern European man with shiny black hair and a pockmarked face slumping in the naugahyde armchair on the other side of the utilitarian desk looked deliberately insouciant. Bradley wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, and off the lawyer's, too. He kept his own round face expressionless.

"So, Mr. Elanovitch is willing to pay whatever fine you assess, inspector," the attorney offered. "We maintain that he did not understand that his import of these items was considered to be excessive."

"Import? Smuggling is the word I would use, counselor," Bradley retorted. That jerked the European man to attention, but only for a moment. He was not threatened by the plump inspector on the other side of the desk. Bradley picked up another silver artifact from the heap before him, this one long and thin like a fountain pen, but with a knob shaped like a snail shell on the top. "Customs and Excise is vigilant about these things. Your client has lived in the United States for six years, and traveled in and out of the country over twenty-eight times a year. He must know the limits on imports. If he never read form I-94, then he's one of the few who hasn't."

"Fine me and release my goods," Elanovitch intoned, bored, plucking at the armrest with idle fingertips. "Either you arrest me, or you don't. We offer to pay. Take it or leave it. Or unless you want something for yourself, eh?" His weaselly black eyes fixed on Bradley's hazel ones. "Your annual pay is probably much less than my business makes in a day."

That made Bradley's blood pressure shoot up, but he kept his temper down. His supervisor and at least one other credible witness were on the other side of the two-way mirror that occupied much of the fourth wall in a largely featureless interview room, and the interview was being recorded on videotape. If they made him react, they won, and they knew it. "Bribing a federal official is a felony," he said, shaking the knobby cylinder at Elanovitch. "This is a serious matter, and…ouch!"

He looked down at his hand. Blood dripped from the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. A curved, triangular blade no longer than his thumbnail had popped out of the bottom of the silver artifact. He snatched out his handkerchief and squeezed the area to stop the bleeding. The blade had left a crescent-shaped mark in the skin. He looked up at the horrified men on the other side of the table. "The importation of concealed weapons is another crime, Mr. Elanovitch."

"I did not know that was there!" the European bellowed, actually alarmed. "It is an accident! Nothing I bring in is illegal. It is household instruments, historical of age. I pay fine and I get you bandage. I even say please."

"We won't debate the extenuating circumstances," the lawyer interjected, "if we may settle this matter swiftly, without the government bringing charges?"

"What about physical assault on a government agent?" Bradley countered.

"That's just an owie, inspector," the lawyer said. "A little Bactine and a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid will make you all better. What will it take to get us out of here before dinnertime?"

Bradley realized, not for the first time, that he disliked the lawyer much more than his client. He wanted to break out of his own skin, leap over the desk and throttle the attorney, then hammer the importer to death with his own suitcase of contraband. If it wouldn't punish him more than the other two, he would have kept them there until midnight.

"I can't promise that there will be no charges pressed in the future, but this time United States customs is willing to accept a substantial fine, plus the customs on each item over the legal allowance." Coolly, he pulled the printing calculator to him from the side of the desk and began to tap in numbers. Large numbers. This fine would be substantial, partly to make Elanovitch think a thousand times before doing it again, and partly because his attorney was such a jerk. It was the only revenge he was permitted to take.

BRADLEY HUNCHED OVER the wheel of his subcompact in the traffic leaving O'Hare Airport. Another day, another criminal who thought of him as a patsy. He had worked for Customs for fifteen years. At forty-two, he had twenty-three years more before he could retire. Another 54.7 percent of his life facing the same endless conflict with petty criminals, the pugnaciously ignorant and the downright exploitive criminals who passed before him day after day after day.

Bradley walked into the house and almost called out before he remembered that Angela was in Columbus with the kids, visiting her folks. They would be gone for a week. It was spring break. A twinge of regret made him ache for the carefree college days and just after when the two of them had been able to run off to Florida during spring break. For the hell of it. Just for fun. It seemed like nothing he did these days was just for fun. Not even sex. Even sex was getting to be boring. The relic of the teenager buried deep within him was shocked. He never in a million lifetimes thought he would ever feel that way, and he loved Angie. He adored her. It didn't stop the miserable cycle of his day-to-day life from grinding him down.

