Blood Hunter: An Urban Fantasy Vampire Hunting Novel

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  My excitement and steely façade ebbed away immediately, as a wave of heat washed against my face.

  “No…” I choked out, taking an unsteady step forward, as wood cracked, and the roof of my home collapsed inwards.

  Memories. Of playing with Themba. Of dinner with my mom. And the photos…the last photos of my dad.

  I sprinted, rounding the house towards the front door. I had to get in there. I couldn’t just let it burn…

  I stopped, as I came within view of the front door.

  Kneeling before the front door, its limbs frozen in place by rigor mortis, was a charred corpse, a melted tyre around its neck.

  The corpse wore no clothes. Had no hair. But it could only be one person.

  I tried to yell as I charged towards the charred husk. I couldn’t hear what came out of my mouth. I only heard the ringing in my ears, the booming of my heart and the incessant crackle of the inferno consuming my life.

  I fell to my knees beside my mother.

  She didn’t move. Pockets of flames still clung to her and I used my blanket to pat them out.

  I was meant to save her.

  Tears fell freely from my eyes, no matter how much I tried to stop them.

  I had failed. Everything.

  The fires hissed as rain fell. I did not notice the figure approaching me until they were standing by my side.

  “The art of good blood,” a woman’s voice said in Zulu. “Is good breeding, a healthy diet, and a lack of stress.”

  The words fell on me like anvils, pressing me down. I didn’t look up. My hands didn’t leave what was left of my mother.

  “There is very little good blood in this backwater hole,” the woman continued. “It’s as if all you eat is pap and sawdust. Pitiful. It leads to bad blood.”

  The ringing in my ears had stopped. All I heard was this…thing with a feminine voice speaking. I didn’t feel the cold. The fire still raged, but somehow silently.

  “When blood is bad, I am loathe to drink it. Why should I have an imperfect meal?”

  The question was levelled at me. I didn’t look up, even as I felt the creature’s piercing gaze. Probably on my neck.

  “Bad blood should be disposed of,” she continued, giving up on my responding. “And she looks so good in her new necklace.”

  In a flash, before I had realised, I was even moving, I hefted the knobkerrie from the ground and, with a roar, brought it down on the vampire’s head.

  My arm vibrated and the bones seemed to ring as the knobkerrie stopped short. My eyes widened.

  The vampire was a short lady, with bright red eyes and an arrogant fanged grin. She wore a red beret over black braids. She held the orb of the knobkerrie in a single hand, as if it was nothing.

  And then she squeezed. There was no resistance. The knobkerrie burst like a smashed bottle, sending splinters flying.

  I fell backwards, too shocked to cry, to scream, or even feel anger anymore.

  There was only fear.

  “Run, little Xhosa,” she said with a chuckle, pulling a splinter out of her palm. “You smell like piss and its ruining my appetite.”

  I looked at her, for what seemed an age of torment, until she stepped forward. I ran. Far. And I never looked back at what I had left behind.

  Chapter 6. Wilderness

  I didn’t remember my last meal. Actually, that was a lie. If the milk counted as food, as it might as well, then the last thing I had consumed was that lukewarm milk surrounded by my dead cousins.

  By the time I had stopped running from Mqanduli, and found myself deep in the cold wilderness, I had already vomited up that milk.

  Since then, I had lost track of the days.

  Transkei was cold. My blanket and measly clothes were not enough. And I did not risk starting a fire in the open grasslands even if I had the tools to make one. I had never started a fire before without a lighter. I had seen movies where people rubbed sticks together but that didn’t seem to work. All the wood was too wet. And I didn’t stop moving.

  But it wasn’t that which truly stopped me. Fire, despite the chill of the night, just didn’t seem comforting anymore.

  During the day, I stayed in the outcrops of trees and foliage, sometimes hiding among the rocks. I stayed away from the villages and roads. There were impi everywhere. And impi meant vampires. If they were still alive, any Zulu impi was guaranteed to be serving the vampires. I couldn’t trust them. Any of them!

