Stake

by Kevin J. Anderson

  It might only be deer, but he had also heard wolves howling. The violent opposing factions in the turmoil of the Bosnian War were the greatest danger he’d ever expected to face over here. But what Grundy felt moving in the dark forest, slowly closing in, did not feel like enemy soldiers. It was definitely something else stalking him. His skin crawled, and he kept moving.

  He stumbled along the bank, then splashed across the stream on large rocks. On the opposite side he found a flat area, a game path where animals came to drink. The bushes along the stream clawed at him, and he thrashed his way through. The dark beeches towered overhead, creating ominous shadows in the moonlight.

  Grundy could see no lights anywhere, no houses, no campfires, but if he followed the running water he might eventually find a hunter’s cottage, a mill, even a village. He kept going for hours, hiding, creeping over a carpet of fallen leaves, dashing across moonlit clearings. The pain from his injuries grew more sharp-edged, and he felt the warm stickiness of blood on his skin, though he had washed much of it away in the stream. Every breath brought an electric shock of jagged ribs.

  At last, long after midnight, he came upon flat stumps of sawed trees, an open area cleared by woodcutters. Ahead he saw darker shadows with sharp angles, stone walls, roofs – buildings of some sort. The sight gave him the energy to keep moving.

  He stumbled up to a cottage made of fieldstones and a tile roof covered with moss. Crosses hung on the outside walls near every opening. The door was closed and the windows shuttered for the night, making the cottage look abandoned, but he saw a garden patch, a nearby shed or barn. The people inside must be sleeping. A cottage out here, especially in war-torn Bosnia, would have no electricity, and poor peasants wouldn’t waste fuel burning lanterns long after everyone was asleep.

  But there were people, and they could help him.

  He lurched toward the door and collapsed to his knees. He pounded on the door and called out, ‘Help! Is anyone in there? Help!’

  He heard stirring inside, muttered voices, then a hushed and terrified silence. Though he nearly fainted, he hammered even harder. ‘Help! There’s been an accident. I’m an American.’ Isolated peasants in the mountains far from Sarajevo might not understand English, but they would hear the desperation in his voice.

  A flare of light glowed through cracks in the window shutters, a lit candle that made a profound difference in the darkness. He heard children whimpering, a gruff man’s voice grumbling in a foreign language.

  ‘Help,’ he croaked. ‘Please help.’

  The male voice came again, then a woman’s voice, both sounding frightened. Grundy rattled the latch on the door, and he heard a gasp inside, then the scraping noises of furniture, perhaps a cabinet or a chest of drawers being dragged across the door. The man yelled from the other side of the door, threatening.

  ‘Please! My name is David Grundy. I’m a medical corpsman with the NATO troops.’

  More candles were lit inside, but he remained locked out in the darkness. Beyond the clearing around the cottage, he could still hear stirrings in the forest, branches rustling. He thought he saw bright eyes – maybe wolves, maybe worse.

  He started sobbing. ‘Please let me in!’ He pounded against the door, too afraid and too weak to leave this cottage and seek other salvation. He didn’t dare.

  Unable to forget the staring head of Dr Lee in the front seat of the ambulance, the wet metal smell of blood everywhere, the groan of the driver who seemed to come back from the dead, he sank to the ground and drew his knees against his chest, leaning back against the solidity of the cottage door. The huddled people inside kept him out, leaving him vulnerable to whatever lurked in the darkness.

  It was full sunlight when the door finally creaked open, and Grundy slumped backward over the threshold, unconscious. He woke groggily to a gasping and muttering family. He found himself drenched with fresh blood and knew he must be bleeding from multiple injuries. The peasant couple chattered, having some kind of an argument while the children stared.

  ‘Please …’ Grundy said.

  The Bosnian man pointed at him, at the blood, at the bright daylight, and seemed to insist that the family had to tend to him. The peasant man dragged him inside, sending a fresh burst of pain throughout his body.

  Grundy went in and out of consciousness for some time. They bandaged him, fed him soup and hot tea. The man spoke only a handful of English words, enough to be frustrating but not enough to communicate. He kept saying the word lampir, over and over again. Grundy held up his dog tags, pleading for help before he fell back into unconsciousness.