Over a dinner made up of leftovers from the refrigerator, he watched the Discovery Channel on television. He felt like going away from it all, leaving the suburbs and his boring job and becoming a deep-sea fisherman. On television pulling up cages full of king crabs looked dangerous, disgusting, cold, and terrifying. All of that was better than what he had to do now.  Pull in a half-ton net with his bare hands? Great! As long as he didn't have to enumerate each crab on a form in triplicate.

"It's a midlife crisis," he told himself, as he sorted the recyclables from the non-recyclable trash and threw them into separate garbage bins. "That's all."

Knowing that was his problem didn't help. He had always laughed off the notion he might have a midlife crisis, but it was worse than he had dreamed. He thought he would just have an urge to buy a red sports car and hang out with a blonde half his age, but there was no joyful anticipation in the prospect. He felt gloomy to the depths of his soul. Was this what he was going to do for the rest of his life? He wished he could talk to Angela, but even more, he wished she could understand what he was going through.

Three more days of Elanovitches, TV dinners and missing his family dragged by. Bradley didn't like sleeping alone. He missed the kids. He missed the noise and the chaos and the feeling that he belonged to something better than he was.

He woke with a start and scanned the bed for Angela's familiar body that ought to have been there beside him, half-curled on her side under the light quilt, warm and comforting by her mere presence. She wasn't there. He remembered again. Three more days until his family returned. Soon. He tried to settle down, but he was too restless. It felt as if the sheet was rucked up under his rear end. He wriggled to settle the lump. It wouldn't smooth out.

The light of the full moon shone between the bedroom curtains he had forgotten to close before he fell asleep. He kicked off the comforter. He had to get out of the bedclothes. They were stifling, smothering him in their pillowy bonds. Bradley fumbled for the bedroom light.

"Aah!" he yelled.

Someone was in the room with him!

"Who are you?" he screamed at the black-bearded man.

The other's mouth moved at the same time his did. The intruder was wearing his boxer shorts! He realized suddenly that he was looking at his own reflection.

"No!" Bradley cried. He must be still dreaming. He slapped his hands against his body, refusing to believe in the black hair that covered him everywhere except his eyes, lips and palms, wiry and coarse as a terrier's. He flung himself off the bed, trying to run away from his horrible image, but it seemed that the whole house was full of mirrors and shiny surfaces. The hairy man leaped out at him again and again. Bradley stumbled down the stairs, through the living room and the kitchen, and out into the night.

He had to get away from the nightmare. Something must help him to wake up. He raced along the street, covering ground faster than he ever could in the daylight. Bradley looked down to see curving claws between his toes. His feet looked twice as long as usual. Something slapped him in the backside. He glanced behind, and saw a two-foot-long tail.

Run away! his brain shrieked.

He plunged in between houses, crashing through bushes and trees, trampling garden plots. Blue-flowered stalks grabbed at his legs in the Sullivans' yard. Why were there hydrangeas in his dream? He hated hydrangeas!

The beam of the streetlight at the corner struck glints off the shining hair on his hands and arms. To get away from the sight, he dashed across the street and into the forest preserve.

Part of his mind shouted at him that the preserve closed at sunset. Trespassing on state land wasn't allowed. The rest of him, the wild part, laughed at restraint. It forced him to open up his stride, until he was running flat out across the prairie. He panted in terror, gasping in oxygen until it felt as if the top of his head would come off. His legs carried him faster and faster. He started laughing. The pure adrenaline exhilarated him. He felt giddy. He dropped to all fours and discovered he could gallop still faster, leaping over streams and paths, bounding over benches. Bradley found an open patch of grass and rolled around on it. That felt good! He flipped over and ran in a circle, chasing the tail. It eluded his snapping jaws.

What had happened to him? What was he?

All he could think over and over again was werewolf. The spooky books his son loved to read at night talked about mystical transformation, the fear of silver bullets, and how the man-wolf beast howled at the moon.

Maybe he had turned into a werewolf, but he wouldn't do that.

He paused, the tail swinging out of reach.

Why not?

Bradley sat down on his haunches, cleared his throat, pointed his nose toward the moon, and launched into the best howl he could muster.

"A-woo—ha ha ha ha!"

The mournful sound was so at odds with how good he felt that he started laughing in the middle of it. He pulled himself together.

No, seriously, he told himself. Howl. He took another breath.

"A-wooooo!"

