by Paul Freeman
“Mind if I tag along?” George said.
He looked into the other man’s dark eyes, beyond the heavy beard, and saw no bravado there, just an earnestness and genuine desire to be a part of something he didn’t quite understand, yet instinctively knew it was important. “Know why I ride out of Colony quietly, early in the morning?” he asked, not dropping his hold on the other man’s stare. George shook his head. “Because when men… good men, like you, George and those others, both living and dead, follow me they invariably end up dead.”
“Well I followed you and I ain’t dead,” George calmly answered.
“Yet…”
“Reckon I’d trust you enough to follow your lead, Pastor,” Jeb said, “and if I wind up dead I’ll only have myself to blame.”
“What about your families?”
“There’s only me and Mildred now and we don’t even talk to each other no more,” George answered.
“And Amy can take care of herself, she’s a big girl now,” Jeb said.
“Seems to me like she got herself into trouble just recently.”
“She’s learned her lesson now, Pastor, she’ll not be wanderin’ away from Colony again.”
“Well if you’re all goin’…” Logan began but was cut off with a raised hand from Pastor.
“Nah, Logan, not you. Someone’s got to take care of the community we’ve built.” He dropped his head for a moment before looking up again. “And take back the news of the deaths of our dear friends. Let their folk know that those men died bravely and their souls were released untainted.”
“But…”
“I’ll not take you with me, Logan. You’re the leader Colony deserves. I don’t doubt your heart in this matter but your path lies in a different direction.”
Logan bit his lower lip and nodded his head. He offered his hand holding his arm straight out. “Good luck, Pastor. Come back safe.” He shook the hands of the other two men then.
The three men stood and watched in silence as Logan saddled his horse. They continued their vigil as he turned into a small ball of dust in the distance. Finally Pastor turned away from the open prairie. “Okay then, let’s get this ungodly quest rollin’.”
*
They stood at the entrance to the tunnel, its walls were scorched black from the fire as the smell of smoke and burned things best not dwelled on still lingered in the air. “Don’t reckon too much of anything survived in there,” George said. Pastor just nodded and struck a flint, lighting the torch he held before him.
He hawked and spat on the ground. “No I don’t suppose so,” he said and doused the torch in the dry earth. Nothing could have survived that inferno. “Mount up, boys. Unless either one of you has changed your minds about comin’ along. I wouldn’t hold no blame against you if you did. He looked into each man’s eyes in turn and saw only a steely resolve. With a simple nod he turned his horse and they rode from the abandoned train station, leaving behind the bodies of two brave men – friends. He led the small group with a heavy heart wondering… no, already assuming both George and Jeb had forfeited their lives. And where was he leading them? On a fool errand – a quest in search of a myth, on the strength of some graffiti on a wall and a feeder who spoke. Maybe the vampire was right, maybe the time of the son of Adam was coming to an end and they should just surrender the world to the new order.
They rode across open grassland, occasionally broken by undulating hills, for most of the day. At one point they had to lead the horses over a fast flowing river across a rickety wooden bridge that had seen way better days. Jeb had cursed when he put his foot through one of the planks of wood, and they took the crossing as easy as they could. Other than that the day passed without incident until they arrived at the abandoned church Pastor often used to hold up in while travelling away from Colony.
“It sure is pretty,” George said as he stood outside the church looking back over the prairie they’d just traversed. “I miss not been able to travel wherever and whenever the heart demands it.”
“The times we live in,” Jeb said.
“Ain’t that the truth,” George agreed.
He rubbed at his unshaven chin as he listened to the two men talking. He’d not really thought about it too often, but he was getting a sense of how difficult it was for folk to be stuck to one location, either too afraid or unable to travel during the hours of darkness. It made the world for people a lot smaller than it once was. He stared out at the miles and miles of lush grasslands burning orange under the glow of the setting sun as it bled from the sky leaving behind a lingering stain of pink in the clouds.
