A double metallic click sounded from behind Walker. He turned to see Ned standing behind the counter, a pump action shotgun in his hands. “You’re dead now, nigger.”
Buckshot erupted from the shotgun and peppered Walker. It tore through his skin and muscles, and exited out his back, shattering several bottles on the shelf behind him. The clerk pumped another round and fired again, with the same results. He stared at Walker, still not believing what he saw. His hands started to shake. He dropped the shotgun and stumbled back, hitting the wall. Too scared to talk, it took several seconds before he muttered, “Fuck me.”
“I intend to.”
Walker launched himself onto the counter, landing hard on its wooden surface, and snarled at Ned. Having regained some of his composure, the clerk ducked and tried to run for the exit. Walker reached down and grabbed his neck, digging his talons into the muscles. Ned screamed. Fear overwhelmed him when Walker lifted him off of the floor by his neck and dropped him onto the counter, placed both hands on either side of the clerk’s head, and applied pressure. He thrashed around and wailed like a pig on a slaughterhouse conveyor belt. Cracking could be heard over the clerk’s cries.
“Oh, God! No! Don’t! Please!”
Ned’s head caved in with a sickening snap. Brain matter and blood erupted from a large fissure on his left temple, splattering Walker and the countertop. His eyes exploded from their sockets and dangled down his collapsed face. A few teeth from the broken upper jaw dropped onto the counter. With nothing solid for Walker to hold on to, the clerk slipped out of his grip. The body fell to its knees on the counter before toppling over onto the floor.
With a single leap, Walker landed in front of parka boy. He stared at the contemptible little shit and clasped him around the neck.
“P-please don’t k-kill me,” parka boy stammered. “I’ll d-do anything you want.”
Walker transformed back into his human form. “I was hoping you’d say that. What’s your name?”
“Jack Akers.”
“Tell me, Jack. Is your miserable little life worth doing everything I demand of you?”
“Y-yes.”
“No matter what I demand?”
Akers closed his eyes and nodded repeatedly.
“Good. You will serve as my familiar. You will do what I demand of you when I demand it. No questions asked. If you serve me well, you’ll be appropriately rewarded.” Walker squeezed Akers’ neck tight, momentarily cutting off his supply of air. “If you fuck up, you’ll die. If you betray me, when I’m through with you, you will beg me to kill you. Do you understand?”
Akers nodded. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes….” Akers stared at Walker, confused. “Sir?”
“Good.” Walker loosened his grip. Akers leaned against the nearest shelf, massaging his neck and gulping for air.
Walker looked through the gas station’s windows to the rusty pick-up truck. “Is that your truck?”
“It’s Tom’s. He left the keys in it.”
“Load the bodies into the back and cover them with a tarp. We’ll dispose of them on the way home.”
“What about the… the.…” Akers remained transfixed on the blood and gore dripping off the counter and wall.
“We don’t have time to clean it up. Now move.”
As Akers ran outside to pull the pick-up truck around back, Walker stepped behind the counter and shut off all the outside and most of the inside lights to make sure they received no unwanted guests. He made a quick walkthrough of the station to ensure there were no security cameras that recorded the event or witnesses cowering somewhere in a dark corner. As predicted, he found neither. He then cleaned out the cash register to make it look like a robbery gone terribly wrong.
To get to the cash register, Walker had to step over Ned’s corpse. The crushed skull lay in pieces amidst a growing puddle of blood. A few larger chunks remained attached to the torn and bruised flesh. The lower jaw had detached on one side, and now lay at an awkward angle. It served the asshole right. The clerk fucked with him, and died painfully for it. Revenge was one of the strongest emotions in a vampire.
Revenge was the driving force that led Walker to become a master in the first place.
* * *
Antioch. 3 June 1098.
A city died as one man was reborn.