That was better. With a little practice, he could be really good at it.

His legs began to twitch. His altered body got impatient at sitting in one place. He had to run some more. Flipping onto his long feet, he ran, loving every mile. He thought he could never grow tired of the joy of the wind in his face. No wonder dogs with their heads hanging out of car windows looked so happy.

He suddenly knew the secret they never talked about in any of the horror movies or TV shows or books. Being a werewolf was So. Much. FUN!

Bradley sped up a hill, his pads pounding on the dirt path. A browsing deer he surprised leaped up and away from him. The scent excited him. He fell into pursuit, racing after its shape in the cold blue moonlight. He had an urge to bury his teeth in its throat. He wanted the taste of its blood on his tongue.

The deer wasn't waiting around to satisfy his urges. It increased its lead on him by lengths, leaping effortlessly over park benches and around the reeking outhouses. Bradley galloped, his tail straight out behind him. He never realized how fast deer could run. He gave it all he could, even pulling within ten feet of it, but the deer took a sharp left and dashed across the well-lit main road next to the forest preserve. Bradley windmilled to stay upright as he veered to follow, but headlights struck him. He got off the road just in time. A pickup truck roared past him, honking its horn in irritation. The deer disappeared into the trees on the other side. Bradley watched it go. The wild part of him felt dismay.

He tottered back into the woods. He was more exhausted than he could have believed. It had been years since he had gone running. He preferred to jog on the treadmill or around the track at the health club, at no more than 3.5 miles an hour. He was exhausted, and his feet and palms hurt. Gingerly, Bradley picked his way back to a park bench and curled up underneath it in the comforting dark.

Just a short rest, he told himself.

"Awright, mister!" a harsh voice roused him out of sleep. "I suppose you're gonna tell me your prescription medications make you sleepwalk, huh? Get up!"

Bradley blinked at a pink sky and a black silhouette shining a yellow circle of light in his face. He tried to remember where he was and failed. The police officer grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. Bradley realized with a start that the black fur that had covered him was gone. As was most of the pair of underpants he had been wearing when he left home. Modesty was just barely preserved by the scrap of cloth around his belly. The rest of his shorts had been torn to shreds by the bushes. His skin was covered with scratches and bruises.

"I'm all right, officer," he said, straightening his back to try and look dignified. The officer eyed him. Obviously, he failed.

"Don't need to go to the emergency room?" the officer asked. "Did someone dump you here?"

"Uh, no," Bradley said. "I…uh, sometimes I sleepwalk," he added. The policeman shook his head as though disappointed he hadn't come up with a more colorful explanation. Bradley wished he sounded more original, but he didn't want to be branded a kook. No one would believe he had been transformed into a werewolf. In the cold light of dawn, he didn't completely believe it himself.

"Come on," the officer sighed. "Get in the cruiser. I'll take you home."

Bradley let himself in the unlocked back door and took a long, hot shower. It was a good thing his wife and kids weren't there. They might have bought the werewolf explanation, but Angela would have been mortified that he had to be brought home by the cops.

The matter of his transformation distracted him throughout the day. He was pretty sure that lycanthropy didn't run in his family. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything unusual, unless he counted a couple of exotic frozen entrées from the food store. He'd never had a reaction to Chicken Madras before, especially not breaking out in fur and a tail. No, the only possible vector of transmission of his werewolfness had to be that artifact that cut him. Mr. Elanovitch's contraband. He wanted to get a second look at it.

Casually, so as not to draw special attention to his query, Bradley checked the confiscated goods locker first thing the next morning. To his disappointment, all the Elanovitch articles were gone. The importer's lawyer had reclaimed everything as soon as the customs office had opened. Bradley hesitated to contact the importer. He couldn't think of a good excuse. He didn't want to seem weak by bringing up the minor injury, nor appear to be asking for the artifact as a bribe. The object didn't seem to have had an on/off switch anyhow, nor did it have a plainly visible 'reverse werewolf curse' setting on it. Bradley wished he could find out more about it. His practical mind pushed all speculation to the rear. Flights had been arriving since before dawn from foreign countries. He had a backlog of queries to cover.

