“That’s very kind,” he said, his smile growing larger. She felt his hand on the back of her head as he added, “But water won’t quench this thirst.” His pupils went pitch black and the rest turned red, as he pulled her towards his open mouth of pointed teeth with a strength for which she wasn’t prepared. She struggled to break his hold, and stretched out her hand, searching for her sword.
She heard the blade that sliced through his neck pass within inches of her face, but it wasn’t her own. The head rolled away with a gurgling noise, and without his hand pulling her down, her head popped back up. Monk stood in front of her, his face hard to read as it was hidden not only in the coming gloom, but also within the darker shadow of his hood.
“We’re running out of time,” he said, offering his hand to her.
“Thanks,” she said, taking his help. “I owe you one,” she added, keeping a close eye on the head. It had come to rest less than a foot away, and the jaws continued to slowly open and close, much like a dying snake.
“Don’t worry about it,” Monk said. “We’ll be even soon enough.”
It seemed an odd thing to say, and she wondered if he might have been trying to make a joke, but he turned before she even had a chance to look for a smile. There were still a few heads that needed removing, and Monk seemed anxious to finish the job. It was a feeling Liz had no trouble understanding.
They worked their way quickly through the remaining bodies, and Monk wasted no time in creating the two piles. There were stacks of firewood stored behind the monastery, which they placed under and around the bodies. They added gasoline from a storage shed, and within a few minutes they had two large fires pushing back the darkness over the field.
Liz watched the fire, focused on the flames themselves and not what they were consuming. The job done, she was thinking of Braughton again. How long before Monk could be certain the fire had removed any threat of a reanimation, she wondered. She was sure he wouldn’t leave before he was convinced, and she wasn’t leaving here without him. As if summoned by her thoughts, Monk moved towards her.
“I need your help with one more thing,” he said.
“Name it,” she said, a little relieved to finally know what he meant by ‘they would be even soon enough’.
“It’s time to deal with my wounds now.” He knelt in front of her, bowed his head, pushed back his hood, and held up his sword to her.
Liz stared at the sword. What did he expect her to do? Then she saw them. Two puncture wounds encircled with dried blood on his neck. She took a step back and shook her head.
“No,” she whispered, the tears burning her eyes. “You can’t ask me to do that,” she pleaded.
“Please,” he said, stretching forward with the sword. “Allow me to join my brothers. I have no desire to roam this earth, damned for all eternity.”
She fell to the ground beside him. “What about me? What special place in hell is reserved for someone who kills a monk?”
“I’m already dead,” he assured her, and placed the sword on the ground between them. “My body just doesn’t know it yet.”
“But you can’t be sure, right? You might be fine. You don’t have to turn in to a vampire.” The tears were more than just threatening now, flowing freely down her cheeks.
“They made sure. When they didn’t find Braughton here, they made sure to leave a message that was loud and clear.” He lowered his head, unwilling to admit anything more, but knowing she needed to hear it. “Besides, I can already feel the change happening. When Brother Evan had you,” he paused, this was the tough part. “I could hear your heartbeat, hear the blood rushing through your veins, calling out to me. A part of me wanted to help him, wanted to taste you.” He shook his head, clearing the thoughts from his mind, then looked at Liz again. “I beg of you, let me leave this world as I entered it, as a man.”
The cut was quick, and, she hoped, painless. The headless body slumped forward, and she threw his sword down beside it, anxious to distance herself from it. She held her hands up to her face, still able to feel the sword’s grip in her palms. What had she done?
She screamed, a primal sound filled with pain and anguish that brought her to her knees before she was through. It echoed through the surrounding trees, and by the time it died, her simple tears had become deep, heavy sobs. Everything she had seen and done over the past few days finally hit her all at once, coupled with the feelings she had shared in Braughton’s vision. It was all too much.
She had no idea how long it lasted, but the sobs eventually tapered to tears, which then became the occasional sniff. There was no denying things were dark around her, but nothing was going to get better by just sitting there. She still had a job to finish.
She added the empty shell that had been Monk to the fire, and sat on her knees in front of it. Sword in her lap and head down, she listened to every crack, pop, hiss, and sizzle as the fire devoured the bodies. The overwhelming feelings responsible for her breakdown slowly dissipated, but what replaced them might have been even worse.
Anger and wrath began to rise inside her, bringing her blood to a rolling boil, the heat of which rivaled the roaring pyres beside her. With every noise she heard in the forest, came the hope it was the vampires returning. She longed to bathe her sword in the stolen blood of the undead, and she welcomed the opportunity to discover exactly where the line was between killing a vampire and just hurting them.
It was well past midnight before she admitted to herself no one was coming. Monk was right, the vampires had left a message, and had no reason to return. The fact that they had captured Braughton made it even less likely she would see anyone to unleash her vengeance upon.
It was probably for the best, she decided. On her own she would likely meet the same fate as her fallen friends, but there would be no one to make sure she stayed dead.
