Lisa Morton: Children of the Long Night

Dracula finds himself ever more disgusted with humanity and what it is becoming...

“C’MON, TET, YOU know you can’t spend the night here.”

The ragged man in filthy combat fatigues looked up from under his thin stringy hair. His real name was John Douglas Black, but he’d earned his street name by begging passers-by to “spare some change for a vet, man, I was in the Tet Offensive, had the skin on my back torched by napalm.” Tet didn’t appear to have any war injuries, but, on the other hand, no one had ever seen his back, either.

Tet staggered to his feet, half-leaning against the wall beside him for support. The two beat cops eyed him with a mix of disgust and pity, then the female one leaped forward to steady him when he almost fell.

“You all right, Tet? We can take you to a clinic, get you some help ...”

Tet flinched away from her hand. “Already been. They couldn’t do shit for me.”

The cop reluctantly let her partner lead her back to their car, the game finished for tonight. It was always the same—they knew Tet was one of the harmless ones, didn’t really want to roust him, but if they didn’t some Yuppie on his busy way back from the video store would complain, then they’d have to arrest Tet. It was easier this way for everyone.

Except Tet really did need help. Something was wrong with him. Every morning he awoke feeling weaker, more feverish. He wondered if he’d caught some disease from a rat—there were bite marks on his wrists, small gaping pink spots standing out from the grime.

Tet reached the side street and turned the corner. There was an alley down here that was little more than a walkway and trash storage between buildings. Tet could store himself there with all the rest of the garbage and no one cared.

He stumbled past the first two dumpsters, then let himself collapse. He was almost asleep when he realized he wasn’t alone. He looked up blearily and made out a figure standing over him, a silhouette. Then the blackness was dropping beside Tet, and he heard a noise, a hideous noise like a cross between a guttural laugh and an animal snarl.

He realized he’d been hearing that sound every night for nearly a week.

Lisa Morton: The Death of Splatter

‘Stumpfuckers?’

Lee Denny looks up from his laptop and has to stop himself from gaping: the woman who has stopped by his coffee shop table and is commenting on his book title isn’t really beautiful, but with her dark crimson hair, lean curves and hint-of-husk voice she’s certainly striking. She glances from the paperback book beside the laptop and empty coffee cup, up to Lee’s face. Lee manages a smile.

‘It’s a horror novel.’

She picks it up, scanning the cover art which shows a pen-and-ink drawing of a leering hunchback in overalls, and Lee’s name in a jagged font.

‘You’re reading this?’

‘I wrote it.’

She cocks her head and arches one eyebrow, then reads his name out loud.

‘That’s me.’

Her next question surprises him. ‘I’d like to read it.’

He’s embarrassed to realise that he has simultaneously become hard (thankfully under the table) and has flushed, heat enveloping his face, making him stumble on his words. ‘It’s . . . uh . . . pretty rough stuff.’

She glances at the book one last time, then sets it down. ‘Sounds good. I’ll pick one up.’

He tears off a piece of slightly wadded paper napkin, pulls a pen from his laptop case and scribbles down a URL for her. ‘You won’t find it at your average chain bookstore, but you can buy it online direct from the publisher.’

Lisa Morton: Sparks Fly Upward

My breath is corrupt, my days are extinct,

the graves are ready for me.

–Job 17:1

Blessed and holy is he that hath part in

the first resurrection…

–Revelations 20:6

June 16

Tomorrow marks one year ago that the Colony was begun here, and I think just about everyone is busy preparing for a big celebration. We just had our first real harvest two weeks ago, so there’ll be plenty of good things to eat, and as for drink - well, the product of George’s still is a little extreme for most tastes, so Tom and a few of the boys made a foray outside yesterday for some real liquor.

Of course I was worried when Tom told me he was going (and not even for something really vital, just booze), but he said it wasn’t so bad. The road was almost totally clear for the first five miles after they left the safety of the Colony, and even most of Philipsville, the pint-sized town where they raided a liquor store, was deserted. Tom said he shot one in the liquor store cellar when he went down there to check on the good wines; it was an old woman, probably the one-time shopkeeper’s wife locked away. Unfortunately, she’d clawed most of the good bottles off to smash on the floor. Tom took what was left, and an unopened case of good burgundy he found untouched in a corner. There are 131 adults in the Colony, and he figured he’d have a bottle for every two on Anniversary Day.

It’s been two weeks since any of the deadheads have been spotted near the Colony walls, and Pedro Quintero, our top marksman, picked that one off with one shot straight through the head from the east tower. It would be easy to fool ourselves into thinking the situation is finally mending… easy and dangerous, because it’s not. The lack of deadheads seen around here lately proves only one thing: That Doc Freeman was right in picking this location, away from the cities and highways.

Of course Doc Freeman was right - he’s right about everything. He said we should go this far north because the south would only keep getting hotter, and sure enough it’s been in the 80’s here for over a week now. I don’t want to think what it is down in L.A. now - probably 120, and that’s in the shade.

Lisa Morton: Poppi's Monster

Poppi had hurt her bad this time, worse than usual. She'd known it would be bad as soon as he'd walked in the door. It was after ten p.m., he was late and her baby-sitter Heather from down the street had left at seven.

She was sprawled in front of the blaring t.v., working on an ALADDIN coloring book she'd bought last year with lunch money she had secretly saved. She hadn't seen the movie, of course, but she liked to look at the bright printed scenes on the cover and the line drawings inside and pretend that she had. With her box of 64 Crayon colors, she could make the movie within the drawings look the way it did in her imagination. She liked the pictures in her head because they all hers, Poppi couldn't touch them.

When he'd come in he was muttering under his breath. He immediately crossed to the television set and lowered the volume to an inaudible level.

"Christ almighty, Stacey, you always have to blast the goddamn t.v.? Last thing I need is some complaint from the neighbors."

As he turned, his foot kicked the box of Crayons, and they flew in a multihued arc across the room. "Aw, what is this... ?"

Poppi picked up the coloring book, glanced at it once and then shook it in her face. "Stacey, how many times do I have to tell you, you're too old for this nonsense. You're ten years old, too old to play with this little-kid bullshit."

Stacey heard her Crayons crack under his shoes. Vermilion, Burnt Sienna, Cornflower Blue, three broken colors she'd never use again.