Blood Hunter: An Urban Fantasy Vampire Hunting Novel

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  A thump. And another. It was charging towards me.

  I gritted my teeth. I couldn’t get away from this. But, at least I could face my death head-on. Themba would have wanted me to do that.

  I spun, facing the creature, just as a shot rang out. Blood spurted from the creature’s head as its amused look of bestial hunger turned to bemusement. Another bang. Brain matter splattered onto the ground.

  My ears rang as I stared at the creature’s corpse. It had crushed the milk carton.

  I regained my senses in time to hear bootsteps, approaching me. I turned and came face to face with an impi, carrying a long rifle.

  I recoiled, backing away towards the creature.

  The impi raised his one hand up, as if to calm me, before slinging the rifle onto his back.

  “Calm! Calm! It’s dead now. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I didn’t believe him. How could I? I crawled back until I collided with the furry flesh of the creature. I half-expected it to let out another cackle.

  The impi approached, slowly. I heard shouting from behind him. He stood up straight and opened his mouth. My heart skipped a beat as I expected him to call for men to help carry me away. Back to Mqanduli. Back to the vampires.

  “I killed it!” the impi shouted towards the treeline. “Just a werehyena. Nothing else.”

  The shouting stopped, and I froze. Had this impi just lied for me?

  No. He had to be tricking me. Somehow.

  The impi looked at me, in my eyes, as he crouched low. I hesitated, as I saw something totally unexpected in his eyes.

  Pity.

  “Hide nearby, until they clear the body away. Then meet me here afterwards.”

  He waited for a reply. Finally, I nodded.

  A group of impi arrived ten minutes later. I watched them from a nearby hillock. They cut the werehyena into manageable pieces before carrying all the body parts away. They even picked up the impi’s shell casings. Nothing was wasted.

  In this time of respite, I examined what was left of my initiation blanket. It had been shredded; the corners frayed. But it was still usable. I was glad. It was all I really had left that was mine.

  A werehyena. There had been sightings of a few around Mqanduli. They weren’t actually from around here. Not even from Earth. But the Rifts that brought magic into the world also brought monsters. Werehyenas could take the form of a human, disguising itself in human society. And when the time was right, it could transform into its bestial true form and consume its prey.

  And I had almost been that prey. That fact did not escape me.

  The clean-up crew soon left, and I made my way back to the outcropping. I didn’t know why. But that impi had asked me to come back and, even if he was an impi, he seemed to be trustworthy. At least, for now.

  I waited where the werehyena had attacked me, as the afternoon sun began to wane. I waited so long that I began to believe the impi was never coming back. I stood, to leave.

  The impi appeared, pushing away a branch with his free hand. In his other, he held a bowl full of porridge and mince. My eyes widened.

  He offered me the bowl. But I couldn’t help but stare at the rifle, slung over his back. That rifle had saved my life, I realised.

  I hesitated, but then grabbed the bowl, before sitting on the ground to eat. The impi nodded. But instead of leaving, he sat down on a rock, and watched me eat.

  I tried my best to ignore him, even as he looked anxious to speak.

  “My name is Sifiso,” he said, finally. “131st Black Battalion. Transkei Impi. We call ourselves the Amabhola Agqokayo. Did you hear our war cries earlier?”

  I ignored him, as I ate greedily. Perhaps even too fast, as I began to feel a bit ill.

  Sifiso continued, indicating his rifle.

  “I’m the squad marksman. They call me Sure-Shot Sifiso. Have you seen one of these before?”

  I stopped to examine his rifle. It was black. Metal, with a fold-out stock and long-barrel.

  I went back to eating.

  “It isn’t just a normal R4. Most of the infantry carry those. This is an R1. Big calibre. Can kill a monster in one hit. Or two.”

  I didn’t reply, even as there were only dregs left in the bowl. I realised that I hadn’t stopped looking at him. He tried to smile, but then frowned, looking away.

  “You hate me. Don’t you?”

  I hesitated, but then nodded.

  He sighed, as I regretted my honestly. But he didn’t reach for his rifle or a stick to beat me with.

  I put down the empty bowl.

