The Last Hellfighter

by Flowers, Thomas S.

Agent Oz was ejecting a clip from his pistol. Slapping in a fresh magazine and aiming and firing at three turned villagers as they snapped and gnashed their monstrous teeth. Another came from his right and knocked away his weapon. They piled on top of him, making sucking sounds as he screamed.

  Only Captain Harris and Angel now.

  And so many more of them.

  Ben closed his eyes, unwilling to watch what he could not stop.

  Then came joyful screeches from the vampyre as they fed.

  "You lost," she hissed, letting Ben fall to the ground.

  He lost.

  Did he even really have a chance?

  Was he that much of a fool to think he could destroy her?

  For centuries she has survived. Who was he to challenge that?

  Ben looked at the silver blade beside him on the ground.

  The old rage began to boil once again.

  Who was he?

  He was a husband and would be father and brother and friend—all blessings turned to ash because of this evil that had beseeched his life. And he would be the one to finally end it all.

  Mustering what little strength he had left, Ben snatched up the sword and sprung at the gigantic cloaked shape towering over him. He snuck the blade until he felt bone.

  The tall vampyre hissed, falling backward.

  She twisted without falling to ground, rolled, over and over as if in mid-air, taking him along with her. Her black tattered robe whipped around, snapping at the air as if itself were alive.

  She rolled and then stood somehow, holding Ben by the folds of his uniform. She laughed, bellowing in her echoing shrill voice and tossed the old man away.

  Ben flew several feet before hitting ground. One leg positioned awkwardly, he could feel bone cracking. Bolts of pain shot up, bulging his eyes, clenching his teeth. Through wet eyes, he squinted up at her, waiting for the killing blow.

  The vampyre stood not far off, Ben's silver blade impaled through her midsection. She took the blade and pulled it out of her, looking at the sword as if it were nothing more than a spec of dirt as the silver smouldered her death white flesh. She looked at Ben, letting the blade drop. Unperturbed by whatever pain it may have caused her.

  Ben held his breath, chattering his teeth, knowing this was the end.

  But nothing came.

  He looked up at her.

  Her eyes glowed—somehow brighter then ever before.

  Glaring down at him, laughing with those large front saber teeth, she spoke and said, "So many men have tried much harder than you, Benjamin Harker—and failed. Your kind is but a grain in an hourglass of amusement. I am Countess Lamashtu and I am forever. What are you? You are just a man—feeble, tired, and alone. I cannot die, yet you will."

  Searching, patting his pockets, Ben found the .45 and aimed and shot at her. Yelling, screaming as he did. Each round deafening. Flashes casting away shadows, revealing the nightmarish crowd of vampyre that had gathered around to watch them. Silent. Red eyes following each movement.

  The rounds impacted her chest, sending puffs of dust into the air, but nothing else. She stood, ridged and unmoved. Smiling at him as if enjoying some perverse joke or game.

  "Just end this—please!" Ben shouted at her, tossing away the pistol.

  The Countess regarded him, and perhaps for a moment she considered ending the old man's life. Sparing him the shame of surviving unrewarded once again.

  And then she turned without a single word, and vanished, dissolving into the night along with all her remaining ilk.

  Fourth Interlude

  2044

  "Oh, some people got the real problems

  Some people out of luck

  Some people think I can solve them

  Lord heavens above

  I'm only human after all

  I'm only human after all

  Don't put the blame on me

  Don't put the blame on me

  I'm only human

  I make mistakes

  I'm only human

  That's all it takes

  To put the blame on me

  Don't put the blame on me"

  — Human, Rag'n'Bone Man.

  "The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

  And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

  And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

  When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

  Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

  That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

  Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

  That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

  For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

  And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;

  And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

  And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!"

  —The Destruction of Sennacherib, Lord Byron.

  Chapter 37

  Clyde Bruner fell back into the couch. His eyes went over the random ornaments in Mr. Harker's living room. The spears and native-looking things. A collection from around the world, taken from a million hunts or more. The victories and the losses, and the losses seemed to outweigh the entire lot. His grandfather had made this man a legend in his mind—but he was nothing more than a man—human and flawed.

  "Those men..." Clyde started, losing the words in his mind.

  Benjamin coughed hard, wheezing, trying to catch his breath.

  The Victrola spun along, the record crackling but otherwise silent.

  "You used them. They had no idea what was going to happen...you didn't warn them." Clyde looked over at the ancient man in the recliner. Harker appeared so much older now. So much frailer. And tired. And worn. When he came here, thinking on all that he had to do to get here, the hope he brought with him to find an answer to the horror overtaking the country, to find some way to save his family, friends, his people—there was none of that here, he realized. Nothing he could take and learn and use. Nothing but failure.

  "Yes. Father Bishop had that same look you have now," Ben started. "He stayed with me in that field hospital until my leg mended enough to travel back home. I told him what had happened, that it was not an invitation to end her life, but a trap—a game, she wanted to gloat. After killing so many of her ilk, she wanted me to see that none of it mattered, so long as she lived. She wanted to break my will. And so, she did—I couldn't bear to do anymore there in that place. Father Bishop wanted to keep hunting. To keep fighting. No, I said. Let her feed on the blood of the war, the table had already been set." He searched around his chair for a drink of something, water, anything, finding a glass he swallowed eagerly.