The memory of the night's adventure kept his spirits up as he faced a dozen Mr. Elanovitches over the course of the day. They all lied to him. They all acted cocky and bored. He was forbidden by the rules to threaten them. They frustrated him because they enjoyed being dishonest, enjoyed making an illicit profit off the government that protected them. They laughed at him, a plump, middle-aged man, and at the United States of America that employed him to help protect its economy. Bradley concentrated on doing his job. He just kept thinking of that rush of air in his face. More than once, he caught himself smiling a little. The expression unnerved more than one of his opponents on the other side of the desk. If they could only have seen him, he thought, imagining the terrified look on their faces. Pay your fine, he imagined his employers saying, or our werewolf will rip out your throat. That would make it worthwhile getting up in the morning again.

He couldn't wait for the evening.

Bradley gulped down his TV dinner hot right out of the microwave, not even bothering to sit down. Eagerly, he watched for moonrise. As the orange edge of the pocked, full globe peered up over the horizon, Bradley felt his ears prick up. Literally. He felt them with his fingertips as the rounded pinnae stretched up and became pointed. He ran to the mirror to watch. Fur sprouted all over his skin from five o'clock shadow to bearskin rug in moments. His teeth turned to fangs in a long, underslung jaw. His hands and feet lengthened noticeably, and the tail pressed against the back of his underwear. Bradley lowered the band to make way for it. He was going to have to have special shorts with a hole for the tail. His chest bulged forward, and his waist curved in against his spine. He patted the new convexity with delight.

This time he was aware of the animal nature trying to impose its will on his human senses. The stale smells of the house made him feel claustrophobic. The walls seemed to move in on him, trapping him. He wanted the sweet scent of the woods. Before he knew it, he was racing for the back door on all fours. He had to reach up to turn the knob, then he was out across the back yard into the leaf-dappled twilight.

Bradley had never had an athlete's physique before. It felt as good as it looked. He ran faster than Michael Johnson or any Olympic star. He would give up everything if he could do this night after night forever. He dashed all over the neighborhood until the moon was at its height, dousing everything in pale blue light.

The scents were everywhere. They overpowered his conscious mind. He tasted the smell of warm blood on the air. Living animals were all around him. He wanted something—no, craved it. He wanted to feel life. He wanted to feel it between his hands, between his teeth, tearing the heart out of a living creature. Part of him was horrified, but it was overtaken by the wild sensation of the forbidden. What could they do to him? He was power incarnate! He would have prey!

Bradley galloped through the streets on all fours, seeking that prey. That musky smell had to be the raccoons that turned over the neighborhood garbage cans. He ran towards the strongest concentration of smells.

Unfortunately, smelling went both ways. They detected him long before he arrived at the place they had just been. They had fled up trees, where he could not follow, or into their well-defended burrows, claws and teeth facing out. He didn't want to dig for blood. He wanted to leap upon his victim!

He went to the park, where the playground equipment swung empty. The scent of young, sweet human blood floated to his nostrils, but the taste was old. It was after ten o'clock. The children had a curfew, imposed only that spring by the state legislature. They were all inside. Even the tough kids got tired of being rousted out of the parks by the cops night after night. Bradley turned away from the swingset in disgust. How inconvenient! Someone had to be out walking somewhere.

He smelled fresh blood and headed toward it, trotting from thin grass onto tarmac. The convenience store, yes! People came and went from it all night long. He slunk around the side of the building on all fours, and watched for a stray, unwary human.

His eyes were dazzled by the parking lot lights. He had never noticed it before, but the convenience store had lights more powerful than those in a ballpark. To his heightened senses, it was like getting slapped in the face with a flashlight over and over again. He saw cars pull up to the six spaces near the door. Humans hopped out of them, but they were inside the store before he could make himself spring toward them through the glare. Within moments, they emerged again with slushies and hot dogs. They got back into their cars and drove away.

One looked promising. A girl in a low-cut tank top that revealed her slender throat came out to a convertible with a bag in one hand. Forcing himself to ignore the lights, Bradley wiggled his backside, and sprang. As she pulled out of the space, he thundered toward her. The car lurched out of reverse and shot out of the parking lot with Bradley in pursuit. Wait until she stopped at a light. He'd leap over the back of her car and tear her to pieces!