  The peasant family tended him for two, maybe three days. Exhausted, traumatized, he couldn’t be sure how much time had passed. When he awoke, he saw them speaking in hushed voices, using words they knew he couldn’t understand. He ached everywhere. He developed a fever and vomited twice, which terrified the peasant family even more, as if they feared he carried some kind of plague.

  After stumbling aimlessly through the night, traveling miles and miles, he had no idea where he was. No one knew what had happened to the ambulance. He, the German driver, and Dr Lee were missing, and search parties must be looking for them, but even if they found the ambulance halfway down the mountainside, he was no longer there.

  One afternoon, a loud pounding on the door woke Grundy, startled the family. The father pulled open the door and let fresh sunlight pour into the house. An orthodox priest with a thicket of beard stood outside in a plain robe. A heavy cross hung on a beaded chain around his neck. The priest and the peasant father spoke quickly, and the priest locked eyes with Grundy as he lay under his blanket in the main room.

  The bearded man strode forward and loomed over the pallet. Grundy could feel the man’s charismatic presence, saw the blaze in his pale blue eyes. The priest held the wooden cross in one hand like a weapon, while he reached out to press his other palm against Grundy’s cheek.

  ‘What are you doing? I—’

  He winced as the priest pushed his head to one side then the other, exposing the sides of his neck. The man roughly yanked down the blanket, revealing the bandages on Grundy’s chest and shoulder, and stared at him as if dissecting his soul. The priest straightened, heaved a sigh of relief. ‘No lampir.’

  The family chattered and nodded. The mother wept. The peasant father asked numerous questions, but the bearded man faced Grundy and spoke surprisingly in English. ‘I told them they did a good thing in saving you. If they hadn’t intervened the monsters would have had you, turned you into one of them.’

  ‘You … speak English?’ It was a stupid question, but the first one that came to his mind. ‘My name is David Grundy. I’m with the NATO troops. I—’

  The priest interrupted him. ‘We know what you are, and now I know you are human. You were out at night. We are sure the lampir tracked you, hunted you, but you reached this house in time.’

  ‘The people wouldn’t let me in at first,’ Grundy groaned. ‘I pounded on the door. I heard things moving out in the forest.’ The terror struck him again, and he closed his eyes to block the memories.

  ‘I had blessed this house, and the family has crosses and icons. They take the proper precautions. It was enough to scare them away.’

  ‘I know I heard wolves,’ Grundy said.

  ‘Maybe wolves, maybe not,’ the priest said. ‘I went to school in London for a time, so I know that too many of your people don’t believe. They scoff at the existence of lampir – you would call them vampires. That is exactly what the monsters want, so they can feed with few people guessing the real danger.’

  The priest came back for the next three days, teaching Grundy about the lampir, showing him ways to protect himself, how to kill vampires, how to find them where they hid in society. Gradually, he came to realize how narrow his escape had been. As the priest described the ways of the lampir, Grundy began to remember details of his flight, shadows he had seen in the forest, the sound the creatures made as they stalked him.
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br />   He was lucky to be alive, but he had to get back to his people so he could report what had happened. He was recovered enough now. At his request, the priest managed to get a message to a town that had a working telephone line. After more than a week of being lost – and being saved as well as educated – David Grundy was rescued.

  The wrecked vehicle had been found several days earlier, along with the two bodies inside. As he recovered in a UN infirmary, Grundy learned that the two corpses had been mangled, torn apart by predators. Maybe they had been drained of blood …

  As he told his unbelievable story again and again, the listeners were at first fascinated, then impatient with him. He repeated what the priest had said about the lampir until it was clear that his comrades lost respect for whatever else he had to say. His superior officer even reprimanded him.

  So he learned to keep his mouth shut, to hold the night terrors inside as the certainty grew darker and darker in his mind. After he failed several psychological evaluations, he was declared no longer fit for duty. The Bosnian peace accord happened some months after that, and all the peacekeeping troops were withdrawn anyway. At least he didn’t receive a dishonorable discharge.