By the time morning came, the fires, and her rage, were little more than smoldering piles of ash. In place of her anger though, now was a plan. She needed to find Braughton, and with him would be those responsible for this slaughter. She would have her revenge, but she would need some help.
Chapter Twenty-four
The smell of oiled metal seeped into the hall, and she stood for a moment just breathing it in. She had no idea whether or not the fumes were toxic (though they most likely were), but she did know she didn’t care. It would be a damn fine way to die.
The door was unlocked, thankfully, as she didn’t relish the thought of searching through piles of ash looking for a key, and she was much less confident now in her lock-picking abilities. The inside was just as she had remembered it. Shelves lined with guns, and stacks of ammunition – every girl’s dream.
She walked to the nearest shelf and reached out to touch one. Her hand hesitated over the grip, remembering Braughton’s voice from the last time they were here. Not yet. It seemed a lifetime ago.
She looked down at the sword she held in her other hand. Until that moment she hadn’t even realized she was holding it. She supposed that meant she had grown comfortable with it. She lifted it up, examining the blade. It was true, she had come to regard it as a finely crafted weapon now, and not as just a pointy stick. She was ready.
Her concern was how much help would the guns provide? Braughton had found them to be mostly useless, although he was admittedly using them wrong. They certainly weren’t deadly, but as long as they were effective for more than just pissing the vampires off, then they would be useful. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t know how useful until she had to use them.
Liz already had her own pistol holstered around her waist, along with two extra clips. In the back corner of the room, she found a stand-up metal locker. Inside were holsters, as well as several large duffel bags. Don’t mind if I do, she thought as she strapped on two shoulder holsters, and then fashioned two more at mid-thigh. She easily found semi-automatic pistols that fit nicely into the holsters, but felt like she needed a little something extra.
She spotted what she was looking for on a shelf against the back wall. A row of rifles, of which she picked a small assault rifle, and slipped its strap across her chest. She then took one of the bags from the locker and filled it with extra clips. Now she just needed a ride.
Braughton had taken the only vehicle she’d seen since arriving at the monastery, and she didn’t like her chances of finding someone willing to pick her up hitchhiking. She was cute enough, sure, but the guns and cutlery would likely be a deal breaker. She decided to see what a search of the grounds could uncover. There were thirty-seven men living here, they had to have more than one car.
Had been. There had been thirty-seven men living here, she gently reminded herself. She would not be so gentle to those responsible.
She didn’t find a car. What she did find was a motorcycle, covered by a tarp in the back corner of a large shed. She nearly dismissed it as lawn equipment, but something about the shape begged her to look closer. The tarp was clean and free of dust, as was the area around it. She pulled the tarp back and even in the gloom of the shed could see the chrome on the bike shined. Someone had taken good care of it. She pushed it out into the morning sun to get a better look.
A motorcycle. Why’d it have to be a motorcycle? She had extensive training in driving a car at the academy, and a total of one course lasting three days on driving a motorcycle. She hadn’t touched one since, and didn’t care to think about how long ago that was. She only hoped the old adage of ‘like riding a bike’ applied here as well.
As it turned out, most of her instruction did come back to her. Although, admittedly it was after three near spills and several missed gears. She had found tie-downs to secure the duffel bag to the back of the bike, and even found a long coat that covered her holsters. Her main concern now, after leaving the empty mountain roads, was the assault rifle. She had strapped it to the side of the bike, but the barrel stuck out like a sore thumb. She just hoped nobody would pay much attention to the full-face helmet, trench coat wearing figure on the motorcycle with the lumpy, oversized bag strapped to the back. Sure. Those go by every day.
Liz stuck to the backroads. It added at least an hour on to her time, but it also kept her out of populated areas for most of the trip. As luck would have it, the warehouse where Braughton had been captured was on the outskirts of the city instead of in the middle of it. She just hoped her luck held and Braughton was still here.
She made a wide, lazy circle around the mostly vacant block of buildings, but saw no sign of guards or even look-outs. On the next block over she found Braughton’s car. She parked behind it, unnerved by the sudden silence as she killed the motorcycle’s engine. There were a few other cars parked on the street, but everything felt empty, deserted. The only thing missing was the obligatory discarded newspaper tumbling down the street to complete the effect.
Directly across from her was a narrow alley leading back to the block with the warehouse. Assuming she was likely following in Braughton’s footsteps, but not considering whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, she headed down the alley. At the far end she had two choices. She could cross the open parking lot, and head straight for the warehouse entrance, or she could stick to the sidewalk, and look for another way in without drawing any attention to herself.
While she weighed her options, she watched not only the windows of the warehouse for any movement, but the surrounding ones as well. She saw nothing. Not one car on the street, person on the sidewalk, or shadow in a window. So much for not being noticed. The sun was starting to get low in the sky, and she really didn’t want to start her assault in the dark. She took one more look up and down the street, then settled on just using the front door.