  I wouldn’t end up like the somagwaza, with my brains all over the floor. The only trustworthy impi was a dead one.

  My rage kept me going as I travelled, drinking water from puddles collected on boulders. I had considered eating grass, like cattle. But it only made me feel sick.

  I clutched my aching belly as I walked aimlessly over rolling hills. It had been many nights since I had last seen any sort of civilisation. I had stayed away from every single village and homestead. Impi about.

  More than rage kept me going, as I put one cold foot ahead of the other.

  I had failed. I truly was inkwenkwe. And that meant something.

  I was not meant to defeat the vampires. To defend my own. Because I was just a boy. And now that the somagwaza was dead, I always would be.

  I did not accept that fact. It wasn’t something I wanted to or could accept. But it was reality. It was like the memory of that burnt husk in front of my blighted home. It was like the remains of Mqanduli.

  I couldn’t accept it. But I had to.

  I was just a boy, in a world of monsters. And I was hungry. So, hungry…

  I crested a hill, almost zombie-like, before recognition heated my muscles and I ducked, suddenly. It wasn’t as cold today, as the sun heated my back. It also hadn’t rained for a while, and all the puddles I had drunk from were stagnant and muddy.

  What the lack of rain also meant was that the expanse of sand before me had not been turned to mud, which meant it was perfectly fine for a horde of Zulu impi to be marching across said sandy field, bellowing their war cries.

  My chest hit the ground and I watched, waiting to see if any of the specks at the training grounds activated an alarm or came to investigate. But none of these little ants seemed to notice me atop the hill. They continued with their exercises. I focused and could see groups practicing their bayonet lunges, letting out a united cry with every thrust. More troops marched, beating the sand with every bootstep and ensuring nothing could ever grow there.

  Could Themba be here? I suddenly thought. Or Wisdom?

  They had been conscripted, the sergeant had said. Taken to become impi themselves.

  But Themba had shoved me out of the truck. He had let me escape. The impi would punish him for that.

  I bit my lip. I couldn’t let another death weigh down on my conscience. I needed to know if he had survived. But also…I did not want to know if he died.

  I felt shame at this inner conflict, as I was too afraid to even face if my cousin was dead.

  I watched the camp from the hill for an age, observing their training regimen and memorising the outline of the camp.

  The camp was circular, with buildings forming a perimeter around the training grounds. Two of the buildings were fenced and guarded. An officer’s HQ and the armoury, I presumed. The rest of the buildings had to be barracks. Except for that one, with the smoking chimney.

  I couldn’t help but lick my lips, as the scent of cooking meat and porridge wafted towards me. My stomach begged for it!

  These impi were in my lands. But I was inkwenkwe. I couldn’t fight them. But there was no shame in stealing from them.

  I slowly backed away from the crest of the hilltop, until I was out of sight. There was an outcropping of trees and rocks near the camp. I headed there and noted how the war cries, muffled by distance, were now booming. They were singing in Zulu and were different from the war cries of the Mqanduli garrison. Every battalion had their own song, Themba had told me. I wondered if he would take pride in his battalion’s song. Part of me
hoped he didn’t.

  The trees were thicker here. Not native. Through the brush, I saw the remains of bricks. There had been a building here, once. Probably built by missionaries or settlers. The alien plant-life they had brought with them had somehow thrived in this patch of land. I was thankful for that, as it allowed my approach to be unseen.

  I left my initiation blanket by a rock. It would make me too bulky as I snuck into the camp. Keeping low, I moved towards the camp. I stopped. My heart hammering.

  Two men chatted casually in Zulu. I peered through the branches and noted they were carrying rifles without the assegai attached. The rifles were slung casually over their shoulders as they spoke carelessly, patrolling the outskirts of the camp.

  They passed and their voices became muffled, then disappeared entirely. I let myself breathe a sigh of relief, before taking a deep breath and emerging from the trees. I glanced left and right. No one. This was my chance!

  I sprinted from the trees to the camp. There was no fence at this part of the circle. The impi owned these lands, in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t see the need for too much security. Who would be stupid enough to rob them?

