by Pete Clark
Boone did know that he had to get through them to get to de Lavoir. He wished Prescott was here; he would know how to kill these things. At least he could stay here and keep an eye on them to make sure that de Lavoir did not slip away or get the jump on anyone. It was then that something tapped Boone on the shoulder.
He turned to see de Lavoir perched lightly on a narrow branch behind him. His smile flashed razor teeth. How the hell did he get behind me, Boone had time to wonder, just as de Lavoir launched him from the tree with a tremendous push. Boone crashed down among some spiny shrubs. His face and arms were cut dozens of times, but none of the injuries were serious. He looked up at the tree for de Lavoir, but he had already disappeared. What had not disappeared were the six giant jackal beasts that were gnashing their teeth and strolling toward him.
“Do you guys speak English?” Boone asked, as he reached for his fallen rifle.
“Who cares,” came a charging shout. “Just shoot them through the heart and cut off their heads!”
It was Prescott. Boone wheezed in relief. That dude had awesome timing. Dawes, Marion, and Hart were with him. Hart drilled a jackal in the heart straight away. It dropped to its knees, stunned at the rather spectacular shot. Marion lopped off its head for good measure with one mighty swipe of his sword.
“It’s good to have friends,” Boone said, as he struggled to his feet.
Boone joined said friends who were already pushing strongly into the small jackal horde, causing them to retreat. They were heading back toward the walls of the Yorktown garrison, which, may I remind you, was a rainstorm of deadly cannon fire.
Prescott severed a jackal arm, spun rapidly, and removed its head before spearing it through the heart for good measure. He fought hard, but he was on the lookout for de Lavoir, who could not be far.
****
Morgan’s forces were tearing the rippers apart. Weakened by the loss of air support and having no battle plan whatsoever, the monsters, for all their ferocity, were proving to be fairly ineffective as a military fighting force.
“We have them on the run,” said Tim Murphy, as he picked off a fleeing ghoul.
“Maybe so,” said Morgan “But here come the Redcoats charging up our backs.”
A firm line of bayonet charging Brits had been dispatched. To give them a chance to advance, the defensive cannon fire had stopped. This was a terrible mistake by Cornwallis. Morgan ordered his men to engage the bayonet line. He was going to send a message to Greene, but there was no need. Greene had realized the opportunity as well as Morgan and he was quick to rouse his men. They were in a full trot dragging the cannons to the very knoll Morgan had sighted earlier with Prescott’s help. Within minutes, Greene had established his position and had several of his own cannons firing down into the first few rings of Yorktown’s defenses. It was a trench of mutilation. The Brits had no choice but to retreat. This allowed the Americans to move up and repeat this process. In a sense, the war had just been won.
****
Prescott stood back to back with Boone. Marion and Hart were finishing off the last jackal. de Lavoir remained hidden, but Prescott knew he was close.
“Come out you cowardly, bloodless freak. Or are you too afraid to face something as simple as a man?” The speech was crap and Prescott knew it. But it was what he had. He had never been much of a public speaker.
“Here comes something,” said Marion. And sure enough, what appeared to be a blur of smoke was whipping toward their position.
The four of them squared off to face it, but just as it got close, it rose up above them. As they twisted, the smoke formed into the vampire and he dropped among them, his deadly claws flashing. de Lavoir kicked a leg out and knocked Marion aside. He tried to backhand Prescott, but he ducked, drew his sword, and swung for de Lavoir’s neck. As usual, the creature was gone into the wind. Prescott took a breath. He had seen this before. When de Lavoir killed Grant, it was from behind. When he got Hannah, it was from behind like a coward. He always disappeared and struck from behind, especially when attacking those whom he feared. Does he fear me? Prescott wondered. He turned his own sword toward himself and considered. Marion was getting up; Hart and Boone were fine. Nothing was behind any of them and they were each looking off in random directions. It would come now, he thought.
Prescott felt a cool breeze stir up behind him. It was coming quick. An icy hand pinned his sword arm to his side. Prescott knew the bladed claws of de Lavoir’s other hand would come bursting through his own chest any second. His arm was stuck. He had no time and he had no choice. He could not swing his arm or move his sword, but he could thrust it. It was already pointing at himself. He lunged forward and drove his sword back. The point punched into his own stomach. He shoved the blade through to the hilt; his body turned into a swarming fire of living pain, yet he kept plunging hard. The blade erupted out of his own back as de Lavoir moved in close for the kill. Prescott’s blade speared him hard through the chest. de Lavoir gasped, stunned. His arms spasmed wildly in confusion.
“Grab him,” Prescott shouted through a mouthful of pouring blood. “Don’t let him escape.”
Boone and Marion were quick. They fired, Marion bursting the bones in de Lavoir’s kneecaps, while Boone dented his skull. They landed on the stunned monster driving him to the ground.
As the sword was pulled out of de Lavoir, it sliced through more of Prescott’s insides. The agony peeled away at his will, begging him to die. But not just yet. He turned to face de Lavoir, who was still being held by Boone and Marion. Prescott ripped his own sword from out of his innards. There was more pain, but by now, there was so much he could not care. A thick black dollop of liquid followed the sword as it came loose.
“Time to settle up, de Lavoir.” Prescott staggered forward.
“What good would it do you? You’re already dead.”