  But David Grundy was never the same. Part of him died that night in the ambulance crash, and another part had awakened to what was going on.

  Now, in his nondescript Honda, carrying the notes and addresses he had compiled, he drove around the city, on the hunt for vampires.

  THIRTEEN

  Lexi was dismayed when the Bigfoot rapist thread flared up again on HideTruth, this time hijacked by trolls. Disgusted by their comments, she was reminded that the worst parts of human nature could be found on the internet.

  Blair had concerns of his own that had nothing to do with the website. He stood at her bedroom door, eyeing her with disapproval. ‘I’m not saying that I ransacked your closet, Lex, but I don’t believe you’re planning properly for the occasion.’

  She looked up from her screen, still preoccupied by the vile comments. ‘What occasion?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Hugo Zelm’s gala! Did you even read the invitation? It’s an evening event, very formal, very high class.’ He ran his gaze up and down her form as she sat at her desk in casual clothes. ‘You’re like a fish out of water and a thousand feet up in the air. What are you going to wear?’

  She hadn’t thought about it much. The event was still two weeks away. ‘A dress, I suppose. I’ve got a few.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. When was the last time you wore one?’

  Lexi considered. ‘I used to go to church back in Iowa. I’m sure one or two of them still fit. I keep myself in shape.’

  ‘Yes, you do, dear girl.’ He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘But just because you can fit, doesn’t mean that it’s appropriate for such an event.’

  ‘Church dresses don’t go out of style.’ She paused, having never thought about it. ‘Do they?’

  He looked wounded. ‘This is a genuine tux and cocktail-gown event, and it requires you to have jewelry, high heels, and a tasteful amount of cleavage.’

  Lexi didn’t want to talk about it. ‘I haven’t even said I’m going to go. I didn’t return the RSVP card yet.’

  Blair was like a drill sergeant. ‘Well, you’d better! Hugo Zelm wants to meet you in person, so I insist that you make a killer impression to ensure he keeps making his donations to your website. Besides, I plan to look dashing, and I don’t want you to seem out of place as I escort you to the party.’

  She sighed. ‘Getting all dressy isn’t my thing.’

  Blair finally looked in control of the conversation. ‘Leave it to me. Rags to Riches has a fine selection, and I’ll make it my quest to find something perfect for the occasion. I’ll get something that looks classy.’

  ‘I thought your store just sold old clothes? If I’m going to have an old dress, why don’t I just wear something from my closet?’

  His exasperation was plain. ‘Not old – vintage! I recall a beautiful dress on the rack, tasteful and elegant, just perfect for you. You’ll look spectacular.’

  Lexi knew Blair would do exactly as he said, and she was relieved to hand off the responsibility. ‘I place myself in your hands.’

  He sauntered off. She knew she had brightened his day as much as the Bigfoot thread had soured hers.

  The assaulted hiker had dropped off the radar, hunkering down and waiting for the attention to fade, and the trolls came out like hyenas to attack her.

  ‘I bet she likes the wild hairy sex.’

  ‘Does Bigfoot have a big cock? Inquiring minds want to know!’

  ‘Did she take pictures? Pics, or it didn’t happen!’

  Some asshole even posted Holly Smith’s home address in Colorado Springs and encouraged big hairy guys to go surprise her with another thrill. ‘She likes it!’

  Luckily, within minutes of the posting Lexi deleted that comment and permanently blocked the user. Wondering if Holly was in imminent danger, she tracked down the troll’s location from his IP address. The creep lived in South Carolina, too distant to be a threat. He was just a troublemaker, an internet anarchist – and no longer welcome on HideTruth.

  The police didn’t reveal the identities or addresses of sexual abuse victims, but the search for Holly had received so much news coverage there was no way to restore her privacy.

  Lexi remembered being harassed by Dicked Over, when she had learned that US law did almost nothing to protect victims of internet stalking. Wouldn’t want to infringe on some violent turd’s right to free speech.

