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The girl with the shotgun was hanging limply off the side of the cart, the weapon falling out of her dead fingers. Denis grabbed it and discharged one barrel into the head of a man on a horse; his head exploded into red mist.
"Tra-ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta-ta," Denis hummed like the rhythm of a foxtrot, counting the dead enemies. He decided not to count the young one who shot himself. The leader did not fit into the rhythm either; another end awaited him.
The remaining High Noon Vampires ran in all directions.
But the dance wasn't over yet.
The second shotgun shell hit the guy with the hunting rifle in the back. He fell, writhing in the road's dust. Denis then drove the butt of the gun into the forehead of a scrawny man with crazed eyes who'd been ru
"Tra-ta…" Denis said.
Three horses rushed along the road toward the sea. Denis switched the revolver to his other hand, emptied out the shells, and snapped three bullets in.
"Tra-ta…" Denis finished humming and shot. Two of the horses started galloping faster, dislodging their deceased riders. One of the riders' feet got caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged for a few meters, then lost his boot and remained on the road, motionless.
Only the leader remained. With a little regret in his heart, Denis planted a bullet into the leg of the man's horse. With surprising deftness, Pavlovich leapt down, but did not even try to get up-he just turned on his back and glared at Denis as he approached.
Denis slowly walked toward him.
Pavlovich pulled out a gun and fired off a single shot, but Denis kicked the weapon out of his hand, and grabbed Pavlovich's jacket and pulled it tightly around him. "You missed," he said.
Denis shackled Pavlovich's hands with his own belt, gagged his mouth with a handkerchief, and started dragging him toward the rail station.
The woman came out of the café when they were passing by, holding a coffee cup somewhat shakily in her hands.
Denis looked into it. A cappuccino.
"You are quick," he said.
"You are even quicker," the woman said. Her daughter stood behind her, smiling.
"We must finish the horse off," Denis said. "Will you be able to do it? There are a lot of weapons back there."
"No more deaths," the woman said. "Even a lame horse is a living horse."
Denis drank his cappuccino. Pavlovich wheezed something unintelligible into his gag.
"Please, go away. Go away for God's sake!" The woman shouted; her nerves couldn't stand it any more.
"It will be better for you not to tell anyone exactly what you saw here," Denis said. He returned the unfinished cup to her and walked away, dragging the leader to the train station.
Barrels of fish stood on the platform, but there was no one around. Denis signaled to the approaching train himself and loaded the barrels onto a cargo car at the end of the train. He then threw the leader into the car and climbed aboard.
The train whistled and started off.
Denis stood for a while by the open door, looking at the town receding into the distance. Without looking, he caught Pavlovich as he made an attempt to jump off the train, and tossed him back into the car. Denis closed the door, approached the man, and pulled the gag out of his mouth.
"You god damned
pridurok!" Pavlovich shouted. He was so terrified that he no longer was afraid of anything. "You pridurok! We're not vampires! We just called ourselves 'High Noon Vampires'! We're an ordinary gang, understand? An ordinary gang!"
"I understand," Denis nodded.
"And this is our town!"
"Was your town," Denis said.
Pavlovich fell silent. He looked at Denis's face for a moment, then stared at his chest. "I didn't miss," he muttered. "I couldn't have missed!"
Denis took off his jacket, revealing a hole from which slowly oozed a dark, dark liquid…that quite recently, just that morning, had been flowing in the veins of the doctor's son. The cold, gray flesh surrounding the wound was already starting to heal.
"You didn't miss," Denis said. "But it's really difficult to kill us. Those who have died already don't like to die again."
He was silent for a moment, looking at Pavlovich's neck, then continued: "My Master doesn't like it when a gang of con men call themselves vampires. We don't like to kill very much. But we have to, sometimes; that's what we are. But if we have a choice, we always choose to kill those who are even worse than we are."
The train's wheels tapped out-tra-ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta-ta-and the rhythmical crash of the surf could be heard off in the distance.
The fish, layered with moist seaweed, stirred listlessly in the barrels.
Unlike Pavlovich, they lived all the way to the city.
This Is Now by Michael Marshall Smith
Michael Marshall Smith is the author of several novels, including Only Forward, which won the Philip K. Dick Award and the British Fantasy Award, and The Servants, which was a finalist for the World Fantasy Award. He also publishes under the name Michael Marshall; his most recent novels under that pen name are Bad Things and The Intruders, the latter of which is being adapted into a miniseries to air on the BBC. His short fiction has been collected in three volumes, most recently in More Tomorrow & Other Stories.
This story, which first appeared in the BBC's Vampire Cult Magazine, tells the story of a small group of friends, as they recall a formative event in their lives. It explores how big a gap there is between then and now, and all the things that can fall through that gap.
"Okay," Henry said. "So now we're here."
He was using his "So entertain me" voice, and he was cold but trying not to show it. Pete and I were cold too. We were trying not to show it either. Being cold is not manly. You look at your condensing breath as if it's a surprise to you, what with it being so balmy and all. Even when you've known each other for over thirty years, you do these things. Why? I don't know.
"Yep," I agreed. It wasn't my job to entertain Henry.
Pete walked up to the thick wire fence. He tilted his head back until he was looking at the top, four feet above his head. A ten-foot wall of tautly criss-crossed wire.
"Who's going to test it?"
"Well, hey, you're closest." Like the others, I was speaking quietly, though we were half a mile from the nearest road or house or person.
This side of the fence, anyhow.
"I did it last time."
"Long while ago."
"Still," he said, stepping back. "Your turn, Dave."
I held up my hands. "These are my tools, man."
Henry sniggered. "
You're a tool, that's for sure."
Pete laughed too, I had to smile, and for a moment it was like it
was the last time. Hey presto: time travel. You don't need a machine, it turns out, you just need a friend to laugh like a teenager. Chronology shivers.
And so-quickly, before I could think about it-I flipped my hand out and touched the fence. My whole arm jolted, as if every bone in it had been tapped with a hammer. Tapped hard, and in different directions.
"Christ," I hissed, spi
Christ that hurts."
Henry nodded sagely. "This stretch got current, then. Also, didn't we use a stick last time?"
"Always been the brains of the operation, right, Hank?"
Pete snickered again. I was a
I nodded up the line of the fence as it marched off into the trees. "Further," I said, and pointed at Henry. "And you're testing the next section, bro."