THE PICK-UP

THE PICK-UP
Lawrence Watt-Evans

He seemed like a nice guy, and he certainly looked pretty good—a little overweight, a little pale, not as young as he might be, but so what? His hair was thick and dark and slicked back, with sideburns and a bit of a cowlick, and he had that lovely smooth voice and charming accent—Tennessee, was it? A singer’s voice, she thought. The sunglasses at night were a bit odd, but she didn’t let that bother her.

She didn’t ordinarily let strangers pick her up in bars, but here she was, newly divorced, and why not? It’s not as if the bar was full of good prospects; in point of fact, it was almost deserted. And this fellow had such a pleasant smile, a little crooked, but charming; he seemed somehow familiar, as if she had known him all her life, though she was sure she had never actually seen him before. He would do fine.

Still, she had years of habit to overcome, and she fidgeted nervously with her necklace as he gave her an obvious line about what a beautiful night it was, it ought to be shared, maybe they could take a walk together.

Then the little silver crucifix popped out of her decolletage as she twisted the chain around her finger, and he suddenly shut up and cringed away.

“Hey,” she said, offended, “What’s the problem? You have something against Catholics?”

“No, ma’am,” he said hastily, a hand raised as if to ward her off. “It’s not that. Could you…could you put that away, please? I’m sorry to have bothered you…” He started to get up from his stool.

She frowned, puzzled, and tucked the cross out of sight. “Don’t go,” she said, putting one hand on his. “If it’s not that I’m a Catholic, what is the problem? Am I ugly or something?” She knew this wasn’t the way the game was played, but she was out of practice and honestly baffled. “I mean, you’re acting like you’re a vampire or something, scared of a cross!”

Warily, still ready to flee, he said, “Yes’m, I am a vampire.” He opened his mouth wide and displayed the teeth she had noticed earlier. “See?”

She had to admit that those eye-teeth did look like fangs, but still…

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

He shrugged, an odd, loose-jointed gesture that seemed to involve his entire upper body. “Care to come for a walk, then?” he asked.

“Um.” She glanced down at the necklace, then back at those teeth. “Maybe not tonight.”

He started to turn away, and she caught his hand again. So he was a bit weird—that made him interesting, and after eight years with boring old Bruce, that was a big plus, as far as she was concerned.

On the other hand, there was no need to rush.

“Look, I might be busy tonight,” she said, “but what about next Friday?” That would give her time to think it over. She could stand him up if she decided it was dangerous.

“Next Fr…oh, no, ma’am, I couldn’t. That’s the full moon.”

She stared at him. “So what?” she asked.

“So…well, I have other things to do when the moon is full.”

“What things? I thought you said you were a vampire.”

“That’s right, darlin’.”

“Well, it’s not vampires who worry about the full moon, it’s werewolves! You need to get your story straight.”

“I have it straight,” he said, holding up his free hand. She noticed that the first two fingers were exactly the same length, which looked a bit odd, but she didn’t know what she was supposed to see.

He saw her puzzlement and said, “I’m a werewolf, too. Y’see, darlin’, I tried to suck a werewolf’s blood once, and he bit me, and anyone who survives a werewolf’s bite becomes a werewolf himself.” He sighed. “Up to then, I hadn’t realized that included vampires.”

“So you’re a vampire most of the time, and a werewolf on the full moon?”

“Oh, I’m always a vampire—even when I’m a wolf. So my wolf side makes me eat raw meat, and my vampire side makes me throw up everything but the blood.” He shook his head. “It isn’t any fun at all.”

“That’s silly,” she said.

He shrugged. “Sometimes life is silly.”

“So if you bit me,” she asked, “would I become a werewolf, or a vampire? Or both?”

“Well, darlin’, that would depend on whether you survived it or not. Werewolves are alive, vampires are dead—or undead, anyway. If you lived, you’d be a werewolf. If you died of blood loss, you’d be a vampire.” He looked around. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“So why are you? Why didn’t you just make up a lie? Assuming, of course, that you’re telling the truth.”

“Oh, I don’t know—I guess I just wanted to talk to someone. It’s lonely, being what I am.”

“Well, but there must be other vampires…”

“Not that I know of.”

She blinked. “But you said…”

“I try not to make new vampires. Too dangerous. If there were a lot of us running around, people would start believing in us and would track us down and destroy us. After all, we’re helpless during the day.”

“Then there must be other werewolves.”

He shook his head.

“But how…”

“Let’s talk about somethin’ else.”

So they talked about other things, but all the while she was thinking, remembering the recent news reports that were one reason the singles bars weren’t crowded.

At last, though, he got up and said, “I really have to go. The sun will be rising soon.”

“It’s been nice talking to you,” she said, letting him go.

Or seeming to.

Hours later, with the sun low in the west, she crept up to his coffin, stake in one hand, hammer in the other, her crucifix prominently displayed on her chest. She had followed him home easily enough, but it had taken her almost the entire day to equip herself and break into the basement apartment.

The figure in the coffin appeared utterly lifeless, and she knew the sun was on the horizon and sinking fast, but still, she hesitated.

Then she put down the hammer and stake, reached into her bag, and pulled out a .45-caliber revolver. Holding it carefully in both hands, she fired six silver bullets into his chest.

That done, she dropped the gun, reached for the hammer and stake.

This time, when she neared the coffin, his eyes were open. If she hadn’t believed him before, she did now—no ordinary nut would wake up after taking six slugs in the chest.

“What are you doin’, darlin’?” he asked.

“Ridding the world of a menace,” she said, setting the point of the wooden shaft against the mangled and powder-burnt remains of his shirt, just left of center.

“But I…you didn’t…”

Her hands were shaking. “Shut up, damn it!” she said. “Are you going to claim you’re not the Silver Strangler? Isn’t that how you keep your victims from becoming werewolves or vampires? You said that if they died of blood loss they’d become vampires—but not if you strangle them! And the silver coins and garlic in the mouth are just to make sure, right?”

“Well, yes…”

She swung the hammer, and the stake punched into bloody flesh with a sickening crunch.

She swung again, and on the third swing heard a “thump” as the point came through and struck the bottom of the casket.

“There,” she said, stepping back.

“Ouch,” he said.

She stared. “Why aren’t you dead?” she shrieked.

He reached up and yanked the stake from his chest; she stared, trying unsuccessfully to get words out. Then he sat up, reached up, and peeled off his face.

“The stake has to go through a vampire’s heart,” the green-scaled creature said, in suddenly-accentless English. “I don’t keep my heart in the same place you Earthlings do.” He tossed the amazingly lifelike mask aside, revealing pointed ears and noble (if green) features.

“What are you?” she cried.

He shrugged. “Long ago, when my people first came to your world, your kind called us ‘elves,’” he said. “They often mistook our earth-sheltered spacecraft for natural formations, and told stories about how we lived in hills. Our suspended-animation equipment gave rise to tales of fairy feasts that lasted years.” He sighed. “I thought it would be interesting to live among your people, as one of you. Unfortunately, although I had many successful years, one night I was accosted by a vampire…well, I’m sure you can figure out the rest.” He clambered out of the coffin and came nearer.

She retreated until her back was against the wall.

He smiled, exposing gleaming fangs.

“Oh, no,” she said, “You can’t do this! I don’t want to die!”

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he drawled, his Tennessee accent returned, “but you’re far too dangerous to leave alive!”

“I…I don’t even know your name!” she wailed.

“Why, darlin’, I thought you’d recognized me long ago,” he said with that familiar smile. As his hands closed around her throat, he said, “My name’s Elvis, ma’am.”