Vampyrrhic

by Simon Clark

  No, she told herself, allow no distractions. Stay calm. Stay focused.

  This is it.

  She stepped into the side ward. There was one bed. On the bed lay an old man. She recognized him immediately. George Leppington. He’d been a fixture of the town all her life.

  He lay flat on his back. The bandages around his head were brilliantly white. So bright that again she felt the pressure on her eyes. A thin pain ran from each retina back through the eyeball, along the optic nerve to deep inside her head.

  She blinked.

  The pain stayed.

  Never mind.

  She swiftly closed the door behind her. Again she made no fuss; her body language was that of a member of the man’s family who just wanted a few minutes alone with him.

  She approached the bed.

  An IV tube ran from a bag of saline solution on a stand down to the man’s forearm.

  He appeared to be deeply asleep. But she saw his pale lips moving as if he was holding a conversation with someone she could not see. Perhaps, in another dimension beyond this one, she thought, he spoke to the old Viking god, Thor. Perhaps he explained, trembling in awe, that his nephew, David Leppington, had abdicated as successor to the Leppingsvalt legacy. Perhaps the old man begged for more power to be diverted to those creatures that no doubt even now surged in revolting waves through the tunnels beneath her feet. Electra shivered. How would Thor reply? Did his voice sound of thunder? Was he content with how the ambitious new prince of darkness, Mike Stroud, was running the divine mission?

  She looked down at the face with the closed eyes, the strong nose that resembled David’s so much, the thick white eyebrows and strong lashes that lay against the cheek.

  Inside, Electra felt cool, in control; she knew she’d not flinch from what she must do next. Nor would she experience guilt.

  Quickly she opened the cupboard beside the bed. There were coils of IV tube, pink mouth wipes in plastic bags, a box of tissues, and a tube of skin moisturizing cream to help prevent bed sores.

  Her eyes absorbed what she saw.

  Yes, everything was there for what she needed to do next.

  4

  ‘David? David. My goodness, I didn’t even have to search for you, did I? You came back all of your own accord.’

  David froze in the tunnel. Bernice and Maximilian stopped behind him.

  He raised the sword. Stroud tut-tutted and smiled. He was flanked by twenty or more of the white-headed vampires.

  ‘The tunnel came to a dead end, I take it?’ Stroud smiled. ‘A dead end. Isn’t that a perfect metaphor for your present plight?’ The smile widened. ‘So, where do you run to now?’

  ‘We’ll run right over you if we have to,’ David said, pointing the sword at Mike’s throat.

  ‘Go on, David,’ said Stroud, grinning. ‘Hack off my head, why don’t you?’

  ‘I think I just might do that.’

  ‘With my devoted bodyguard standing right here? I don’t think you’d get within half a dozen paces of me.’

  ‘Stroud. What the hell are you going to achieve?’ David asked bitterly. ‘Why keep all this hatred alive?’

  ‘You know full well. The outside world has destroyed the Leppington family. Destroyed them economically and as a family unit. Your uncle’s hatred — his passionate hatred — for all those who are responsible for those crimes against your family has given us…’ His gesture embraced the vampires. ‘Has given us a new lease of life. And not only life, but a glorious purpose.’

  ‘So you intend to launch an attack on the outside world, using this vampire army?’

  ‘Of course. You know the plan by now. Your uncle told you it often enough as you sat on his knee as a toddler.’

  ‘But what would it gain?’

  ‘The destruction of Christendom.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t gain anything. You’ve heard the phrase pyrrhic victory. It means a victory so costly it’s not worth having. That’s all you could have. You could never achieve anything of value, you could never create a new empire. You and your monsters can only destroy. You’ll inherit a world full of ruins inhabited by vampires. It would be soulless. A dead world.’

  Mike smiled, but it was a cold, hating smile. ‘What wonderful rhetoric. See, you could have become emperor. Instead, you’ve abdicated your responsibility. You could —’

  David swung the sword. Another pace nearer and he could have slashed off the head. As it was the sword missed.