The church stood alone in a sea of grass, slightly raised on a gently rising hill, a stark, gray island in a burning ocean. In pre-Fall days it was the focal point for a small community long gone now. He often found it strange, as he sat alone in the large open room dwelling on the past, that it was the only building to survive from the town that once stood on that spot. Most of the other dwellings were most likely built from timber which had long since been scavenged or rotted. He tried to picture it as it once looked but those memories were barred to him now, as if the church was always meant to stand alone, the only man-made thing uncorrupted by the Fall as far as the eye could see.
“Come inside,” he said, opening the heavy wooden doors. They led their horses in and guided them to one corner of the church. It would not be a pleasant clean-up in the morning but at least they knew they’d still have living mounts come sunup.
They ate a meager meal of some smoked meat and hard bread they’d taken with them from Colony and washed it down with water. Not the best feed any of them had ever had but it filled a hole. “What’ll we do for food when this runs out?” George asked.
He shrugged. “We’ll manage.” Neither of the other two men reacted to that. “Get some sleep. There’s a forest another day’s ride north of here. I reckon that’s the place to start. We’ll start out at first light.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jeb said.
When he closed his eyes he was immediately transported back to the tunnel. Light flickered around him from some invisible flame casting his elongated shadow up the wall. Ahead of him lay a solid wall of black that even the unseen light could not penetrate – or rather, was swallowed by the gloom. Nothing good comes from impenetrable walls of darkness. In his hand he carried his sword, the blade reflecting a white light making it shine.
“I killed you,” he said as the huge feeder slowly emerged from the inky blackness.
The vampire smiled an evil grin, exposing fangs curved and wickedly sharp.
“You carry a sword – a noble weapon. A weapon for warriors and kings.” Black eyes stared at him as if they could penetrate his soul. He could feel the mesmerizing effect of the demonic glare like a narcotic washing over him. His limbs seemed to be detached from the rest of his body, his head floating upwards. “I marked you once with a scratch.” Pastor’s eyes drifted to the red stripes on his arm that had begun oozing blood again.
“Yeah and I marked you.” He hefted his sword as he gritted his teeth in defiance.
“Your mortal flesh and blood cannot and will not do me harm,” the vampire hissed.
“Looked sore enough to me,” Pastor smiled without humor as he recalled the cavalry saber biting into the vampire’s flesh.
“I have killed warriors and princes, waded knee-deep as I consumed their blood. Men who will only ever be legend to mortals such as you, fighters encased in armor; real heroes who knew what it was to fight and kill a man so close you can see the life exit his eyes.” His eyes blazed as he spoke.
“What is your name, demon?” Pastor asked.
“You think by knowing my name you will have some hold over me? That I will not come for you, mortal? Superstition and folk tales will not aid you, son of Adam. I was born of a blessed line and have been named accordingly. My name is Asbeel, my sire was begot on a human by one of God’s own creatures. We are the shepherds, mortal. We will feed on your kind for all
eternity.”
Other feeders were creeping out of the darkness, at first lurching forward before straightening up as if they’d just woken… or were reborn. He recognized the faces of the first two: Isaac and Ben. No! These men were not turned, his mind screamed. Behind them was little Jessie Watson, Will Davis and Harry. Then others, he didn’t even know were dead, like Tim Williams.
“Welcome to your future, mortal,” Asbeel laughed.
“You have the name of a fallen angel, but you are an abomination, a creature of darkness and will ever be so!” He snarled the words as he started to walk backwards. The vampire only laughed harder.
“I will feast on the sweetness of your blood and then you will become a slave to my every whim – a creature of the night.”
The feeders closed in on him, surrounding him, reaching for him. Their touch was of death, their skin rotting and peeling. Their hands ended in jagged black claws. He lashed out, screaming as they bore him down, suffocating him with their weight – a mass of putrefying flesh. Then he felt the sharp bite of their fangs and his strength ebbing away as they drained his blood. All the while he could hear Asbeel chanting in a language he didn’t recognize, yet he could feel the power of the words taking form around him, creating some black magic more ancient than man, changing him… cursing him. I’m coming for you. He heard the words inside his head even as the face of the child girl – Jessie Watson – loomed before him, her small mouth opened in a horrific grimace of evil, two rows of small, sharp fangs. Black eyes filled with hunger.