The speed limit on the road was only thirty-five, but the girl had to be doing at least ten over the limit. Bradley cursed all law-breakers as he chased her through several stoplights, including one she sailed through on amber. Her posture remained easy, and she swayed her head to the music blaring out of her radio. She didn't see him. How could she miss a full-grown wolfman, unless she never looked in the rearview mirror. Kids! He let out a howl. In response, the girl in the car turned her radio up.

Bradley galloped around the streets, looking for a victim on foot. He tried the shopping mall. At that hour it was closed and empty. The grocery had just shut. Even the cart boys had left. The schools and the junior college were desolate. Not one single warm body was out on the sidewalks where he could kill them.

It was the suburbs. No one walked anywhere. They drove out of their attached garages already in their cars, and rode around in parking lots until they found a space close to the door. How was he to find prey to satisfy his urge?

He turned back toward his neighborhood, ready to give up in dismay. Then, his keen hearing picked up the distant sound of hysterical barking. He knew that yap! He turned on one foot and hurtled in that direction.

The Lermans on the corner of his street had an obnoxious little dog. Bradley had despised it from the moment it had arrived. He stopped in the shadow of a bush and sank to his belly. Narrowing his eyes, he focused on the yard. He saw the dog through the trees lit up like a fluorescent glow stick. Now was time for revenge for all the times it piddled on him, attacked his ankle, yipped incessantly for hours out on its chain in the yard. He would tear it to tiny, quivering pieces!

Bradley hurtled toward it on all fours. It saw him. At first it dashed toward him, barking frantically. His scent hit it. The dog yelped and turned around. It scampered in the direction of the back door of the house. It couldn't possibly make it before Bradley descended on it. He bared his teeth and leaped, cutting off the dog's escape. It froze. Bradley laughed.

"Die, you miserable Beanie Baby!"

He lunged. The dog cowered, its legs shaking.

Good sense brought Bradley barreling to a halt in spite of himself. What was he thinking? It was his neighbor who left the dog out all the time and wouldn't get it obedience training.

No, he should terrify the pesty little monster, not kill it! That is what it deserved.

Bradley stood over the small dog and howled. The animal stood its ground for a moment, but primal sensation of predator meets much, much larger predator kicked into its small wad of neural tissue. It let out a sound that was the canine equivalent of Ayieeeee! It circled around Bradley and went tearing back toward the house. It scrabbled hysterically at the door with its little claws, yelping to be let in.

Satisfied, Bradley galloped away. When the door opened, he heard with his extended hearing Mr. Lerman swearing. The dog raced into the house, still crying in terror. He bet he wouldn't see it outside again until its bladder was bursting.

Bradley returned to the house happy but exhausted. So he wasn't going to find live prey. He could put up with that. He could not wait to show Angela his new shape. She'd be knocked out. In the meanwhile, he had one more night of wild freedom until she returned.

HE GOT HOME FROM work in time to greet the family as the car pulled into the driveway. Bradley kissed them all and carried the luggage inside. He kept looking at them while they ate dinner at a local family restaurant, doting on them, wondering how he got along for seven whole days without them. He was dying to tell them about his transformation. Twelve-year-old Mark would be thrilled. He wasn't too sure about ten-year-old Elizabeth, who covered her eyes during scary scenes in the movies. But Angie had to know.

"What are you looking at?" his wife asked him, squirting mustard on her hamburger.

"Uh, just glad you're back," he said, hastily picking up French fries and stuffing them into his mouth. That wasn't the place to tell them.

Mark had to go to band practice. Instead of griping that he had had a long day at the office, Bradley cheerfully volunteered to drive him to the junior high. Angela gave him a strange look, but she didn't say anything. He decided he wouldn't tell them, not yet. He wanted to show Angela first.

Just before moonrise, he pulled her into their bedroom and locked the door.

"What are you doing?" Angela demanded.

Bradley sat down on the bed and patted the mattress beside him. She shook her head and stood with her arms crossed and worry on her face. Not a good start, but he had to tell her. He took a deep breath.

"Honey," he began, "I have something I have to tell you."

"You're gay?" she blurted out.

Bradley gawked at her. "No! Where did you get that? Figure skating makes me sick. No. I'm…a werewolf."

Her expression turned from concern to naked disbelief. "Yeah, right. I've got laundry in." She started for the door. He jumped up and took her arm.

"No, really, honest, honey! It happened a couple of days after you left." He told her about the silver object, about Mr. Elanovitch, about the transformation and racing through the forest preserve. He skipped the part about the girl in the convertible.