  Me, I realised.

  But it was too late to turn back now.

  I hit the wall of a barracks just as I saw a glimpse of the impi pair returning. I rounded the corner, losing sight of them, and now facing a dozen impi. Their backs were towards me. Their instructor, facing them, didn’t look my way.

  I kept low, hiding behind a pile of cardboard boxes. I read the label. Soap. So mundane for a military base, but of course they would need it.

  I risked a glance towards the impi, as their instructor bellowed an order:

  “Cast!”

  A volley of fire, electricity and translucent energy burst towards the instructor, all missing him and destroying targets by his side. He didn’t flinch.

  Sorcerers. A squad of them. Mqanduli had only had the somagwaza. But, among this camp, they had at least twelve! And while the somagwaza’s affinity for magic had only been healing, these impi were pyromancers, electromancers, force mages…

  We hadn’t stood a chance…

  The voices of the patrolmen disappeared, and I ducked back around the corner to the outskirts. Their backs were to me and I used their blind spot to my advantage, skirting around the perimeter towards the building with the chimney.

  I tailed them at a safe distance, glancing furtively towards them, behind me and between the gaps I passed. Through the gaps I saw impi doing chores, carrying boxes, cleaning. Others were training, learning to march in step. I kept an eye out for anyone I knew, but they were all strangers to me. I suspected they were all Zulu, from the north. They were young and their badges and banners were outlined in black.

  One of the patrolmen stopped, suddenly. I hit the dirt, hoping he wouldn’t think to look down. But he only bent down to pick up a cigarette someone had dropped, before continuing his patrol.

  The scent of food grew stronger as I approached. My mouth watered. Halfway through my mission, I realised what I was doing. My adrenaline spiked, but despite my realisation that I was planning to rob a Zulu base, I was smiling.

  Was it because I was taking from them? Was it because, at least pettily, I was enacting my vengeance? No. They wouldn’t even notice. It wasn’t that. I had to admit, that the sole reason for my sudden elation was simple: the thrill. For days I had been a zombie, wandering the hills. But now…I was doing something.

  Smoke rose from the chimney of what could only be a field kitchen. I inhaled the rich scent of meat and porridge and had to resist sighing in anticipation.

  An impi stepped right in front of me from a gap between the buildings. I almost fell backwards as he released a frustrated sigh and stepped forward. I held my breath, staring wide eyed. I didn’t dare move. He was metres away.

  This had been a bad idea!

  The impi put his hand into his breast pocket and retrieved a cigarette. He lit it with a small flame that appeared from his finger, before walking into the bush.

  For a second, I thought I had died at Mqanduli and was now an invisible ghost. But ghosts couldn’t get this hungry, surely?

  My stomach grumbled, reminding me of the scent. The kitchen was just ahead!

  I crawled forward, pulling myself into a crouch run, staying low. I peeked around the corner, and hastily retreated as a man wearing an apron exited the kitchen carrying an empty gas canister. As soon as I couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore, I peeked again. Clear!

  I followed the scent. The delicious, hypnotic scent! I had never valued food so much before now. It was like I needed it to survive, or something.

  The door to the kitchen was open. I listened carefully for activity. Nothing but the bubbling of boiling water. I slowly peeked around the corner. The room was long, dominated by a central wooden table adorned with cutting boards. Rows of hotplates lined the counters, flanking the island table. I smelled meat.

  I looked behind me, confirming that I hadn’t been spotted, before entering. I couldn’t help but lick my lips.

  Pots and pots full of porridge and beef mince. There was enough for an army! Well, duh. That was the point.

  I approached a pot and touched the surface of the porridge. It was hot, but not too hot. I scooped my hand right in, ladling the porridge into my mouth. I went down for another bite. But I couldn’t eat it all now! I looked around and spotted a small pot with symmetrical handles. I retrieved it and began ladling porridge and mince into the vessel. My stomach told me to eat now, but I had to be disciplined.