I’m coming for you.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Please, please stop,” Amy pleaded as she rocked the baby, making shushing sounds. Tears welled in her eyes as she tried to formulate some sort of plan in her mind, to focus despite the wails coming from the baby and the sight of the sun sinking lower in the sky. She needed to hide somewhere from the marauders but to do that she ran the risk of attracting feeders. To ward off vampires in the night she needed a fire but that would only attract the raiders. That’s if the cries of the baby didn’t attract both to them at any moment. The old farmer’s cottage in the woods by the cornfield sprung to mind. The memories of her last visit there made her groan – an image of Will’s face as he gazed into her eyes, came unbidden to her mind. She was still reeling from the sight of the marauders killing and raping people she knew, of them burning the homes of her neighbors and probably her own. She cringed at the thought of what Bart had planned for her. I can never go back, she thought. Yet, what other alternative was there? To stay out alone in darkness was like ringing the dinner bell for all feeders for miles around. To walk the night meant only one thing – death.
A sound behind her made her whirl around.
“Well, well, well, ain’t you just the prettiest thing.” She gasped as the creature approached. His eyes bulged in his hairless head, where there was no bright red, bulbous growths on his face there was either yellow scarring or peeling skin. His tongue lolled at the side of his mouth as he leered at her. “Come to Papa,” he said grinning.
Amy couldn’t get her legs to work. She gripped the baby in her arms protectively as the monster approached. In one hand he held a pistol, in the other he held his crotch, leaving Amy in no doubt as to his intentions, monster or no. She still gripped the axe she’d hit Penny with. The deformed creature was shorter than her but a lot bulkier. Pus and blood oozed from the sores on his face, making her want to wretch.
“Drop that now, bitch, and give Papa a kiss,” he said, pointing the gun at the baby. Amy shook her head and tried to turn the bundle in her arms away from the creature.
“Please,” she whimpered.
“Beggin’ for it now, huh,” he said. He was close enough now for her to feel the spittle on her face as it sprayed from his mouth when he cackled.
She hit him with the axe. This time using the sharp end. She felt a sickening sensation as the blade impacted with his head, biting deep into his scalp.
“You bitch!” he yelled, reeling away from her. When he looked back up his head was covered in blood. He raised his arm, his face grimacing in pain, the weight of the gun clearly an effort to lift.
She hit him again, this time right on the top of the head. He stared at her blankly, swaying slightly. The gun slipped from his fingers and landed at his feet. He staggered forward arms raised and hands clawing at air as he tried to grab her. She stepped back from him slowly, the axe raised to strike again as she struggled to keep hold of the baby in her other arm. Blood was leaking from his nose now as his scarred and scabby brow wrinkled in confusion. Her eyes dropped to the fallen gun in the grass. Die, you bastard, she thought, but he kept stumbling forward.
“You found her!” a new voice called – a woman’s voice. The woman came up behind the marauder, one side of her face covered in dried blood the other horribly disfigured by red-raw wounds and blackened, scorched flesh. “I’m going to fucking kill you!” the woman screeched as she raised a pistol of her own.
Amy gasped when she heard the shot ring out, sending birds scrambling into the air all around them. The wounds on the woman’s face looked new and angry, though not half as angry as the hatred burning in her eyes. It was only then that she recognized the voice of Penny. The man fell forward reaching for her and clawing at her shirt. Amy pushed him away and swung the axe, hitting him full in the face. Blood spurted out in a fountain, she felt it splashing on her skin, could taste the iron in her mouth. She wanted to scream and curse but had no time. The man fell back, the embedded axe slipped from her grasp as he took it down with him, staining the ground with his blood.