The city was Antioch, the Seljuk bastion located in the northern Levant along the Orontes River at the foot of Mount Silpios. Thirteen years ago it had been one of the jewels in the Byzantine Empire’s necklace that stretched along the Mediterranean until its capture by the Seljuks brought Antioch under Muslim control. Refusing to accept such an indignity, the Christians launched a Crusade to rid the Holy Land of Islam, and retaking Antioch became a primary goal. Antioch found itself in the unenviable position of being an Islamic city abandoned by Muslims. When three Christian armies surrounded the city in October 1097, Governor Yaghi Siyan issued a call to his Muslim brother cities to come to Antioch’s assistance. Only three cities responded, two of which sent troops to break the siege and one of which sent diplomats to negotiate the siege’s end. None of them succeeded in dislodging the infidels. The remaining Muslim cities refused to help, either due to their fear of the Christians or because letting Antioch fall would enhance their own power and influence in the region. By the grace of Allah alone Antioch had survived these past nine months, watching in relative comfort as famine and inclement weather slowly ate away at the besiegers. Antioch might have survived if even Allah himself had not abandoned the city. The end finally came when an Armenian guard sold out his people to the Crusaders for a few pieces of gold and opened the gate in the Tower of the Two Sisters, allowing in the Crusaders who slaughtered everyone in sight.
The man reborn was Adham. He had spent three years in Antioch as the sex slave of a fat, sadistic Arab trader. He had suffered indignity and humiliation, abuse and degradation, all the while praying for death or vengeance. Now he saw an opportunity for both. On the night the Crusaders entered Antioch, as the city entered its death throes and it citizens desperately searched for a means of escape, Adham sought out a single individual. Muhammad al Muhammad Abu Bakir, the wizard who, according to rumor, could grant a person eternal life and unlimited strength.
Adham found Abu Bakir just after dawn in his home within the shadows of Justinian’s Wall. He sat in a darkened room on the first floor, reading. Adham had expected some sort of demon, a physically twisted creature repulsive to the sight. Instead, he stood face-to-face with a kindly-looking elderly man, approximately fifty years of age, well-groomed, with salt-and-pepper colored hair and beard and expensive clothes and sandals. This man easily could have passed for a respectable mullah. Only two aspects of his appearance contradicted Adham’s original assessment. As the city panicked around him, Abu Bakir sat in his chair, thumbing through the pages of his book, at peace with the circumstances. No, more than merely at peace. He reveled in the debacle.
Then there were his eyes, the windows to the soul. Abu Bakir’s eyes were dark, intense, and void of emotion, a portent of the power and inhumanity that lay beneath. Adham had found his wizard.
The creaking of the door warned Abu Bakir of the uninvited guest. Instead of sounding an alarm, he looked up from his book and focused on Adham. An uneasy few seconds passed as neither man moved, one summing up his intruder, the other hoping he had not squandered his opportunity. Finally, Abu Bakir closed his book and placed it on the table.
“How may I help you?”
“Forgive me, habib. I’ve come to request a favor.”
“You do not know me well enough to call me habib, slave.” Abu Bakir motioned for him to enter.
“How did you know I was a slave?”
“No Nubian in Antioch dresses so shoddily unless he’s a slave.”
Adham knelt in front of Abu Bakir. His eyes fell on the book. The words were in Arabic, but he was quite familiar with the text. “You’re reading The New Testament?”
/> “You know it?”
“I’m a Christian,” he said a bit too eagerly, hoping to forge a bond. “I didn’t know you were one.”
“I’m not.”
“But why…?”
“It’s always good to know one’s enemies.” A loud shriek from a woman penetrated the room. “As for this request you came to ask about. If you’re seeking asylum, I’m afraid my place will offer you little refuge.”
“I don’t seek refuge. I want to become like you.”
“Like me.” Abu Bakir’s voice took on a tone of distrust.
“All the slaves say you can bestow immortality and great strength. I want to be a wizard like you.”
“A wizard?” Abu Bakir laughed heartily. “You’re pitiful. You come here on your knees and beg me for immortality in the hopes you’ll survive this massacre? Get out of my house before I kill you myself.”
Adham jumped to his feet, his hands clenched into fists. “I don’t care about immortality. I just want vengeance on my master.”
