Vampires Save the Night, page 23
And Walker still wanted to protect it — all of it: that youth, and the gift of the trees that did not belong to them, and the other gift, the one Zivko had given. Walker wanted to live. And that was a new gift. One Krik had brought in place of poison. Unable to run out of breath, they kept walking for a long time.
By the time Walker returned to Greenhouse One, Krik had finished potting all the new samples.
“Here to check my work?”
“No, I trust you,” said Walker from what was, to Krik, the ceiling.
Krik laughed wetly, shaking his head.
“Nothing they told me about you was true.”
***
The days after passed calmly, companionably, Walker teaching Krik everything they knew about the plants as they made their daily rounds — this time with no urgency, and no dread. A new routine was forming, and it was not as quiet, and Walker felt more awake than they had for many years. And while Walker spent some time alone each day, walking in Greenhouse Two, they didn’t speak again about Krik’s mission. He still felt guilty about it, though. Walker could tell by the way he tried so hard to be useful.
One morning Walker entered Greenhouse Six, the fungi house, to find Krik already there.
“Krik, good morning. I thought you must be sleeping in. What are you doing here so early?”
Krik sneezed, then composed himself and turned around.
“Well, you always do the greenhouses in order, so I figured, if I start in number Twelve, and you start in One, we could meet halfway and be done in half the time.” He grinned, proud of his scheme.
Walker chuckled. It was just so human.
“And what do you plan to do with the rest of the day, when you’ve freed up the time?”
Krik blushed slightly. “I don’t know.” His eyebrows bent comically as he scratched at his arm. “You’re not pleased? I was trying to help.”
“That’s very kind of you. But Krik, the idea isn’t to finish. You’ll drive yourself crazy up here if you start getting everything done quickly. Anyway, the plants have their own schedule. It doesn’t help to rush it. Life here isn’t about efficiency, it’s more about … consistency. I understand if that sounds boring to you.”
“It doesn’t,” said Krik, embarrassed but determined. “I can do that.” He pushed a curl of hair out of his eyes and sniffed, rubbing his nose, then set about treating the soil of Laccaria amethystine.
“Good. Anyway, I don’t want you wandering the greenhouses on your own, remember?”
Krik nodded and scratched his arm again.
“What’s wrong with your arm?”
Krik moved his hands to his sides right away. “Nothing. It’s just a little dry.”
“You have a rash? This is exactly —”
“I’m fine.” Krik sniffed again, but his tone was final. Walker gave him a look, but backed off, preparing a pipette of their own. It was a strange, but not wholly unpleasant feeling, to be worried about him.
“Do you think Earth will ever recover?” Krik asked, focused on the purple mushrooms in front of him.
“I hope so. It might take a lot of time. But I can wait.”
Walker turned to Krik to offer a reassuring smile, but found Krik looking at them intensely.
“Make me a vampire.”
Walker’s smile dropped away. They felt as though the gravity in the greenhouse had malfunctioned, heavy and weightless at the same time.
“Krik …”
“Please.”
“Please don’t ask that of me.” What a hypocrite they were.
“I wouldn’t have any more allergies,” Krik said, with the tone of a child selling their parents on the benefits of getting a dog.
“If you’re feeling sick —”
Krik shook his head, losing his playful tone. “I want to change.”
“I’m not sure it changes you,” said Walker gently. “It just … freezes you.”
“I want to be like you. Don’t you understand?”
“For me, it was a means to an end.”
“Then I deserve it even more,” said Krik. The words hit Walker like a bucket of ice. They had said the same to Zivko once, eyes set on their own ambition, their dream of the stars.
“Krik, everything you knew to be true about this turned out to be false mere days ago.”
“But you wouldn’t be the only one anymore! You wouldn’t be alone!”
“You really don’t know anything about us.” It was an observation, not a judgment, but Walker saw Krik misunderstand as soon as they said it.
“You don’t think I could handle it. You don’t think I’m worthy.”