  The young man shook his head, his eyes on the floor. "What did you do?"

  Harker set the glass down, nearly dropping it his hands shook so bad. "Do? I came home—of course when I came home I heard news of James passing while we were in Nam. Heart attack, the docs told me. We, Father Bishop and I, buried him in the field near the house, next to Mina."

  "I'm surprised they did not arrest you or something."

  Ben nodded. Ignoring the touch of vileness in Bruner's tone. "Colonel Giles was more than disturbed by the event. He'd lost more men and one of his best officers. And there was the whole 'not really here' agent in the field to account for. Even that spook had people he answered to, and as I overheard, they were not too thrilled with the death of one of their own." He started to cough again.

  Clyde said nothing, he exhaled, shaking his head, wondering what he was going to do, what he could do or should. Was this venture an entire waste of time and resources?

  "Not the hero you thought I was, am I young Bruner?" Harker managed to say, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  Clyde brought his gaze to Ben's. "No, you're not. Heroes don't sacrifice innocent lives to fit their own agenda."

  Ben smirked, challenging almost. "Those men were not
innocent babes, soldiers are killers—stained souls, I know. And besides, I warned them, more or less."

  "Not good enough. You let the Countess have them just so you could have your chance at revenge. You didn't even consider the possibility." Bruner looked away.

  Ben nodded, solemn. "If I could find a way to do things again, I would. You'll learn for yourself, the more you do, the more you try to bring some good into this world, the more gets taken away from you until all that is left is the hate and anger and all you want to do is cut them down. And you'll run and run and hunt them down—" Coughing seized his throat. He spat into his empty coffee mug, wiping his chin with a withered wrinkled and shaking hand. He looked back at Clyde, a renewed fire in his eyes. "You'll find that no matter how many you cut down, more and more take their place. The killing never stops."

  The young man stood, his hands balled tight, and started to pace. Had this all been a waste? Why had Pepaw called this man a hero? Why? No—there must be something. Something that can be salvaged here. Harker told me how to kill them. Okay. We can use that. But what about the other thing, the—Countess? Certainly, she can be killed. Nothing is absolute. As powerful as she may be, she must have a weakness of some kind. I can succeed where he failed. He was old, even then. I'm younger than he was. Stronger. Yes. This is what I came here for, not bedtime stories, but the truth—knowledge, power to take back control.

  Clyde stopped pacing and looked down at Harker. His eyes were closed, and he wondered for a moment if the old man had passed.

  "Mr. Harker?" Clyde asked, almost quietly, timidly, and concerned.

  Benjamin kept his eyes closed. He licked his dry chapped looking lips. "What more do you want, young Bruner? This world feels so heavy right now. Getting hard to breathe."

  Clyde knelt by his chair. "Can I get you some water? I have one more question to ask."

  Grimacing, Harker nodded. His face an expression of pain.

  Clyde stood and walked quickly to the kitchen. He found a glass and filled it with water. At the sink he looked outside the foggy kitchen window. Night had come, the day gone forever. His gaze fell to the window sill and the red and black wires that ran along the wall, leading upward and tracing along the crown moulding out back into the hallway and into the living room. Odd, he thought. He had not noticed it before. The strange wires were stapled along every wall and window space.

  He brought the glass of water and set it in Ben's unsteady hand, using his own to help the old man guide it to his open mouth. Clyde thought about asking about the wires but decided against it. Mr. Harker did not look well at all and if he was to get one last question from the old man, it had to be the one he truly needed answered.

  Harker drank, smacking his lips, he nodded weakly.

  Clyde smiled and set the glass down on the overcrowded table beside his recliner. "I need to know how to kill her, Mr. Harker. Can you tell me that?"

  Ben opened one eye, glaring up at the younger man.

  "You must know, sir. You must know a way, or all of this would have been pointless." Clyde remained standing but took a step back. He didn't want to leer over the man.

  Shaking his head, Harker wheezed, "You cannot kill her."

  Rolling his eyes, Clyde took his seat on the couch, sitting on the edge. "There must be a way. Isn't that why you went to Iraq? When you saved my grandfather. Truth of the matter was, you didn't go to save anyone, did you? No, you went there searching for something, something about the Countess, didn't you?"

  A smirk spread across Harker's wrinkled tired face. "You are very quick, young Bruner."

  Clyde beamed at the old man, but his emotion was more internal, like a schoolboy getting a teacher's question answered correctly in front of his classmates. "I knew it! Please, tell me, what did you find? What did you see? How can she be killed?"

  With a trembling hand, Harker gestured at his Victrola.

  Already familiar with the process, Bruner stood and went to the record player. He turned and waited for instruction.

  Harker exhaled, clearly straining to recall the record he needed to help loosen his memory. He closed his eyes, searching.