  ‘Poor try, David.’ Stroud smiled. ‘Ah, but look here. I see we have a new recruit. A strapping young buck, hmm?’

  He stood to one side.

  ‘Jack. My God, are…’ David’s voice trailed away. Behind him Bernice gasped.

  Black stood there. The light in his eyes had changed. It was darker now. Evil.

  David glanced down, seeing the gashed throat and bloodied T-shirt.

  ‘That’s right, David. Mr Black here is one of us now. Just as you two will be — Bernice, David. I’m afraid Maximilian must be rejected. You see, his genes just don’t fit.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘Therefore, when he dies in a few moments from now, he stays dead. Now…’ he glanced round at the other vampires before turning to look back at David and Bernice. ‘Shall we at last bring this phase of your lives to an end?’

  5

  In the hospital, Electra quickly took a plastic bag full of the mouth wipes from the bedside cupboard. Outside in the corridor there were voices. She paused, tense, expecting any second to see the door open and a nurse to enter. The voices grew louder. Then receded.

  Letting out a huge sigh, Electra tipped the mouth wipes out onto the bedside table.

  Then, carefully, she opened up the plastic bag. It was made of transparent polythene; quite tough, really.

  Certainly tough enough.

  Hands moving with a calm dexterity, she raised the old man’s head with one hand. He still muttered on, conversing with someone, or something, she could not see. With her free hand she pulled the plastic bag over the old man’s head.

  Once she’d done that she gathered the opening of the bag in her fingers so it pulled tight around his neck and throat; she pulled it tighter, confident it now formed an airtight cuff around the neck.

  Instantly the bag around the old man’s head inflated as he exhaled. The wrinkles smoothed from the bag as it tightened with a crackling sound.

  When he inhaled the bag deflated. The plastic clung to the contours of the old man’s face; the effect was of a head vacuum-packed in plastic. Hideous, but Electra did not flinch.

  George Leppington exhaled. This time the bag misted up, so the unconscious man’s features became blurred.

  She stayed there, hands firmly holding the bag around the old man’s throat, listening to the bag crackle with every inhalation or exhalation.

  Now the pace of the respiration quickened as carbon dioxide replaced the oxygen inside the bag.

  Beneath her hands, she felt the neck tremble.

  She looked through the misted plastic.

  Dear God. A pair of blue eyes gazed back at her.

  The expression was ferocious.

  Dear God. Dear God, don’t wake up…please don’t wake up.

  Even though the eyes were open he didn’t appear to be conscious.

  Dear God. Don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.

  The muttering from the man’s mouth increased in volume. The body’s tremblings turned into convulsions. She glanced down as the big hands bunched into fists.

  Still she didn’t release her grip on the bag.

  Let the air turn poisonous. Let him choke. Let the bastard choke, she thought with such a white-hot fury that tears sprang to her eyes.

  The man’s body shook now with enough force to rattle the bed against the wall. And even though unconscious the old man panted breathlessly.

  Dear God, someone will hear; they’ll come in.

  They’d stop her.

  Then there would be nothing else she could do.
<
br />   She gritted her teeth and held the bag around his neck. Saliva bubbled through his lips; the nose turned a brilliant red, then as quickly paled until it became as white as the pillowcase he lay on.

  The chest heaved. But all that did was recirculate the now poisonous air in the bag.

  And from the chest she heard a deep gurgling that grew louder, louder. LOUDER.

  Then stopped.

  It was over as suddenly as that.

  The build-up of carbon dioxide had killed the old man’s heart.

  The body relaxed with a hollow-sounding sigh.

  Come on, it’s not over yet, she whispered to herself. After checking his pulse to make sure that life had departed that eighty-four-year-old body she tugged off the plastic bag, then carefully scooped the mouth wipes back into it. She placed the bag full of wipes back into the cupboard, exactly in the position she had found it.

  Damn.

