I’ve been promising my fans a new Vamped series short story, and here it is! “Of Blood and Bacon” was written for the BACONTHOLOGY, put together by John Ordover as part of the fundraising for the Reach for the Stars Learning Center, a not-for-profit school dedicated to helping children with autism. I hope you enjoy!
Of Blood and Bacon
“Oh my god, I miss bacon so much it’s crazy!” Marcy said before I could.
We were vamps—Marcy, my best friend forever (now in the literal sense), me, and my boyfriend, Bobby. The fourth at our table, Brent, was the only one of us still human. While we could have kept driving all night, he needed to fill up on caffeine and calories in the form of, among other things, the salty goodness of the gods. Well, some gods. Others frowned on that sort of thing, from what I understood. But then, they frowned on us vampires too. Frowning, in my book, was a bad business, leading to wrinkles and the lowering of endorphins and all that jazz. Smiling took more muscles and had been proven to trigger the release of…I don’t know, some chemical that gave your mood a swift kick in the pants.
Brent, Marcy’s main minion…er, man…held her gaze as he ate another piece. Slowly. Almost sensually.
I sort of hated him right then. I mean, blood was all well and good, but when it was all you had to look forward to for the rest of eternity…you started to wish it came with flavor packets, like Crystal Light.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Marcy said, as cranky as I felt. “Hurry it up. We’ve got to find a place to hole up before sunrise.”
It was close to that now. Luckily, Dana’s All-Night Diner was, well, self-explanatory.
There was an outburst of laughter from the booth next to us, and we all turned to see what they were getting into this time. Four guys, three girls, all looking late teens or early twenties, just like us. Unlike us, they all still had a pulse…at least, the ones whose veins I could see, sporting short hair, rockin’ ponytails or, in one case, wearing a strapless dress that left little to the imagination…or, almost wearing it, anyway. Every time she bent forward there seemed a fifty-fifty chance of fall-out.
Five minutes ago, one of the guys had hidden a little creamer cup in his hand, put that hand to his eye and then pretended to stab it with a fork. The girls shrieked as cream came spurting out in lieu of blood, and the guys had laughed uproariously.
I squinted to see what was going on now. We vamps had pretty awesome extrasensory, uh, senses. I could see and hear way beyond the norm, and my reflexes were epic. Some of us could do other things. Special. Like me being able to go all ghosty and Bobby’s ability to move things with his mind. But whatever was going on this time, I couldn’t see it. At least, not at first. It was only by following the gazes of the others at the table that I spotted the fly in Funnyboy’s food. I was guessing from the reaction of the others—sly and amused glances tossed back and forth—that he’d put it there to weasel out of the check. Not for the first time, I wondered if they’d consumed enough that they’d taste like bacon and whether I had time for a quick snack.
“Do you see that?” I asked the others at my table quietly.
“Fly in the food?” my boy, Bobby, asked. “Yup, saw it. I have an idea. Watch this.”
I turned back toward the other table to watch, not caring if they noticed.
Now that I’d spotted the fly, I didn’t know how I’d missed it. It was big. Horsefly sized, maybe. As Bobby stared at it, the fly’s wings began to beat. In surprise, I looked from the fly to Bobby to the reactions around the other table. Funnyboy hadn’t seen it yet, but suddenly one of the girls jumped and pointed at his plate.
“It’s alive!” she said, voice quaking, like it was Frankenstein’s monster rather than a little old fly.
Everyone went silent and stared.
“Dude, you didn’t make sure it was dead first?” one of the other guys laughed.
“But I did. It was,” Funnyboy said, more bafflement than fear in his voice.
But then the fly rose from his plate as if from the dead and buzzed him, “flying” right for his open mouth. He snapped it shut, and the fly bounced off his lips, headed for his nose.
The girls were in full-on freak-out now, screaming and crawling over each other to try to escape their booth.
When Funnyboy slapped the fly away from his nose, it made for the girls, dive-bombing their hair, brushing past their ears.
They screamed more loudly and stampeded out of the restaurant, fly in hot pursuit, until it hit the door and dropped like, well, like a fly. Funnyboy and his friends were left behind with the check…and no fly to lessen the load.
It was our turn to quake with laughter. The waitress rushed over to the rowdy table to check on the commotion and the boys tried to explain about the dead fly that wasn’t. She stood over them with arms crossed, looming until they settled the check, and then escorted them out. Never to return, I was guessing. I vowed to double her tip for our table.
“That was fun!” Bobby said, blue eyes shining. A smile on his face. Endorphins or whatever probably flooding his system.
“Guess we should settle up,” Brent said, finally pushing back from his All American or whatever lumberjack special he’d ordered. “Can I get a to go box?” he asked the waitress.
She gave him a tired smile and a “Sure, hon.”
Me, I’d just seen my breakfast walk out the door—meals on heels. Marcy and I exchanged a look. “We’ll be right back,” I said for us both.
“Ladies room?” Brent asked.
“Something like that,” Marcy said with a secret smile. We both slipped out of the booth. “Be good,” Brent warned.
“Always,” Marcy tossed over her shoulder.
And we were. We didn’t take much. But yes, they tasted like bacon and maple syrup and home cooking. We were in heaven. Or as close as we were ever likely to get.