“You killed him?” Penny’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “You’ve got some amount o’ sufferin’ comin’ for you, girl. Look what you did to my face!” Penny screamed a mixture of anger and pain. Amy found it hard to look at the woman at all. Her face was a mess of blood, on one side, from where Amy had hit her with the side of the axe and horrific burns on the other. “Look!” The howl was like a banshee’s wail.
Amy met the other woman’s gaze, the dead man at her feet forgotten by both of them, her eyes were swollen and puffy. Penny started to cry then, her deformed face twisted in agony. Amy noticed that the hand she held the gun in was shaking and also a mess of scarred and burned flesh. She dropped to her knee and snatched up the pistol the marauder had dropped. Penny was slow to react, but she was already armed. Amy raised the gun. Penny fired… and missed. Amy’s bullet made an instant bloody hole between her eyes. Penny fell back without another word.
Amy turned and ran, the baby – who had mercifully stopped crying – clutched tightly to her chest. The marauders were her immediate danger; she needed to get away from them, so she ran towards the woods. It was unlikely any of them would leave Colony until after dark – the blood of marauders was just as sweet as that of honest folk to the feeders. She prayed silently as she ran that she would only have to survive one night, and in the morning the marauders would go on their way, take what they wanted and just leave Colony alone.
She ran without stopping through the fields of grass, ignoring the curious looks of the grazing cattle. She ran towards the cornfield and the woods where she had lain with Will and seen him killed by a vampire. She ran to the ruin of a cottage hidden in the trees because she did not know where else to go. She ran towards the site of both her happiest and worst memories, to where Will had sworn his love for her and where he had lost his life because they fell asleep. She ran even though sharp pains darted through her chest from the exertion and her arms ached where she held the baby. She ran as the muscles in her legs burned and her eyes felt raw from the wind pulling at her tears.
The woods were darkening as she approached the cottage as the trees blocked out the light from the setting sun. It was not quite the dark hours yet, when monsters and demons ruled the world but not far from it. Night was a time of terror and death for the living and she was cast out alone – save for a defenseless baby she’d not even known the previous day.
“I need to build a fire… a really, really big fire,” she said to the infant, looking at the bundle wrapped in a blanket for the first time since she fled from where she’d shot Penny and killed the marauder with the axe. Only then did she realize she’d not heard the baby crying since… when? She couldn’t remember – somewhat of a miracle considering he hadn’t shut up until then. Slowly she pulled the blanket back and saw the red-stained over-sized shirt he wore. Tears welled in her eyes as she realized that Penny hadn’t completely missed after all, she’d just hit the wrong target. She began to sob at the futility of it all, not just the waste of such innocent lives but at life in general. Why bother eke out a miserable existence in a world that doesn’t care? She hugged the baby to her breast, crying into the silent body. “What did we do that was so wrong?” she sobbed. “What did you do?” She looked at the face of the baby, innocent in life as in death. “Oh, Pa, I need you again and you’re not here.” She glanced out of the doorway of the crumbling cottage and saw that it was getting darker.
She didn’t know what else to do with the baby – she had no time to dig him a grave and she was reluctant to just leave the body in the woods for wolves and foxes, nor was she keen on keeping the tiny corpse with her. So, she found a broken-off branch lying on the ground and dragged it down to the creek. Ripping lengths of material from the hem of her skirt she tied the small body to the branch and pushed it out into the free-flowing water. In the darkness the improvised coffin ship was quickly pulled out of sight by the current. She offered a silent prayer that the soul of the baby begin its own journey heaven-bound.
She’d been trying to do the right thing when she took the baby from the burning house; she was trying to save his life. Instead she’d gotten him killed. Had she pulled the trigger herself she wouldn’t have felt any more guilt. She tasted salty tears in her mouth as she cried for the baby and the life he would never have. She didn’t even know his real name – she was pretty sure it wasn’t Bart Junior, or who his real parents were and what happened to them. The water bubbled and gurgled like a living thing, a gray snake curling its way through the woods. She turned away from the creek and began gathering as much wood as she could and carried it into the shell of the farmhouse.