  A trickle of blood ran from the old man’s nose. A tell-tale sign of asphyxiation.

  Hell, it wasn’t over yet — far from it.

  She tipped her bag out onto the bed.

  Car keys, three tampons, pencil, fountain pen, nail scissors, couple of lipsticks.

  Moving with near-superhuman speed she snatched a tissue from the box in the cupboard, wiped away the blood from the nostril. Then she snipped one tampon in two with the nail scissors. After that, she inserted one half of the tampon into each nostril. Deftly, she picked up the pencil and pushed the tampon halves up as far as she could into the nostrils. She pushed so hard that the pencil snapped.

  Quickly, she substituted pen for pencil. Seconds later, the tampon halves had been pushed so far up the nostrils they were out of sight. There they’d swell on contact with the blood oozing up from the man’s oxygen-starved lungs. With luck they’d block any flow of blood entirely.

  Then she opened the dead man’s jaws, tilted his head back and stuffed the other two tampons into the back of his mouth. This time she used her middle finger to shove them deep down into the throat, far enough down so they wouldn’t be noticed by a busy doctor as he certified the old man dead. With the airways sealed there’d be no tell-tale flow of blood to arouse a doctor’s suspicions and suggest that the old man might have died of asphyxiation. As far as that (hopefully rushed-off-his-feet) doctor was concerned, he would determine that the man had simply died of heart failure, brought on by sheer old age and exacerbated by the dynamite explosion.

  The old man lay still now. His mouth was silent; his eyes stared up at the ceiling. They saw nothing. They’d never see anything again.

  After she’d cleaned up every trace of her visit, Electra slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder, folded the coat over her arm, then walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER 45

  In the tunnel they heard a rushing sound. It came up from the tunnels, like the sound of a coming storm.

  David felt Bernice grip his arm. He glanced at her, saw her eyes were wide with fear.

  The sound grew louder.

  Then he realized what it was.

  A great sigh. All around him the white-headed vampires were letting out an enormous sigh. At the same time they pressed their hands to their ears and shook their heads as if struck by a grief that was as intolerable as it was sudden.

  Black moved forward into the pool of light cast down through the grates from the street lamps. He looked round, a puzzled expression appearing on his tattooed face.

  David now looked back at Stroud; he, too, appeared bewildered. He was shaking his head as if gripped by a sudden dizziness.

  ‘What is it?’ Bernice whispered. ‘What’s happening to them?’

  ‘I don’t know. But now’s our chance. Run!’

  They got no further than a few paces. As they tried to run by Stroud he lunged out and grabbed Bernice by the wrist. He still shook his head, his lips twisting in pain, but he held on tight to her.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere!’ he roared. ‘You are mine!’

  All around them the white-headed vampires wailed; it was like a bereaved family mourning the passing of a father.

  The creatures clamped their hands to the sides of their heads, twisted their bodies from side to side, and wailed so loud that the sound that

  reverberated from the walls was nothing less than agonizing.

  ‘David…’ Bernice cried, trying to escape Mike Stroud’s grasp. Stroud still shook his head as if suddenly disorientated.

  Black looked round at the wailing vampires, obviously in a state of confusion himself.

  David gripped the sword handle in both hands and moved towards Stroud who held Bernice as easily as if she was a little child.

  At that moment Maximilian lunged at Stroud, shouting, ‘Leave her alone…let go of her. You’re hurting —’

  In a blur of movement Stroud dumped Bernice brutally on the floor and grabbed hold of Maximilian as he flailed his fists. Then the vampire clamped his mouth on Maximilian’s throat.

  David watched in horror, seeing the vampire’s lower jaw move as he chewed.

  A second later Stroud threw Maximilian to one side, as though he was discarding a piece of rubbish. Stroud looked up at David, his eyes blazing. Blood slicked his chin red. He grinned and spat something out at his feet. David recognized a bloody piece of human trachea. The vampire had bitten out Maximilian’s Adam’s apple.

