Vampires: The Recent Undead (9 page)

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Apples saw Gage’s eyes move under his lids. She didn’t get up from where she was kneeling on the ground beside his shoulder, just reached over for her now-sharpened stake and lifted it. Gage’s eyes opened.

“How . . . how do you live with yourself . . . ?” he asked.

Apples shivered. She’d never stopped to think that he could actually hear everything she’d been saying. She’d only talked to pass the time. Because there was no one else she could talk to about it.

“The only other choice is where you’re going,” she said.

“I welcome it.”

When he said that, forgotten memories returned to her. The nightmare she’d had to undergo through her own three days of change from dead human to what she was now. It was like swimming through mud, trying to escape the clinging knowledge of the worst that people were capable of doing to each other, but drowning in it at the same time. Not for three days, but for what felt like an eternity. It had been such a horrifying experience that the only way she’d managed to deal with it was by simply blocking it away.

How had she forgotten?

Better yet, how could she forget it again? The sooner the better.

“That’s because you’re a loser,” she said.

“And you’re going to do this to your sister.”

“You don’t know anything about me or my sister!”

She brought the stake down harder than necessary. Long after he was dead, she was still leaning over him, pressing the stake down.

Finally, she let it go and rocked back onto her ankles. She got up and dragged his body back into the car, wiped the vehicle down for any fingerprints she might have left in it. She soaked a rag in gas, stuck it in the gas tank, and lit it.

She was out of sight of the car and walking fast when the explosion came. She didn’t turn to look, but only kept walking. Her mind was in that dark place Gage had called back into existence.

How could she put Cassie through that?

But how could she go on, forever, alone?

For the first time since she’d been turned, she didn’t know what to do.

Two: Cassandra

Apples has a secret and I know what it is.

Her real name’s Appoline, but everybody calls her Apples, just like they call me Cassie instead of Cassandra, except for Mom. She always calls us by our given names. But that’s not the secret. It’s way bigger than having some weird name.

My sister is so cool—not like I could ever be.

I was born with a congenital birth defect that left me with one leg shorter than the other so I have to wear this Frankenstein monster leg brace all the time. At least that’s what the kids call it. “Here comes the bride of Frankenstein,” they used to say when I came out for recess—I was always last to get outside. I’m glad Apples doesn’t know, because she’d beat the crap out of them and you can’t do that just ’cause people call you names.

I’ve also got asthma real bad, so I always have to carry my puffer around with me. Even if I didn’t have the leg brace and could run, the asthma wouldn’t let me. I get short of breath whenever I try to do anything too strenuous, but I’m lucky ’cause I’ve only had to go the hospital a few times when an attack got too severe.

I know you shouldn’t judge people by their physical attributes, but we all do, don’t we? And if you just aren’t capable of simple things like walking or breathing properly, you’re not even in the running so far as most people are concerned. People see any kind of a disability and they immediately think your brain’s disabled as well. They talk to me slower and never really listen to what I’m saying.

Oh, I’m not feeling sorry for myself. Honest. I’m just being pragmatic. I’m always going to be this dorky kid with the bum leg who can’t breathe. I could live to be eighty years old, with a whole life behind me, but inside, that’s who I’ll always be.

But Apples has never seen or treated me that way, not even when we have a fight, which isn’t that often anyway. I know that sounds odd, because siblings are just naturally supposed to argue and fight, but we don’t. We get along and share pretty much everything. Or at least we did up until the night of that Bryan Adams concert. She went with a bunch of friends and then didn’t come back from until four days later. Boy, were Mom and Dad mad. I was just really worried, and then I guess I felt hurt because she wouldn’t tell me where she’d been.

“It’s not that I won’t,” she’d tell me. “It’s that I can’t. That chunk of time is just like this big black hole in my head.”

But I know she remembers something from it. She just doesn’t think I can handle whatever it was.