She listened, searching his face as if trying to decide whether he was crazy or deluded.

"Brad, I don't know what to say. I mean, I don't know whether you're crazy or trying to pull something on me. Just tell me what it is, all right? I know you're bored out of your mind with your job. Are you telling me you want to quit your job and go into acting? Is that it?"

Bradley threw up his arms in frustration. "Forget it! Wait until moonrise. You'll see."

They stayed together at opposite ends of the room, waiting for the edge of the lunar globe to appear over the trees. Against Angie's objections, he opened the window so he could jump away from her if he felt some urge to harm her.

The moon rose. Bradley braced himself…and nothing happened. He ran to the mirror and stared at his face. Grow! he thought at the stubble on his chin. But it didn't. He ran back to the window. The moon was rising, wasn't it?

The tension in Angela's body melted away.

"Uh-huh," she said.

"But…" he said. Angela shook her head and unlocked the door, leaving him staring out of the window.

What was wrong with him? For three days he had been a man-beast, a creature out of legend. He was an ordinary person again, overweight, with thinning hair and a 401K account.

He ran into Mark's room and thumbed through the books on the shelf. In the story he pulled out, it said that the werewolf only roamed during the full moon.

The moon was no longer full. It had dwindled at its right-hand edge to a shape like a face. It reproached him. Bradley moaned. The magic couldn't be over!

He got up several times a night to consult the mirror. The bland, ordinary face that stared back at him refused to transform. He wanted that sense of transformation. He had to have it back, but it wouldn't come back. He returned to work more miserable than he had ever been. When he got home at night, he did his chores and played with the kids, but he found it hard to find to be enthusiastic about. The midlife crisis came back so bad that not even three red sportscars or a dozen blondes could help.

Angela regarded him with pity and exasperation as she watched him mope around the house.

"Honey," she said, as he hoisted the full garbage bag out of the kitchen can, "I want you to find someone to talk to. Is there such a thing as Werewolves Anonymous? Because you are an addict."

Bradley regarded her with suspicion. "You don't believe me."

Her expression was kind, not cynical. "No, not really. But you've imagined yourself into something powerful. I know you hate your job. You always talk about how it's killing you. Maybe it is. Start looking for something else. That'll help. Or how about a hobby? You're always talking about taking up a hobby. I love you. I hate to see you being miserable."

"It was so great," he said sadly, as he took the white bag out to the trash can.

Angie was right. He had to snap out of it. Maybe he had been dreaming for three nights in a row. Shellfish gave him weird dreams. Maybe this time the combination of stress, TV dinners and the Ambien he had to take to put himself to sleep gave him hallucinations. He settled back into their ordinary life, resolved to find a counselor and take up woodworking, or something.

Life at work continued to be miserable. One so-called international businessman who had been caught with ten containers full of designer knockoffs had had the nerve to threaten him personally with a lawsuit for restraint of trade. The government ombudsman assured Bradley he was not individually liable for government regulations, but it still kept him from sleeping at night. It got so bad that he took a double dose of sleeping pills against the warning on the front of the bottle. Sleep dragged him deep into his pillow, but his dreams were active and weird.

He felt a fierce nudge in the ribs.

"Brad! Brad, wake up!"

He tried to crawl out of the dream, where he was being prodded into a corner by a barber holding a rat-tail comb.

"Brad! Wake up! You're hairy!"

"I am?" The drug haze receded, and he realized could see her in the dark. He felt his jaw and his ears. Thrilled, he leaped up and turned on the lights. They flooded his brain, much more light than he needed, but he wanted her to see. "See?" he said. "I told you." It came out "Grrr grrr gghhh." He tried again, but he didn't need to. Angela screamed, but more with delight than fear.

"Oh, my God, you're not going crazy!"

Bradley got control of his tongue, palate and vocal chords. "You thought I was?"

"Well, naturally I thought you were. Who believes in werewolves?"

"I do. You should, too. Look at me." He pounded his bulging chest.

Angela surveyed him up and down. Her eyes widened, then she got a coy look on her face.

"Who is this big, hairy creature in my bed? I certainly hope he's not going to attack me." She threw herself down among the pillows, arms up over her head. "Is he?"