  "Beastie Boys?" Clyde suggested, remembering the first record he had played.

  Harker waved his hand angerly. "None of that noise."

  The young man waited—as patient as he could.

  Finally, Harker opened his eyes. "There should be a yellow record in there with a horn and the name ATCO. Play that one."

  Bending down, Clyde thumbed through the frayed records until he found the one that matched the description. "Beyond the Sea," he whispered. Standing, he took the black disc from the sleeve and placed it in the Victrola. He set the needle down and cranked the box. When the bulb lit he stopped and waited for the music to start before sitting back down on the couch.

  Soon, a horn began tooting slowly—much like the other albums Mr. Harker had requested, this one was jazz and dreamy. A smooth handsome voice began, and the rest of the orchestra rolled in beat, and the singer kept singing about somewhere beyond the sea and his girl waiting him, watching ships go sailing across the sea.

  Satisfied, Clyde returned to his place on the couch. He gazed over at Ben, eager to begin, eager to find his answers, eager to know all what the old man knew.

  Mr. Harker was leaning more on one side of the recliner, his otherwise dark skin ashen and beaded with sweat. He glared at the young man. "This will be my last story, young Bruner...are you ready?"

  The young man nodded, "Yes."

  "Then let's begin," the old man said.

  The Temple

  2006

  "Once again...welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring,"

  ― Bram Stoker, Dracula.

  "When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

  And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

  And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

  Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

  How many loved your moments of glad grace,

  And loved your beauty with love false or true,

  But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

  And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

  And bending down beside the glowing bars,

  Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

  And paced upon the mountains overhead

  And hid his face amid a crowd of stars,"

  ―When You Are Old, W. B. Yeats.

  Chapter 38

  "That has been their greatest triumph, to remain in the shadows. That is why it is so important to name them for what they are—there is power in naming things. These creatures—as I call them vampyre, they are also known as the Unclean, vampires in the modern tongue. Nosferatu. The Undead. And while they have existed a millennium in folklore as myth and fable, they continue to thrive on mankind's ignorance. They exist as a nomadic species, preying on man's intolerance. Imagine if we could believe that something viler than ourselves could exist in this world. Moving from war to war, turmoil to turmoil, stalking as a shark does the scent of blood in the water."

  Ben could still hear the old professor's words as clear as the day he had said them, now some seventy-fours years later. They were sitting around a kitchen table, with Mina by his side and Champagne's sheriff, Holmwood. Talking of devils and monsters. Working things out as if they could have stopped any of what was coming.

  If only he had known, what he knew now.

  Could he had changed the outcome?

  Could he have saved her?

  In his mind, he reached out, he rubbed the pooch of Mina's ballooned stomach.

  Mina held his hand as he did. She giggled. "Did you feel?"

  Ben couldn't help but laugh, giddy as he was. "Was that?"

  "Our baby, she kicked!"

  "She?"

  "I have a feeling."

  "Hmm. Well, so much for having help on the farm."

  "You'll have James to help you."

&nb
sp; This had been a near century-long blood feud. A wrong that demanded to be righted. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a fang. For him at least, he wanted his pound of flesh, for the Countess though, this was nothing more than entertainment. Ben was no fool. To her, this was a game she could pass the time with. And for a time, he had refused to play. Until the next Great War—and the fact that he was still breathing, somehow, long past his due.

  A waiter wearing a white dishdashi robe came and refilled his mug with espresso, nodding and bowing and smiling as he backed away. Ben gave him no attention. The proprietor was just glad someone was spending money at his little café in the middle of the desert.

  He nodded and lifted the small mug to his parted lips. The hot liquid eased down his dry throat, heating his chest and lungs. It felt good, regardless of the oven baked heat of the early afternoon. And it kept his mind alert—for he often found himself troubled with his thoughts wandering away from him.

  "Doesn't matter. There are more out there—more to eat your pretty wife. I brought them here, just for you, Ben." Maybe it was the heat of the day, or more likely it was because of his extreme age, but Ben could hear Renfield in his mind, a voice now dead some seventy-four years, mingled with his own younger self.

  "Why? How? Are you working with these things now? Are you controlling them?"

  Renfield gurgling with laughter from his ear. "Controlling them? Hardly. Using them—maybe."

  "But why? After all we had seen and done together, why bring them here?"

  "Isn't it obvious?"

  Isn't it obvious? No, it hadn't been.

  It should have been.

  If he had been smarter.

  If he had been prepared.

  He wasn't then, but he was now. On the edge of death, he found what Professor Helwing could not. For even in retirement, he continued searching. Studying. Reading. And watching as the world continued to spin without him. And when he saw the ruins on the news as the American Forces invaded Iraq, he knew where he must go.

  Across the dirt street where Harker sat sipping his expresso, a convoy of armored Humvees rolled by, kicking up dust and murmur from the small crowd of pedestrians. Even through his sunglasses and weakening eyesight, he could see the dark colored American patches on the shoulder of the gunners as they stood in their turrets watching the people and street stoically as they drove on.