“Not yet. Not quite yet.” Prescott advanced. He was only a few feet away, but he could barely move. Still, he saw the fear in de Lavoir’s eyes. It was the deep honest fear of a true coward. That kept him moving.
de Lavoir was scarcely better off than Prescott, but that didn’t seem to stop him. He flung himself upward from the ground. He knocked Marion away with a backhand and grabbed Boone by the face with his huge bony white hands, lifting him high, before throwing him with immense ferocity. Hart charged him and she was met with a swift kick; she went down hard and was still.
“So,” crackled de Lavoir’s hideous voice. “You stupid humans are always trying to win. But we are immortal. We have no end; darkness is legion and you are just food for my army.”
He grinned. Prescott grinned back, which surprised de Lavoir.
“Why the smile? I’m going to kill you now,” de Lavoir pointed out.
“Do you speak Latin?” Prescott asked.
“Why?”
“Deus ex machina!” Dawes shouted, as he blasted de Lavoir with a plank of wood from behind. de Lavoir went down, completely caught off guard.
Prescott launched himself at the crippled vampire, the filthy monster of the night who had killed the only woman he had really known, murdered his friends, and led this ripper army up and down the coast. He aimed his sword at de Lavoir’s chest. He wanted to say something impactful, something that would convey his hatred for de Lavoir. He settled for, “Here, hold this.” Prescott plunged his silver blade into the heart of de Lavoir. The beast screamed. A torrent of blood erupted from his mouth, covering Prescott. Dawes handed him his sword. Prescott wiped the blood from his eyes and mouth and brought Dawes’ sword down and through de Lavoir’s neck. The attack severed his head and his soul and sent his black heart forever to rest in Hell. Hmmm, thought Prescott. Maybe I should have said that.
Dawes sat down with a thud next to the bleeding Prescott. “Fucking French,” he said, as he kicked de Lavoir’s corpse.
“Fucking French,” Prescott replied.
****
The battle of Yorktown was resolved soon after. The Croatoan curse was lifte
d and rippers were no longer produced by rage, hatred, or fear, but only by traditional means of procreation. The ripper numbers dwindled and some species became extinct; most simply moved into the world of shadow and hid from men. They still survived, but they were sighted so rarely that they became the stuff of legend.
Cornwallis, once he realized the patriot cannons could pummel him at will, decided to retreat. Unfortunately for him, he discovered that the mass of naval warships located behind him were all French. He had no choice but to surrender himself and Britain’s entire southern army. Such an epic victory for the Americans, and the loss of manpower by the British, effectively ended the war and allowed America to become a free and independent country.
In the wake of the celebration, Prescott sat with his insides shredded. He rested in a pool of blood; some was his, some of it de Lavoir’s. His friends gathered around him.
William Dawes, Daniel Boone, Francis Marion, Nancy Hart, and Daniel Morgan were all heroes of the American Revolution, yet they carried not the fame of Washington and Franklin. Still, they celebrated their victory and the knowledge that they could return home, to their friends and families, for the first time as masters of their own land.
EPILOGUE
December, 1860.
The Mammoth’s Testicle: Another freaking tavern.
The tavern was dark, but secure against the cold New England weather. A number of men and women had gathered around. They were listening to a gentleman as he read them a poem that he had written. The man was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. He was really letting his words fly as he recited his poem - a poem that, despite being new, was gaining much momentum.
Longfellow was flailing his arms with passion and pounding the table for emphasis as he headed toward the finish.
“For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.”
There was applause and Longfellow stood there soaking it all in. When the tavern again grew silent, a solitary man in the darkest corner of the tavern spoke up softly, but his words were clear.
“That is some serious bullshit.”
“Excuse me?” Longfellow asked.
“That story you’re slinging. It’s total shit. Revere was a little bitch who surrendered at his first chance.”
“I beg to differ, sir,” Longfellow said coming closer. “Paul Revere is an iconic American hero. He warned of the British attack; he rode from town to town and saved the day.”
“He couldn’t even save himself.”
The man rose and stepped from the shadows. He seemed young, maybe in his mid-twenties. But his eyes were old. He had seen horrible things; this was clear to everyone in the tavern. A hush fell over the room.
“What makes you say this?” Longfellow asked, his voice an unsteady quiver.
“I was there,” he said.
For the whisper of a moment, the crowd thought to laugh. How could a man so young have been there 85 years ago? But his eyes told them that this man was no liar.
“Revere got caught. Yes, he was eventually released, but it was Dawes and I who did most of the hard work. I didn’t hear any mention of us in that poem of yours.”
“And who, uh, who are you?”
“Prescott,” he said, his silver sword in hand and his four-barreled pistols at his hips. “Samuel Prescott.”
“Prescott?” Longfellow mused. “I have never heard of you.”
“Really?” Prescott snickered. “Well, thank God for that.”
He returned to his dark corner and took up his beverage in silence. The party soon broke up and left him alone. All of the goodbyes made the journey difficult. And his journey was so long. Why he had not died at Yorktown? How could he be alive now, yet no older? He didn’t know. Perhaps Hannah had shared some part of herself that was infected by de Lavoir and that, in turn, infected him. Or maybe in their final collision, the vampire’s blood had worked into his veins. Either way, here was the result. The earth remained beneath him instead of on top of him. And, wonder upon wonders, now he was unknown. He had always tried to keep a low profile.
Prescott himself was legend now, just another shadow in the corner of every tavern. Look for him and you may catch a glimpse. But the second peek reveals only darkness. And that is how he has always wanted it to be. A hunter unseen, a ghost in the mist, a midnight rider.
THE END