Bradley could never resist it when she lay like that. He dived for her and wrapped her in his arms, mouthing her neck. She let out a shriek of delight.

Leaving her limp and satisfied, he jumped out of the window and ran through the neighborhood. He couldn't help bellowing his delight, hearing echoes in the deserted streets. There were some annoyed shouts and barking from distant dogs, but he didn't care. He felt great. The curse hadn't gone away. In fact, it had some fabulous fringe benefits.

Three days of the lunar month helped keep him sane at his job and managing the kids' full schedule of activity during the other twenty-five. Enthusiasm for Angela's new, hairy suitor made the marriage bed a more interesting place than it had been in years. Bradley also discovered his senses were boosted during the non-wolf times. He found things the kids had lost by smell. He cleared pests out of the yard, including the gopher he had been unable to unseat for years. The Endangered Species act wouldn't let him kill or harm it, but never said a damned thing about werewolf eviction. He had never been in better shape in his life. Three days of intense physical activity per month started to whittle away the suburban paunch. His muscle tone improved to the way it had been when he played soccer in school.

"I have to admit I'm envious," Angela said one evening, admiring his trim solar plexus. "Is there a way I can get in on this?"

"Should we have two…you-know-whats in the family?" Bradley asked.

"Why not? Frankenstein had his bride. How about the Wolfman?" She tickled the whiskers at the side of his jaw. He just couldn't resist that.

"I'll figure something out," Bradley promised. He would find Elanovitch. It was what Customs and Excise was best at, after all.

They had not told the kids yet. He was still trying to figure out how, but since Angela had taken the news so readily, he doubted the kids would have problems. It only interfered with their social life a little.

As the keeper of their social calendar, Angela was the one who coordinated with their friends for nights out. "No, sorry, we can't get together on Saturday," she told someone on the phone. "That's one of Brad's hairy days and we've got a date that night. Can you imagine what a mess he'd make of the Olive Garden? How about Tuesday instead?"

Bradley was a changed man at work. Instead of slinking in in the morning, he strutted. His supervisor noticed the boost in his confidence, handing him the tough cases. Instead of dreading them, Bradley came to enjoy them. He just pictured the head of his interviewee on the body of the yappy little neighbor dog, racing toward its house. His success rate soared.

"Newton," his boss barked at him. "Got a big problem for you. I want you to handle it yourself."

Brad was instantly on guard.

"What is it, sir?"

The supervisor's mouth went up in the corner. "Mr. Elanovitch is back," he said. "The guy just doesn't know when to quit. This time we've really got him."

Bradley matched his grin, and he felt the wild blood rising in his veins. But the practical side of him made itself felt, too.

"Say, sir, can we keep him until after moonrise?" Bradley asked, hoping he didn't sound too eager. "Mr. Elanovitch and I have a lot to talk about."

This story originally appeared in Strip-Mauled anthology, Baen Books, 2009.

Jody Lynn Nye lists her main career activity as "spoiling cats." She lives near Chicago with her current cat, Jeremy, and her husband, Bill. She has published more than 45 books, including collaborations with Anne McCaffrey and Robert Asprin, and over 150 short stories. Her latest books are Rhythm of the Imperium (Baen), Moon Beam (with Travis S. Taylor, Baen), and Myth-Fits (Ace). She also teaches the annual DragonCon Two-Day Writers Workshop.

Final Corrections

M. Bennardo

IN SEVERAL ITEMS YESTERDAY, the Visitor was variously described as having six legs, eight legs, or "an unholy agglomeration of writhing, thrashing appendages, unable to be counted." The correct number of legs is eight.

In our lead story, it was reported that electronics in the city and some suburbs had been disabled by an "electromagnetic pulse, or EMP." In fact, there was no such burst of radiation. Instead, the Visitor itself appears to be the source of a continuous emanation of radiation.

The extent of the Downtown Caldera was misstated. It is bounded roughly by the Boulevard of the Allies to the south and by Grant Street to the east, extending north through the former Cultural District as far as the Allegheny River. See map inset on A3.

We incorrectly reported that all bridges in the downtown and surrounding areas were impassable. In fact, at press time yesterday, the Birmingham Bridge and Hot Metal Bridge were intact. Since then, we are informed that the Visitor has pulverized both in the irresistible clutches its sixty-foot claws.

