The Traveling Vampire Show

A lot closer than that was the snack stand. It used to sell “BEER—SNACKS—SOUVENIRS” as announced by the long wooden sign above the front edge of its roof. But it hadn’t been open, far as I knew, since the night of the parking disaster.

We couldn’t get into it, that was for sure (we’d tried on other occasions), but its roof must’ve been about eight feet off the ground. Up there, we’d be safe from the dog.

“Feel like climbing?” Slim asked. She must’ve been thinking the same as me.

“The snack stand?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“How?” asked Rusty.

Slim and I glanced at each other. We could scurry up a wall of the shack and make it to the roof easily enough. We were fairly quick and agile and strong.

But not Rusty.

“Any ideas?” I asked Slim.

She shook her head and shrugged.

Suddenly, the dog lurched ahead of us, swung around and planted its feet. It lowered its head. Growling, it bared its upper teeth and drooled. It had a bulging, crazed left eye. And a black, gooey hole where its right eye should’ve been.

“Oh, shit,” Rusty muttered. “We’re screwed.”

“Take it easy,” Slim said. Her voice sounded calm. I didn’t know whether she was talking to Rusty or the dog. Or maybe to both of them.

“We’re dead,” Rusty said.

Glancing at him, Slim asked, “Have you got anything to feed it?”

“Like what?”

“Food?”

He shook his head very slightly. A drop of sweat fell off the tip of his nose.

“Nothing?” Slim asked.

“You’ve always got food,” I told him.

“Do not.”

“Are you sure?” Slim asked.

“I ate it back in the woods.”

“Ate what?” I asked.

“My Ding-Dong.”

“You ate a Ding-Dong in the woods?”

“Yeah.”

“How come we didn’t see you?” I asked.

“I ate it when I was taking my piss.”

“Great,” Slim muttered.

“I didn’t have enough to share with you guys, so ...”

“Could’ve saved some for the Hound of the goddamn Baskervilles,” Slim pointed out.

“Didn’t know ...”

The hound let out a fierce, rattling growl that sounded like it had a throat full of loose phlegm.

“You got anything, Dwight?” Slim asked.

“Huh-uh.”

“Me neither.”

“What’re we gonna do?” Rusty asked, a whine in his voice. “Man, if he bites us we’re gonna have to get rabies shots. They stick like a foot-long needle right into your stomach and ... ”

Slim eased herself down into a crouch and reached her open hands toward the dog. Its ears flattened against the sides of its skull. It snarled and drooled.

“You sure you wanta do that?” I asked her.

Ignoring me, she spoke to the dog in a soft, sing-song voice. “Hi there, boy. Hi, fella. You’re a good boy, aren’t you? You looking for some food? Huh? We’d give you some if we had any, wouldn’t we?”

“It’s gonna bite your hand off,” Rusty warned.

“No, he won’t. He’s a good doggie. Aren’t you a good doggie, boy? Huh?”

The dog, hunkered down, kept growling and showing its teeth.

On the ground around us, I saw small pieces of broken glass, little stones, some cigarette butts, leaves and