Abu Bakir rose from his chair and contemplated Adham for several moments. He spit in Adham’s face. Adham retaliated with a punch to Abu Bakir’s jaw, and instantly regretted it. Not for striking the wizard, but because a punch that should have killed him glanced off like a slap from a little girl. Abu Bakir smiled.
“You have the rage to become one of us. And I can’t think of a better gift to leave behind for our Crusader friends.” Abu Bakir studied him further. “Are you certain you want this?”
“Yes.”
“More than eternal salvation from your Christian God?”
“Yes!” Adham was surprised at how willingly he discarded his faith.
The nail of Abu Bakir’s left forefinger turned into a talon that he used to slice lengthwise along his wrist. Blood flowed from the gash. He held up the wrist to Adham’s mouth. “Drink.”
Adham gulped greedily, for once not minding sharing his body with another man. As he drank, Abu Bakir took Adham’s left hand and bit into the wrist, drinking Adham’s blood. The two men fed off of each other for several minutes before Adham stopped to say, “Thank you, habib.”
“We’re more than that, now. We’re brothers.”
Adham remembered nothing else before passing out. When he woke, he sat in the chair. Abu Bakir had left, but not before he had fulfilled his part of the bargain. Adham felt powerful and invincible, and no longer restrained by such human inhibitions as conscience and guilt. Even more, he burned with a lust for revenge.
Adham set out to prowl the streets of Antioch, looking for the one person who could satiate that lust.
He returned home to face his slave master, only to find that the Crusaders already had swept through the neighborhood, as attested to by the mounds of dead and rivers of blood clogging the streets. Adham rushed into the house and frantically searched each room, fearful not that he would find his master dead, but that the Crusaders would have deprived him of the pleasure or murdering the man himself. Thankfully, there were no signs of blood or violence. Since most of the survivors of the massacre were making for the safety of the Citadel, the sole bastion located along the city’s eastern wall on the slopes of Mount Silpios, Adham decided to seek him out there. He followed the most likely route his master would take, all the while hoping not to find his fat carcass lying butchered on the street.
While crossing a square littered with the corpses of women and children, Adham heard from behind a shout in a language he did not understand. Turning, he saw four men approaching. By their chainmail armor and white tunics bearing Christian symbols, he assumed them to be Crusaders. By the way they fanned out around him with their swords drawn, he knew they were hostile. Rather than fear, he felt a sense of anticipation. No, more than that. A sense of exhilaration, which he could only imagine a wild beast must feel when stalking its prey. And that is exactly what he thought of these men. Adham had not realized it before, but he hungered. Not for food, but for their blood.
So be it.
The largest of the four Crusaders, presumably their leader, yelled something incomprehensible and charged, both hands grasping his broadsword and holding the point aimed at Adham’s chest. Adham waited until the Crusader closed to within a few meters then sidestepped the attack. A taloned hand reached out and ripped four horizontal slashes across the Crusader’s throat. Adham did not even notice as the Crusader stopped, his tunic turning crimson, then fell lifeless to the street. Instead, Adham stared at his hand, mesmerized by the transformation. He did not even consciously recall the physical change. However it occurred, it had done so naturally.
A chorus of yells brought him back to reality. The remaining Crusaders charged in unison. Adham felt his body morphing into something wonderfully monstrous. Something powerful. Two of the Crusaders faltered, overcome by terror. One dropped to his knees and began to pray while the other repeatedly crossed himself. The third Crusader charged ahead foolishly. Adham stepped out of the way again, this time swinging his left leg around and knocking the Crusader’s legs out from under him. The man crashed to the stones, momentarily stunned. Grabbing the Crusader by the ankles, Adham swung him around in a half circle and let him go. The Crusader sailed across the square and slammed head first into a wall. The skull made a sickening sound as it caved in.
Adham walked over to the Crusader who knelt and prayed, mumbling something that had the cadence of the Lord’s Prayer. Adham grabbed the Crusader by the front of his tunic and pulled him to his feet. Baring his fangs, with a ferocious snarl he sank his teeth into the Crusader’s neck and began to drink. Never had he tasted anything so satisfying. Thick. Warm. So full of life. He could feel the life and energy being drained from his victim and flowing into himself, making him stronger.