  Angry, she deleted all the troll comments on the thread. She tended to have a high tolerance for volatile opinions, but not on this one, not with a woman who had been assaulted – whether or not Bigfoot truly was the culprit. The young woman worked as an office assistant for an accounting firm, was unmarried and had family in the city, but she lived alone.

  Though she had deleted the thread, Lexi was still worried that Holly Smith might be exposed to danger. Since she had the victim’s local address from the deleted posting, she decided to go make a polite visit, hoping Holly might appreciate a friendly ear, someone who wouldn’t mock or disbelieve her.

  She went to her closet, wanting to dress professionally. She had to look compassionate and trustworthy. She chose nice slacks, a green blouse, black leather jacket. Seeing her old church dresses hanging at the back of the rack, she realized that Blair was right. Those wouldn’t do at all for a fancy soiree.

  By the time she reached Holly Smith’s ground-floor apartment in a new development off Powers Drive, Lexi still hadn’t figured out what to say. She would offer support, but Holly probably just wanted to be left alone. Lexi would have a challenge.

  It was two o’clock in the afternoon when she rang the doorbell. After a long moment, the lock clicked and the door opened to reveal a thin young woman with short brown hair, a loose T-shirt, and baggy pants. Her eyes were dark blue, and the heavy shadows beneath them gave her a haunted look.

  Lexi smiled. ‘Are you Holly? I don’t know if you want to talk, but I’d like to offer you support and friendship.’ She extended one of her business cards.

  Holly was instantly suspicious. ‘What do you want? Are you a reporter?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ It was mostly true, and she didn’t intend to post any details about this interview. Whatever happened, Lexi just needed to hear the answers for herself. One of these days, I’m sure to be right. ‘I’m someone who wants to believe, and I’m willing to listen.’

  She and Holly were about the same age. Since Lexi had come alone, non-threatening, speaking in a soft voice and showing compassion, the young woman hesitated. ‘Another therapist? The rape counseling center talked to me for an hour, and that was all the time they could spare. Real therapists are a hundred dollars an hour or more, and they’re backlogged. I’ll just have to deal with it.’ She sounded angry, but not at Lexi.

  ‘I don’t charge at all for my time. And I listen just as wel
l.’

  As if in a daze, Holly opened the door and let her inside, still holding the business card, although she gave it only a quick glance.

  Despite the bright afternoon, the small apartment was dim with the blinds drawn. ‘I’ve read the police report and done some additional research, but I’d like to hear your version. I promise I’ll listen with an open mind.’

  Holly seemed reticent but detached, kept her gaze averted. A part of her was probably still lost out in that forest, trapped in memories of whatever had happened to her there. The young woman sat on the corner of the sofa, implicitly inviting Lexi to take the adjacent chair. She clutched her hands together in her lap.

  ‘I told them everything. Search parties were combing the forest looking for me, and the police and the rangers promised they would catch the man who did this.’ She let out a bitter laugh. ‘But who can find Bigfoot?’

  ‘There’ve been sightings in the area for a long time,’ Lexi said. ‘Many people around here believe in Sasquatch, and some of the national forest is deep, deep wilderness.’

  ‘I was naïve and stupid.’ Holly looked up, and her mouth twisted into a frightened grimace. ‘I’ve hiked with friends countless times, but most of them can’t keep up with me. I’ve been doing the Ring the Peak trail in segments, never thought twice about hiking alone. I had my pepper spray, and I was more worried about mountain lions and bears. Those are the real dangers, right? What hiker worries about Bigfoot?’ She put her face in her hands and began to cry.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine …’

  The young woman didn’t seem to hear her. ‘He came right out of the trees, down a hillside, long matted hair, big hairy chest. I think he was seven feet tall and strong. What was I supposed to do? Where could I run? I was miles from anything, and I hadn’t seen another hiker all day.

  ‘I screamed and ran, but he bounded after me. Each of his strides was worth two of mine, and I had already done eleven miles that day.’ She breathed harder, faster. ‘I was losing ground. I stopped and fumbled for the bear spray in my pack, but I couldn’t get to it fast enough.’ She blinked. ‘I was so stupid. What would I have done if a mountain lion attacked? I should have kept the spray in easy reach.’