“It’s not like me showing up should be much of a surprise,” she mumbled as she drew her coat tight around her body, shifted the bag on her shoulders, and left the alley. The assault rifle was tucked under her jacket, slung over her shoulder, with the barrel pointed down. She hoped anyone watching her wouldn’t notice the small bit of muzzle protruding from the bottom of her jacket. Actually, it stuck out just about the same amount as her sword on the other side. Now, did that make her look more or less conspicuous?
She kept her eyes on the windows and door ahead, the gun knocking against her thigh with every step she took. She was halfway across the lot and had already decided anyone stepping into the sunlight was going to quickly see that barrel pointed directly at them. She had no doubt of its effects on a human. Then she had a thought that shook her confidence and stopped her dead in her tracks.
She never checked the weapons. She had no idea what condition they were in when Braughton found them, how long they’d been in that room, or what, if anything, had been done to them once they were shelved. She didn’t even know if the damn things would fire!
“Less than a month,” she spat. She ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “That’s all it takes to forget everything you’ve learned.” She laughed harshly and shook her head. “Don’t touch a gun for three weeks and all that training just goes right out the window, I guess.”
It was a rookie mistake, and she had no idea how much it was going to cost her until the time came when she needed to use the guns. At least she still had her own sidearm, she thought as she pressed it against her side for comfort. By the time she had used it and the two extra clips, she would know whether or not she even needed to try using the other guns. She pressed against her other side as well, feeling the cold steel of her sword, reminding herself the guns weren’t her primary weapons anyway. It allowed her to move forward again, but did little to restore her confidence.
Three-fourths of the way across the lot she stepped into the shadow of the building, and shivered involuntarily as gooseflesh broke out on her arms. There was still no movement from any window, but she suddenly felt as though she was being watched. Too late to stop now, she shrugged off the feeling and crossed the final few meters to the front door.
The hinges screamed their protest, announcing her entrance to the empty warehouse. “Well, if they weren’t sure before,” she sighed as she let the door slip, adding its own echoing boom to her arrival. “Now if this was one of those cheesy scary movies, this would be the part where I walk around calling out ‘hello’.” She pulled her sword from its sheath and held it in front of her. “Fortunately, I’ve seen that movie, and I know how it ends.”
It only took a moment for Liz to determine she was alone in the sun bathed building. Empty shelves and dust covered tables were scattered around, but there was absolutely nowhere for someone to hide. She then spotted the boxes used to lure Braughton here on the far side of the building.
It was strange, somehow she felt even more exposed walking across the warehouse floor than she had crossing the parking lot outside. Her nerves on edge, she kept the sword up and walked slowly towards the crates, keeping her eyes bouncing between the three doors from which someone could enter.
How could Braughton let himself be captured, she wondered. There was no way she wouldn’t hear or see someone trying to attack her, so what happened? She reached the boxes, and noticed there were stacks of books piled around the crates. It looked very similar to the assortment in the crate back at the monastery. Was a tracking device buried in this one too?
She gave the box a hard kick, scattering books and toppling the stacks someone had made. No, not someone, Braughton. That’s what happened. He wasn’t overpowered, he was just distracted.
She could feel the heat of anger rising in her, but it was almost irrational. Part of her wondered why she was so mad, but it was being drowned out by the rage. Why am I angry, it screamed at her. Maybe because if he could have just looked up for one second he might not have been captured, and then maybe things would have turned out differently at the monastery. But no, these books were too important, and by the time he realized something was wrong, it was too late.
Just like when I lost Garrett.
Whoa. Liz stood still. She remember
ed the name, but still had no idea who he was. Where had that thought came from?
The anger she felt towards Braughton faded, for the most part. There was still a lingering feeling, but it was more disappointment than anger, and was mostly overshadowed by concern, and the desire to find him. He had made a mistake, and she had no idea what had brought on all that animosity. Then her lips curled into a small smile. It was Braughton. He was definitely still here. She just needed to find him.
She closed her eyes, recalling the vision she had seen, then opened them again and looked around. There. Door number two was the metal door he had been facing while lying on the floor. She moved to the spot and noticed a rust colored stain on the concrete floor, but no other sign anything had happened here.
She closed her eyes again, focusing on the vision, trying to remember how she did it. How had she seen through his eyes? She held the image in her mind, but it remained dark behind her eyes. She tried calling out to him, but received only silence. She tried getting angry again, but wound up mostly just mad at herself. She was trying too hard.
She didn’t need to see through his eyes, she just needed to know where he was. She closed her eyes again, this time searching for him, looking for that connection between them. There was only darkness for a few moments, but she didn’t let herself get frustrated. She could do this. Then, there it was. A small tug, a tiny pull at the center of her body. In the darkness she started to see that thin, glowing line stretching out in front of her, faint at first, but growing in intensity. She smiled and opened her eyes. The line was gone, but she could still feel the pull. Her connection with Braughton was strong, and it was leading directly to the metal door.
Liz walked to the door, noting in the back of her mind how its placement kept the area around it in shadow, but not really attaching any significance to the fact. Her hand extended, she reached for the handle, not even considering it might be locked. It was. However, before she could find that out, it moved.
Shackles of Sunlight Page 20