An excruciating pain shot through Adham’s chest. He looked down to see the tip of a broadsword protruding through the skin of his left shoulder. Turning his head, he saw the final Crusader standing behind him, clutching the weapon’s handle. Adham took three steps forward, walking himself off of the broadsword, and spun around to face the coward. The Crusader dropped his sword, fell to his knees, and began crossing himself. Adham picked up the weapon from off of the ground and licked his own blood off the blade. The Crusader closed his eyes and prayed harder. Clutching the broadsword in his right hand and yanking back the Crusader’s head in his left, Adham plunged the blade into the Crusader’s mouth and out the back of his neck. The tip of the blade lodged into the corpse of a young woman, leaving the impaled Crusader to dangle obscenely as Adham continued his search for his ultimate prey.
It took most of the night before Adham finally found his slave master in the Citadel in a small room reserved for the mullahs, cowering in one corner in the fetal position and whimpering like a child. Upon seeing a familiar face, the bastard’s eyes lit up. He struggled to his feet and raced over to Adham, spreading his arms to embrace his servant. “It’s good to see you’re alive. I thought the infidels had killed you. Thankfully Allah, praise be his name, saw fit to—”
The words were cut off when Adham grabbed him around his flabby throat and lifted him off the ground, slamming him against the wall. “Shut up, dog. I’m sick of listening to your voice.”
“How dare you,” the Arab croaked through his restricted larynx. “I’ll have you put to death for this.”
“You’ll be putting no one to death. I, however, am going to enjoy watching you die.”
“Go to hell.”
“You first.”
The fingers on Adham’s left hand transformed into talons. Thrusting them into the Arab’s lower abdomen, he sliced open the body from left to right. The Arab screamed in agony, only to have his cry stifled when Adham tightened his grip and crushed his windpipe. For a moment, the sliced skin strained against the blubber underneath, holding back the bulge. Then the skin tore apart with a disgusting rip. The Arab’s viscera twisted out of his body like some hideous octopus squirming along the ocean bottom, and dropped to the floor with a sickening thud, sp
lattering the area with gore and shit. Though still alive, shock dulled his senses. A shame, really, for Adham had wanted him to suffer longer. Reaching into the Arab’s chest cavity with his left hand, Adham rummaged around until he found the barely beating heart. He clutched it tight, causing the Arab to spasm. Adham increased the pressure. The spasms became convulsions until a muffled pop came from inside the Arab’s chest and his body went limp.
Adham let the corpse drop to the floor, giving it no more thought than he would a discarded garment. As he approached the door, he heard running feet and excited voices from the other side. Racing back to his slave master, Adham dropped to the floor beside the corpse, scooped it up, and cradled it in his arms. Half a dozen men burst into the room. Upon seeing the blood and gore, they gasped. One ran back into the hall to vomit. Regaining their composure, the other five rushed over to Adham.
“What happened?”
Adham looked up at them, tears flowing down his face. “They… they murdered my master.”
“Who did?”
“The Crusaders.”
Words were exchanged amongst the men cursing the infidels. Finally, two of them covered the body with a nearby Persian rug while a third lifted Adham onto his feet and escorted him out.
“You’ll be all right. We’ll take care of everything.”
“Thank you.”
“Everything will be all right.”
Adham suppressed a grin. “It will be now.”
4.
Alison stood in the elevator holding a plastic cup of Dunkin Donuts iced coffee. Not for herself, but for Drake. She knew he enjoyed walking to work and getting his coffee on the way. Today she decided to pick him up. Alison reasoned that, considering their battle royale with the undead in the sewers the other day, he might enjoy being chauffeured, especially since they would be going into the nest in a few hours.
Of course, it would not hurt that Drake got to spend some alone time with her before he became focused on the hunt. She wore her typical battle dress—black leather pants and matching waist-length greatcoat, and stylish boots. Only this time she wore a white blouse with the top three buttons undone. If this did not get Drake’s attention, then she might as well join the ranks of the undead.
The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon Page 8