  The pot was being weighed down, but I could handle more. I had to. I couldn’t expect to sneak in here again…

  Footsteps. I dropped the ladle into the porridge in fright. I reached to try fish it out, but too late. Leaving my pot on the counter, I dashed to the only place I could think of. Behind the door.

  I caught a glimpse of a now whistling man, the one with the apron, as he entered the kitchen. I held my breath as I watched him from behind the door. Fortunately, he hadn’t closed it.

  The man stopped whistling, as he spotted my pot. I bit my bottom lip. Hard.

  “Ugh. They could at least have the decency to wash up if they’re wanting to skip the queue,” the cook lamented, as he lifted the pot and carried it towards a sink. My heart sank as he started to tip the contents down the drain.

  I didn’t realise it until it was too late, but I had leaned forward involuntarily, nudging the door. It creaked.

  The cook stopped, looking at the doorway. I held my hand over my mouth, curling into a ball and hoping against hope that he didn’t come investigate.

  I heard footsteps as the cook approached. Closer, closer.

  A shadow pooled underneath the door. He was just on the other side…

  “Oi, chef,” a man called. “When’s lunch?”

  The cook turned.

  “It’s ready when it’s ready! And have you offered to help with…”

  His voice faded as he walked away, berating the hungry impi.

  I didn’t delay escaping my hiding place. I looked longingly at the pot, but it was on the opposite side of the kitchen and was too heavy. But I couldn’t leave empty handed. I saw an open carton of milk and immediately grabbed it, before fleeing outside of the kitchen.

  Miraculously, no patrollers were present as I escaped, and made a dash towards the outcropping of foliage. My heart beat fast and sweat ran down my forehead. The milk swished inside its carton as I ran and spilled a few droplets.

  I didn’t stop to watch for patrollers. I just ran. As fast as I could. I did not hear any alarms or shouts. And by the time I reached the trees, I was out of breath.

  I waited, crouched behind a tree.

  Silence.

  No alarm.

  No sound of running.

  I had escaped…

  My elation was only overwhelmed by my hunger.

  I pushed through the brush towards my blanket. It was undisturbed. No patrollers had
happened across it.

  The milk carton in my hand felt like a burden. I had wanted so much more! And I had it. I could still taste the porridge. It had been unseasoned. No sugar or salt. It was bland. And it was the best thing I’d tasted in an age.

  This milk was barely a consolation prize.

  But…I was alive. And I hadn’t been caught. That meant something.

  I shambled to my blanket, allowing myself to pant. I sat down on the blanket before lifting the carton to my lips and drinking.

  Crack. A branch. I looked up, closing my lips even as milk spilled onto them.

  A pair of bright yellow eyes stared at me from the shadows of the treeline. I didn’t move.

  The eyes blinked, making me think for a second that they were just my imagination. Until they came closer. A black snout appeared, followed by light brown, speckled fur. The eyes were hungry. Primal. Predatory. And I was the prey.

  I slowly lowered the milk from my mouth as the beast approached. It didn’t growl but, as it watched me, it let out a high-pitched, almost demonic cackle. It was large. Too large. Double the size of a grown man. Its chest and shoulders were as broad as a hippo and, as it grinned hungrily, I saw rows of spear-like teeth.

  I had heard of these beasts before. But, in the moment, I couldn’t even dredge up the memory.

  All my mind and body could tell me to do was flee!

  The creature pounced, just as I threw the milk at it, dodging out of the way. Its claws tore into my blanket on the ground as it blinked away the milk in its eyes.

  Its demonic cackle grew in volume. It sounded amused. But its amusement only made me shiver.

  I didn’t run straight away. I knew it could outrun me. Its massive forearms and legs could possibly keep pace with a car.

  The creature turned towards me and lunged. I ducked low, feeling the air almost snap above me as I heard the thump of the beast’s bite. Its fur smelled of old rotten meals and musk.

  A claw the size of my head shot out towards me. I yelped just as I dropped out of the way, crawling as quickly as I could. The beast’s paws vibrated the ground as I crawled away, edging towards the treeline.