“It’s not about being worthy —”
“What, then?”
“Can we just both agree not to kill each other for now?” Walker wasn’t proud of using Krik’s guilt to end the conversation, but they were relieved when it worked all the same.
***
Walker watched in amusement as Krik luxuriated in the taste of the strawberries. It never seemed to get old to him, even though Walker suspected the fruit was responsible for Krik’s rash. Walker tried to think of anything they’d felt that way about before, when they were human, but all they could think of was Zivko.
Noticing Krik’s likes and dislikes gave Walker a strange, warm pride. It made them want to tease him.
“They’re like your religion.”
Krik laughed. The laughs came easier now, and Walker felt pride at this, too.
“You’re one to talk, you worship the plants.”
It was Walker’s turn to laugh.
“I look after them.”
“Right, they worship you.”
“No, they just live with me. That is so much better.”
“I could live with you, too,” said Krik more seriously. “I could stay. I could help.”
“You are, Krik. You can stay as you are.” Wasn’t that enough? It was more than Walker had hoped for.
Maybe I should tell him, Walker thought. They justified their reticence by reminding themself that just a few days ago, this human wanted them dead. But the real reason was closer to grief than fear. They had promised to keep the secret, and now that they were the last, that secret was all that tethered them to the others, to Zivko.
It was clear that the world’s governments had kept it, too. After all, it wouldn’t do for people to know that the creatures they had been saved from had been so harmless, so few. And what good would it do now—to Krik, who himself was harmless, innocent, and already felt such guilt? There was nothing he could do with the knowledge. He had already saved the only vampire who could be saved. His alien.
Walker made a joke instead.
“Or you can return to Earth and go back to eating plastic or whatever it is you do there. I won’t be offended, I promise.”
Krik laughed, the easy laugh Walker had grown accustomed to, and Walker relaxed. Then Krik’s breath snagged, and the laugh became a cough. Red splattered across Walker’s face. At first, Walker thought of the strawberries — but they could never mistake the smell of blood.
Krik wheezed to a stop and stared at Walker as though he didn’t understand what he was seeing.
“You’ve got blood on your face,” he said, before looking down at his bloody hand. His hand shook — his whole body shook. “Walker?” Fear tinged his voice, a child’s voice.
Walker steadied him, placing a hand over his forehead.
“Your hands are cold,” said Krik through chattering teeth. “Is that a vampire thing?”
“You’ve got a fever, Krik. You’re not well.” Walker helped Krik to his room and set him down on his bed, then ran a scan, green light illuminating Krik from beneath. Krik shivered and coughed. Blood and mucus coated his chin. Walker turned him onto his side and wiped his mouth with a cloth before checking the readings.
“Invasive aspergillosis.”
“What’s that?”
Walker scrolled for more information.
“There are mold spores in your lungs.”
“Mold spores?” Krik groaned.
“You must have inhaled something in the fungi house.” Walker shook their head angrily. They should have been more careful.
“There’s medicine, right?” said Krik, eyes like saucers.
“Yes,” said Walker, hoping it wasn’t a lie. They consulted their control pad again. Antifungal medication can be administered via inhaler or injection.
“You stay still, I’ll see what we have.”
Walker ran back to the common area and opened the medical cabinet. It was not very full. No one had ever anticipated illness on the Birnam International Space Station. All Walker found was gauze, creams, and stitches — treatment for flesh wounds. Nothing ingestible or injectable to treat the more vulnerable inner workings of the human body.
Walker returned to Krik’s room and knelt beside him, squeezing his hand.
“Krik, did you bring a first aid kit?”
Krik nodded between spasms. “In the ship.”
“Okay, I’m going to go have a look.”
“Walker.” Krik’s voice was already getting weaker. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be right back.”
Walker hurried to the docking bay and into Krik’s pod. They located the first aid kit easily, but found it nearly as limited as the cabinets in the station.