Moreover, those claws should not have been described as "adamantium." Adamantium is a fictional substance of impossible hardness and strength. Scientists we interviewed suggested "adamantium" as a proposed name for the so-far impenetrable armor of the Visitor, but those suggestions do not represent a scientific consensus.

One of our correspondents repeatedly and erroneously referred to the Downtown Caldera as a "yawning hellgate." In fact, it is not known whether the caldera is a gateway and, if so, whether it leads to Hell. In addition, the caldera is not surrounded by "curtains of sulfurous fog", but rather by the steam of the boiling river. Finally, descriptions of "omnipresent screams" in the area should not have attributed those screams to "the wailing souls of the dead and the damned."

Surviving city officials inform us that we misquoted the Mayor as saying, "It's the end times! It's the end times! Oh God, it's Judgment Day!" No alternate quotation was provided, and the Mayor himself could no longer be reached for additional comment.

We erroneously speculated on the line of succession through which emergency mayoral powers might pass in a crisis. Events have since proved that the City Clerk and Deputy City Clerk are not in the line of succession, as they are not elected officials.

The photograph of the Visitor curled up on the so-called "nest" it constructed of human skeletons was taken in Highland Park, not Frick Park as the caption stated. In addition, the photo was cropped against Times-Dispatch guidelines by an editor attempting to obscure viscera in the foreground. The uncropped photo is reproduced on A6. Warning: Viewing this photo may cause madness in the weak-minded.

The estimate for the number of eggs in the Visitor's nest should have read 10,000, not 1,000. Moreover, the incubation period for the eggs can now be confidently stated as approximately 16 hours.

Finally, we misspelled the name of Miriam Bethel, a member of the School Board of Directors, in our article about the failed levies. Her last name has only one "l".

Like all mankind today, we regret our errors.

This story originally appeared in Daily Science Fiction magazine, 2013.

M. Bennardo is the writer of over 50 published short stories, appearing in Asimov's Science Fiction, Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and others. He is also co-editor of the Machine of Death series of anthologies, including This Is How You Die from Grand Central Publishing.

Afterword

IF YOU ENJOYED these stories and would like to read more, Unidentified Funny Objects is an annual volume of stories just like these. Many of the authors featured in this book are regular contributors. There is also fiction by Robert Silverberg, George R. R. Martin, Gail Carriger, Piers Anthony, Kevin J. Anderson, David Gerrold, Neil Gaiman, and many other excellent and very funny writers.

Here are the Kindle links:

Funny Science Fiction

Featuring Ken Liu, Lavie Tidhar, Mike Resnick, Cat Rambo

Funny Fantasy

Featuring Gail Carriger, David Gerrold, Esther Friesner, Laura Resnick

Unidentified Funny Objects

Featuring Mike Resnick, Jody Lynn Nye, Lavie Tidhar, Ken Liu

Unidentified Funny Objects 2

Featuring Robert Silverberg, Esther Friesner, Jim C. Hines, Tim Pratt

Unidentified Funny Objects 3

Featuring Piers Anthony, Kevin J. Anderson, Gini Koch, Karen Haber

Unidentidied Funny Objects 4

Featuring George R. R. Martin, Neil Gaiman, Esther Friesner, Mike Resnick

Unidentified Funny Objects 5

Featuring David Gerrold, Esther Friesner, Jody Lynn Nye, Gini Koch

Coming soon:

Unidentified Funny Objects 6 (2017)

Funny Science Fiction 2 (2018)

About the editor

Alex Shvartsman is a writer, anthologist, translator, and game designer from Brooklyn, NY. He's the winner of the 2014 WSFA Small Press Award for Short Fiction and a finalist for the 2015 Canopus Award for Excellence in Interstellar Writing.

His short stories have appeared in Nature, InterGalactic Medicine Show, Daily Science Fiction, Galaxy’s Edge, and a variety of other magazines and anthologies.  His collection, Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories, and his steampunk humor novella H. G. Wells, Secret Agent were published in 2015.

In addition to the UFO series, he has edited the Humanity 2.0, Funny Science Fiction, Funny Fantasy, Coffee: 14 Caffeinated Tales of the Fantastic, and Dark Expanse: Surviving the Collapse anthologies. His website is www.alexshvartsman.com