Free Thirsty by M. T. Anderson

sourly. He perches his eyebrows carefully, as if he’s studying me, speculating.
    I shrug. “I just want to know when we’re going to turn around.”
    “What’s your problem tonight?” he says.
    We go under the metal railroad bridge. On the brown iron panels, someone has spray painted “Goat legs.”
    The road winds up the hillside, and for the moment we stick to it, as it is very dark out.
    Tom and Jerk are now walking side by side in front of me.
    My thoughts are wandering, and Tom and Jerk are heading off into the woods. We step over branches.
    Jerk has finally caught up to the debate of twenty minutes ago. He suddenly adds, “And plus, Bongo will be able to detect vampires.”
    “Come on,” I say.
    “When dogs see something supernatural their hackles go up.”
    “What? What is a hackle?” I demand. “I don’t know if I want to see your dog with its hackles going up.”
    Tom has brought along a flashlight, and now he takes it out of his coat pocket. He starts shining it around the trees.
    “Did you see last year when they were in Montana?” he asks.
    “The vampires?” says Jerk.
    “Yes, in Montana,” Tom affirms. “They had on the news —”
    “I remember that,” says Jerk. He wheels his arm to push aside a springy branch. I am still behind them, so I catch it as it snaps back.
    “Did you see the footage?” asks Tom. “There were farmers — they showed pictures — farmers who were caught by vampires. They showed these pictures of these farm machines with these corpses sitting in them, and their heads were all just blood and this pulpy substance, and their clothes were all stained.”
    “Then,” I suggest, “it is somewhat curious that I find myself looking for vampires.”
    “Chris is complaining again,” Tom says to Jerk.
    Jerk says that Tom could cut me some slack.
    “I’m not complaining,” I say. “I’m just —” But I can’t think of what to say, so I squint up between the boughs and I don’t say anything.
    We are climbing up the hill now. Down on the road I can hear someone honking a horn. They honk it twice. Maybe they saw someone they knew, or maybe once just wasn’t enough.
    The dead trees are all around us, and the slope is increasing. The circle from Tom’s flashlight wobbles ahead of the two of them. Their silhouettes block the light. Bongo skitters between them. They are talking quietly. I feel very alone in back of them, in the darkness, while they walk together with their secret jokes. I keep picturing white fingers closing on my shoulders.
    In a few minutes, the hill gets steeper. The trees on the summit are low and barren. The water tower hangs above us on its daddy longlegs.
    Through the twisted trees we can see down into the valley. We can see the lights of the town center and the black waters of the reservoir. On three distant hills, three radio towers wink, gently soaking the valley in silent soft rock.
    I turn from the view and see that Tom and Jerk are looking expectantly around, as if they actually thought they’d see a vampire on the bare hilltop. It is not the worst place to catch a vampire. The trees are so low and brittle and the sky so close that it looks like a devil’s orchard.
    “Here we are,” I say. “I guess we just came on the wrong night. Can we go?”
    Tom narrows his eyes and says carefully, “What’s the matter? Why are you so down on this?”
    “Because it is stupid,” I say. “What would you do if you met a vampire?” The wind picks up all around us. “You know, vampires have the strength of ten men.”
    “Ten?” says Tom.
    I shrug. “It was an estimate.”
    “Which ten?”
    “I said it was an estimate.”
    The pale trees are shivering.
    “Oh, Jesus Christ, Tom,” I say. “This is just stupid.”
    “If this is so stupid,” says Tom pointedly, “why are you out here?”
    I scramble for an answer. Tom is staring at me, shining the light in my eyes. I raise my hand to block the light out of my face. I wonder if he’s