If medication is not successful, the patient will require lung surgery.
“I can’t perform surgery!” Walker hurled the first aid kit at the wall of the pod. It never reached the wall; the bandages scattered, drifting in the low-gravity room like reluctant confetti. Walker tried to calm themself.
The plants. Surely there was some antidote that could be made. They scanned the greenhouses from their control pad, but the inventory came up negative for the needed ingredients.
Walker gazed hopelessly at the floating bandages, feeling just as useless. They snatched a bottle of pills out of the air. For the relief of fever, swelling, and pain.
Pain.
Walker gathered the scattered contents of the kit and ran back to Krik, who was growing delirious.
“Walker? Is that you? You look funny.”
“It’s me. I’m going to give you a shot for the pain, Krik, okay? Try to relax.” Walker prepared a syringe according to the instructions on their pad and administered a corticosteroid injection in his right arm. It was not so different from treating soil.
“Can you drink some water?”
Walker gave Krik some pills for the fever and held the glass while Krik washed them down. “Drink as much as you can.”
Walker sat with Krik until he fell into a shallow sleep, his breaths still weak but evening out. Still, his body trembled.
Walker’s control pad informed them that Krik’s kidneys were failing. He had hours.
Walker wiped Krik’s face again and went to Greenhouse Two.
One of the strangest things about space, Walker mused, as they walked through the artificial forest, pretending it was real, somewhere they could get lost — was the absence of ruins. The forest may have grown tall, but it held no lightning-struck shells of ancient trees. No creatures scurried through the leaves. No wind. No breath.
Walker remembered the same overwhelming stillness the morning they awoke to their new life, utterly breathless, with Zivko’s body pressed against them — so, so, still. His upper canines had fallen out, lay bloody on the pillow like a child’s eager offerings. No fairy had come to replace them with shiny coins.
Needing to understand, Walker had gone to the museum to find its curator, one of the few other vampires they knew. She was very old and very good at catching fakes. Walker had sat, gazing blankly at Edvard Munch’s Vampire, until she found them.
“Zivko’s dead, then,” she’d said as she sat beside them. She had a young face and the voice of an old woman whose friends were all dying, year by year.
“It’s a gift,” she’d told them. “You can’t keep it once you give it away.”
Walker remembered being struck by the gentleness of the painting. It held no violence, no shock. With another title, it might have simply been two people in a comforting embrace. Apologizing, perhaps, forgiving.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Humans tolerate us now, but they fear us. If they knew that we can’t multiply ….”
Now, her fear had come to pass. She was gone, Zivko was gone — they all were. Walker was the only one left. And they were the only one who could save Krik. Was it a better fate, leaving him to be the last in Walker’s place? Young and ambitious and lonely and hopeful, just as Walker had been.
Zivko had been too afraid to tell Walker the truth, to offer them an impossible choice — even as he’d worried Walker would hate him for taking that choice away. With their last breath, Walker had promised not to. What they hadn’t known was how they would hate themself. Because they could never be sure what they would have chosen: to stay with him, grounded, dying slowly while Zivko didn’t age; or lose the love of their life and fulfil their dream, alone.
They remembered their own words so long ago, ignorant and sure. Trust me, I know what I want.
Krik had said near the same thing, just as foolish, just as certain. And now Walker had to make a choice.
Their control pad beeped. Krik was awake.
Walker left the greenhouse and paused on the bridge back to the central unit, looking out the large window into space, that unchanging and infinite vista they had looked at now for more than two lifetimes, themself unchanging and seemingly infinite. But Krik was right; change was necessary. Krik had inherited turbulence the way Walker had inherited stillness — because that’s what it was, they realized: an inheritance. And maybe survival meant giving the next generation a turn.
When Walker returned, Krik was awake, but his eyes were unfocused, his breathing shallow. Walker knelt beside his bed and took his hand.
“Walker?” he croaked. “Why are you crying? Is it that bad?”