And that was when she changed. Not slowly, over time, like everybody does, you get older, you stop playing with Barbies, start listening to real music. But bang, all of a sudden. She was always fun, but after that four-day-long night out, she became this breezy, confident person that I still adored, but felt I had to get to know all over again.

That wouldn’t be a problem, but she also got all
X-Files
, too. All mysterious about simple things. Like I’ll never forget her face when I announced just before dinner one day that I was now a vegetarian. I simply couldn’t condone the slaughter of innocent animals just so that I could live. “You are what you eat,” I told them, not understanding Apples’s anguished expression until much later.

And Easter was particularly weird when it came around the following year. Used to be her favorite holiday, bar none, but that year she claimed she’d developed a phobia towards it and wouldn’t have anything to do with any of it. When Dad asked why, she said with more exasperation than usual, “That’s why they call it a phobia, Dad. It’s an
unreasonable
fear.”

Okay, maybe those aren’t the best examples, but when you add everything together. Like there was this period when I thought she was bulimic, but although she was throwing up a lot after meals, she didn’t have any of the other symptoms. She never seems overly concerned about her weight, she doesn’t lose weight. In fact, she just seems to keep getting stronger and healthier all the time. So I couldn’t figure out what and where she was eating.

She also stopped having a period. I caught her throwing out unused tampons one day around the time she was usually menstruating, so I watched out for it the next month, but she threw them out then, too, like she didn’t want anyone to know that she wasn’t still using them. It seemed unlikely that she was pregnant—and as the months went by, it was obvious she wasn’t—and she sure couldn’t be hitting menopause.

By now you’re thinking I’m this creepy kid, always spying on my sister, but it’s not like that. I came across all these things by accident. The only reason I looked further into them was that I was worried. Wouldn’t you have been, if it was happening to your sister? And the worst was I had no one to talk to about it. I couldn’t bring it up with my parents, I sure wasn’t going to talk about it to anyone outside of the family, and I couldn’t begin to think of a way to ask Apples herself. I couldn’t follow her around either, not with my leg brace and having to catch my breath all the time. So while I know she snuck out at night, I could never follow to see where she was going, what she was doing.

I got to thinking, maybe I should write one of those anonymous letters to an advice columnist. The only reason I thought of that is that I’m just this help column junkie—Dear Abby, Ann Landers, the “Sex & Body” and “Hard Questions” columns in
Seventeen
. My favorite is Dan Savage’s “Savage Love” which runs in
Xpress,
our local alternative weekly, though Mom and Dad’d probably kill me if they knew I was reading it. I mean, it’s all about sex and gay stuff and I know I’m never going to have a boyfriend—who wants the Frankenstein monster on their arm?—but I still figure it’s stuff I should know.

Imagine writing in to one of them with my problem. I’d try Dan first.

Dear Dan,

My sister doesn’t eat or menstruate anymore, but she’s not losing weight, nor is she pregnant. She has a phobia about Easter and sneaks out of the house late at night, going I don’t know where.

I’m not trying to butt into her life, but I’m really worried. What do you think is wrong with her? What can I do?

Confused in Ottawa

What’s wrong with her? I started to think that the answer lay in one of those cheesy old sci-fi or horror movies that they run late at night. That she’d become a pod person or a secret monster of some kind. Except not in a bad way. She’s not mean to me, or anyone else that I can see. She’s just . . . weird.

And then on my sixteenth birthday, I find out. It’s after the big dinner and presents and everything. I’m lying on my bed, looking up at the ceiling and trying to figure out why I don’t feel different—I mean, turning sixteen’s supposed to be a big deal, right?—when Apples comes in and closes the door behind her. I scoot up so that I’m leaning against a pillow propped up at my headboard. She props the other pillow up and lies down beside me. We’ve done this a thousand times, but tonight it feels different.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” she says and my head fills up with worry and questions that only gets worse when she goes on to add, “I’m a vampire.”

I turn to look at her.

“Oh, please.”

“No, really,” she says.