  ‘There!’ Stroud spat, disgusted by the taste. ‘What did I tell you? Bad blood.’

  ‘You bastard,’ David screamed. ‘You miserable bastard!’

  Stroud’s grin of pure evil broadened; the teeth were stained red. ‘You can watch if you like, dear boy.’ He bent down and grabbed Bernice by the hair.

  Then all of a sudden Stroud grunted, ‘Ah. Let go of me, you rodent.’

  Maximilian wasn’t dead yet. With blood spurting from the hole in his throat he gripped Stroud’s leg with one hand.

  Stroud bent down to bat the arm away from him.

  David seized the moment.

  As Stroud bent forward at the waist David swung the sword downwards; the blade came down in a great flashing arc.

  It struck the vampire at the nape of the neck. The still razor-sharp blade went clean through, severing spinal cord, muscle, arteries, then windpipe.

  Severed, the head bounced down onto the brick floor; the body jerked upright and for one brief moment stood there, its arms jerking spasmodically. Fluid gushed from the open wound.

  A second later the body dropped down into a heap of twitching limbs.

  David didn’t hesitate now.

  He swung the sword like it was a scythe, cleanly decapitating the thing that had been Jason Morrow.

  He had expected the white-headed vampires to attack but they seemed too wrapped up in their own misery. They clutched their heads in their long-fingered hands and wailed, rocking backwards and forwards as if all the miseries of hell had been heaped upon them.

  Now Black appeared in front of him. The man’s eyes were dull, dazed-looking. Although Black had made the physical transition from human to vampire he had yet to make the mental transition.

  David realized what was happening. The vampire mind was still taking root in that dead brain, feeling its way into his arms and legs and fingers like a driver climbing into the seat of an unfamiliar car.

  David raised the sword high above his head. This time he brought it straight down as if chopping firewood. Something else must have strengthened his arm, and guided the blow; something that shone with light and pure good.

  For the sword blade hit the top of Jack Black’s shaven head with more force than David alone could ever have mustered.

  As if it was all happening in slow motion, David watched the sharp blade cut down through the scalp, down through the forehead, down the centre of the nose like a sharp knife cutting a melon in two.

  The eyes suddenly blazed into David’s with such unimaginable ravening fury.

  The creature that had once been Jack Black raised its hands, ready to smas
h David’s skull.

  But nothing could stop the blade now: it was as if the angel Gabriel himself guided that final blow in one clean, unstoppable cut.

  Before the sword hit the upper lip, a blast of air came from the creature’s mouth. It shaped one final word: ‘LEPPINGTON…’

  The sword passed through the centre of the lips.

  David no longer used any force. The sword continued of its own volition, slicing smoothly down through the centre line of the throat, following the windpipe, cleaving down through the collarbone, down through the ribs and stomach, then exiting between the legs at the groin.

  At that moment the body fell into two halves, cut perfectly down the centre.

  The wailing of the white-headed creatures became a whistle-like shriek.

  A hand clutched his elbow. ‘David!’

  He saw Bernice’s face in the gloom. ‘David, come on. Leave them!’

  Before they could take a single step the piercing scream stopped as if a button had been pressed.

  At that moment the vampires dissolved. As simply as that.

  They collapsed into billowing clouds of dust that turned amber in the light of the street lamps filtering down through the grating above.

  Here and there, ribs, femurs, jawbones jutted up through the mounds of powder.

  The sudden silence was all but overwhelming.

  David looked up, his head still echoing to the sound of the creatures’ mournful cries as they slowly became fainter, more attenuated, as the reverberations faded away into the tunnels to die somewhere under the town.

  Perhaps they cried for a future that now would never be. A future where the vampire inherited the Earth. All that was lost to them now. The vampires had failed.

  He shook his head, mouth gritty with the airborne dust of those dead things’ bodies. That dust settled on his lips in a noxious layer; it grated against his teeth.

  Slowly, wearily — achingly wearily — he looked up. Bernice stood, holding out her hand. He took it.