Walker hadn’t noticed. They wiped their own face before smoothing a fresh damp cloth gently over Krik’s.
“No. I was just … thinking about the bees.”
“What?”
“The reason I cried,” Walker said, desperate for Krik to understand, yet still unable to tell him, “was for the bee. Because I knew that they died after they stung.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re going to be okay, Krik. I’m going to cure you.”
“How?” Krik swallowed around the phlegm.
“I’m going to make you like me, a vampire. Okay?”
Krik’s eyes widened. He nodded, tried to smile but coughed. Walker shushed him, wiped his mouth before tossing the flannel away and stroking a hand through his sweaty hair.
Krik looked up at them, his eyes two planets lost in space.
“Will it hurt?” His voice was wracked with wheezes.
Walker gave him an honest smile — teeth and all.
“Like a bee sting. Nothing more.”
About the Contributors
Hugh Alan is an author-illustrator obsessed with the macabre and all things Victorian. He attended the University of Kentucky College of Fine Arts for drawing and illustration. His work is a mix of dark fantasy and historical fiction, lavishly illustrated by his trademark pen and ink illustrations. He is bipolar, a suicide survivor, and lives in Kentucky with his wife and two daughters. He does marketing and communications for the local library and teaches Kung-Fu and Tai Chi as an 8th-degree blackbelt.
His work has appeared in Madam Gray’s Graveyard of Blood by Hellbound Books, Love Letters to Poe: Tales Torn from the Heart, Beast Hunt Vol. 2 from Three Ravens Publishing, and Harvey Duckman Presents: On a Different Tuesday. His new book, Wee William Witchling, is available at online retailers. You can visit him at quietlyquixotic.com
Paul 'Mutartis' Boswell is a multi-disciplinary artist residing in Somerset in the South West of the UK. Early influences are horror movies and comics, punk rock, and fairy tales amongst a myriad of cultural trash input from the 1970s and 80s. He has drawn, as most artists have from early childhood, and developed a strong habit for drawing and painting often drawn to the weirder and more gothic aspects of the imagination.
Paul has been involved in many artistic pursuits, including creating record covers, and was heavily involved in the graffiti art scene in the 90s through to the 2000s, which encouraged him to work fast and under duress.
He has travelled to many parts of the world with his art, including San Francisco and the West coast of the USA, where he created art and backdrops for record companies and party organisers in the late 90s.
He has exhibited in Helsinki, Finland and in the West Coast of the USA, and has been involved in group shows in France.
More recently Paul has found a niche within the Weird Fiction scene and has been creating book covers and illustrations for many publications in this field.
In addition, Paul runs a successful screenprinting company that uses traditional screenprinting techniques and eco-friendly materials.
Paul also plays the bass guitar with various underground music projects.
Boswellart.bigcartel.com
Boswellart.blogspot.com
Rebecca Buchanan is the editor of the Pagan literary ezine, Eternal Haunted Summer. Her poetry, short fiction, and novellas have appeared in a variety of venues. Her most recent publications include A Witch Among Wolves: Fantastical Stories and Blood, Honey, Snow: A Tale of Murder at the Edge of the World.
Ibai Canales was born somewhere in the stormy mountains of Spain in the early ‘80s, and has managed to survive until now by drawing and writing stuff, mostly horror and sci-fi oriented, and sometimes teaching people how to fight at a local gym. He is on several social media platforms, but he uses them mostly to complain about things and troll people.
Scott J. Couturier is a Rhysling-nominated poet and prose writer of the weird, liminal, and darkly fantastic. His work has appeared in numerous venues, including The Audient Void, Spectral Realms, Tales from the Magician’s Skull, Space and Time Magazine, Cosmic Horror Monthly, Weirdbook, and Eternal Haunted Summer. His book of short stories The Box is available from Hybrid Sequence Media, while his collection of speculative poetry I Awaken in October: Poems of Folk Horror and Halloween is available from Jackanapes Press.