As she starts to explain how it all began after that concert when she did her four-day mystery jaunt, all the oddities and weirdnesses of the past few years start to make sense—or at least they make sense if I’m willing to accept the basic premise that my sister’s turned into a teenage Draculetta.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me before?” I ask.

“I wanted to wait until you were the same age as I was when I . . . got turned.”

“But
why
?”

“Because I want to turn you.”

She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed now, facing me, her face so earnest.

“If you get changed,” she goes on, “you can get rid of both your leg brace and your puffer.”

“Really?”

I can’t imagine life without them. The chance to be normal. Then I catch myself. Normal, but dead.

But Apples is nodding, a big grin stretching her lips. She holds out her right hand, pointer finger extended.

“Remember when I lost my nail in volleyball practice?” she asks. “The whole thing came right off.”

I nod. It was so gross.

“Well, look,” she says, still waving her finger in front of my face. “It’s all healed.”

“Apples,” I say. “That was four years ago. Of
course
it’s healed.”

“I mean it healed when I changed. I had no fingernail the night I went to the concert, but there it was when I came back four days later. The . . . woman who changed me, she said the change heals anything.”

“So you’re just going to bite me or something and I become like you?”

She nods. “But we have to work this out just right. It takes three days before you’re changed, so we’ll have to figure out how and where we can do that so that no one gets suspicious. But don’t worry. I’ll be there for you the whole time, watching over you.”

“And then we’ll live forever?”

“Forever sixteen.”

“What about Mom and Dad?”

“We can’t tell them,” she says. “How could we even begin to explain this to them?”

“You’re explaining it to me.”

But she shakes her head. “They wouldn’t understand—how could they?”

“The same way you think I can.”

“It’s not the same.”

“So we live forever, but Mom and Dad just get old and die?”

She gets this look on her face that tells me she never thought it out that far.

“We can’t change everybody,” she says after a long moment.

“Why not?”

“Because then there’d be no one left for us to . . . ”

“What?” I ask when her voice trails off.

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, won’t meet my gaze.

“To feed on,” she says finally. I guess I pull a face, because she quickly adds, “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

She’s already told me a whole lot of things about the differences between real vamps and the ones in the books and movies, but drinking blood’s still part of the deal and I’m sorry, but it still sounds gross.

Apples get up from the bed. She looks—I don’t know. Embarrassed. Sad. Confused.

“I guess you need some time to process all of this stuff I’ve been telling you,” she says.

I give her a slow nod. I’d say something, but I don’t know what. I feel kind of overloaded.

“Okay, then,” she says and she leaves me in my bedroom.

I slouch back down on the bed and stare at the ceiling again, thinking about everything she’s told me.

My sister’s a vampire. How weird is that?

Does she still have a soul?

I guess that’s a bizarre question in some ways. I mean, do any of us have souls? It’s like asking, Who is God?, I guess. The best answer I’ve heard to that is when Deepak Chopra says, “Who is asking?” It makes sense that God would be different to different people, but also different to you, depending on who you are at the time you’re asking.

I guess I believe we have souls. And when we die, they go on. But what that means for Apples, I don’t know. She’s dead, but she’s still here.

She’s different now—but she’s still the big sister I knew growing up. There’s just more to her now. Maybe it’s like asking “Who is God?” She’s who she is depending on who I am when I’m wondering about her.

Sometimes I think it’s only kids that wonder about existential stuff like this. Grown-ups always seem to be worried about money, or politics, or just stuff that has physical presence. It’s like somewhere along the way they lost the ability to think about what’s inside them.

Here’s a story I like: one day Ramakrishna, this big-time spiritual leader back in the nineteenth century, is praying, when he suddenly has this flash that what he’s doing is meaningless. He’s looking for God, but already everything is God—the rituals he’s using, the idols, the floor under him, the walls,
everything
. Wherever he looks, he sees God. And he’s just so blown away by this, he can’t find the words to express it. All he can do is dance, like, for hours. This joyful Snoopy whirling and dervishing and spinning.