to change some things around in there. I’m betting that your cancer just met up with my vampire whatever-the-hell. And the vampire cells are eating it whole.”
Delia didn’t, couldn’t, believe it. “Sam, things don’t change like that. You can’t just wave a magic wand and make cancer go away.”
“No magic wands here. Just a biological process we haven’t figured out yet. The cancer will probably fester somewhere, maybe come back even stronger. The body has its own little dates with destiny, and nothing short of full change will derail that train. A bite, though, is more potent than any medicine yet devised. Feel it. You know I’m right.”
“No one said anything about that.”
“It’s not something we talk about. The trick is to find someone who doesn’t know they’re sick. The trick is to do your little deed and get out clean. Here’s the thing. I need you. I’m not ready to just be not human yet. I can’t let go of everything until . . . until I don’t know.”
Delia put her hand where the pain had so recently existed. Maybe it was temporary. She’d gladly take temporary. Any version of today without the gnashing jaws inside her counted as a blessing. “I guess you saved me.”
“You can call it enlightened self-interest if you want. I hope you see it as more than that.”
Delia let out her breath. Wetness touched her cheeks. Not much, but enough to break her rule about crying at work. “I do. You can stay until you’re ready, as long as you need. I won’t turn you away, Sam.”
“Thanks.” Sam offered his hand, hoisting her up easily. He turned, beginning to wipe down the soda machine with his cleaning cloth. Delia pulled him away from it, turning him around so that she could look him in the eyes.
“Night work, Sam. Don’t be a damned fool.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and gave a sardonic little grin. “All right. I’ve still got work in the back, anyway.” He moved off in that direction, an orange cloth tucked into his ratty jeans, her own little monster.
“And Sam,” she called after him.
“Yeah?”
“No more biting me, ’K?”
“Not unless you ask me, boss.”
Delia went to the counter and looked out at the fluorescent-lit parking lot, watching Wally Patterson slide his gas card into the slot at the pump, then begin fueling his rusted Chevy. Asking him? Wouldn’t ever happen. Her fear of death didn’t rule her so much that she’d beg for his fangs again. She would stand or fall as she was now, no less human than the night found her. She’d be glad of whatever painless days she had left. After that? She’d grit her teeth and face the fate of every human, that unbreakable appointment with the dirt.
As Wally drove away, though, a hush fell over the store. Ten minutes before closing time, and only the sound of the cold case refrigeration unit called. Delia’s hand lingered near the power switch for the old radio next to the cigarette case, but never turned it on. She picked up the dog-eared paperback someone had left atop a gas pump two days earlier, perched on a stool, and watched the clock. The book rested between her palms, unopened. She found herself looking toward the closed door into the back room, wondering. Thinking of those beautiful, volcanic eyes, and the knowledge that the fangs didn’t hurt that much. For the first time in so long, she had hope again. She’d almost forgotten how that felt.
LAST CONTACT
M. C. SUMNER
It’s nightmare fuel. Maybe even ultimate nightmare fuel. A huge starship appears, floating silently and impossibly still, casting a shadow over some earthly city. And then . . . nothing good, that’s for sure.
No matter how the next act plays out, no matter if whatever lives inside the ship goes through the motions of being Just Like Us, while hiding their toothy lizard faces behind masks, or if they move straight to nuking the White House, it’s never good. They’re here for our water. They’re here for our world. They’re here for our women. They’re here to test out their recipe for human au gratin.