  “That is fair,” he said, much to my surprise. Nobody would ever admit to hating an impi back in Mqanduli. “We’re in your land, after all. And the Empire does a lot of things…things worth hating. But I think it’s worth looking at the bigger picture…”

  He trailed off, as he heard a horn blow. He stood up.

  “There’s a shack nearby. Just follow the dirt road past that hill.” He pointed somewhere behind me. “I’ll check there tomorrow with food. But…I won’t blame you if you are not there.”

  He turned his back and began walking away.

  “Guy,” I said, finally. It was almost a whisper. It was the first time I had spoken since Mqanduli. Sifiso stopped and looked at me. I straightened my back and looked him in the eyes.

  “Guy Mgebe. That is my name.”

  Sifiso nodded, and smiled, before disappearing into the trees.

  Chapter 7. Enemy

  Against my better judgement and my rampant distrust of impi, I sought out this shack. It was a small thing. One room. Wood and scrap metal. It was just off an old dirt road. I doubted this road was even used anymore. I couldn’t see any evidence of tyre tracks, and rain had washed away anything less pronounced. The door of the shack was missing a hinge, but it opened and closed. There were pockmarked holes in the scrap-metal roof from rust. But it was the warmest place I had been in since Mqanduli.

  There was no food inside. I didn’t expect there to be. Even after Sifiso’s gift, I was starving. But I had been starving for days. I could persevere. And if Sifiso was bringing food…

  I shook my head. What was I doing? Impi had taken everything from me. Taken everything and handed it to the vampires. I couldn’t trust them.

  But Sifiso had given me food. And he had saved my life…

  Maybe…just maybe, I could trust him for now. Just to get food. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have by now. So, he had to have an ulterior motive. All I needed to do was find out what that was before it was too late.

  In the shack, I found some old chewed blankets. They were scratchy but I didn’t care. The nights were cold. Before going to sleep, I moved some of the broken pieces of wood and furniture to block the door. It wouldn’t stop a vampire or an impi, but maybe it would deter an opportunistic beast.

  It was the first time I was sleeping under a roof in gods know how long, and I thought that meant I would sleep soundly. But every noise in the night became gunshots, every breath I took was laboured, and I couldn’t get rid of the memory of the smell of burning rubber and petrol.

  I wanted to cry. But I had cried too much already.

  It was light by the time I realised I had not slept a wink.

  I was wide awake as the sun peeked through the pockmarked holes in the shack roof, sending rays of golden light to illuminate the airborne dust in flight. I lay still, as if still asleep despite my eyes being open.

  My face was cold, as the scratchy blanket and remains of my initiation blanket could only cover so much. I breathed, seeing my breath come out as a warm mist.

  Would I ever be warm again?

  I remembered an orange glow. A blistering inferno. The smell of petrol and rubber. Perhaps, I did not want to be warm again.

  My eyes darted towards the barricaded door as I heard humming, interspersed with some chanting. Boots squelched in the muddied dirt road, before stopping outside the door. They were making no effort to be stealthy.

  Knock. Kn
ock.

  Beasts didn’t knock. But impis did. I lay still. It could be Sifiso. It could not be. And even if it was, what did he want with me?

  “Guy?” Sifiso whispered, loudly. “Good morning. Are you inside?”

  He sounded…excited. Like a child faced with a novelty.

  I almost laughed, without humour. It was rich of me to call him a child, when I still was one.

  Sifiso knocked again, but then stopped.

  He turned and squelched away in the mud.

  I clutched my pained stomach. What was I doing? He had fed me. And said he was going to bring food.

  But he was impi…

  My baser instincts overwhelmed my reason and I rushed to tear away the barricade. By the time I opened the door, Sifiso had returned, hearing the cacophony of my redecorating.

  He held half a metal bowl of pap and mince. I realised, as we stood face to face, that we could be the same age. Perhaps he was a bit older. But Themba had said that many Zulu recruits entered the service at fifteen. If I had been Zulu, I could be fighting for the Empire already.

  Sifiso had an easy smile and honest eyes. His hair was a buzz-cut and he didn’t have a stitch of facial hair. His impi uniform was a dark and light green, with a cow-hide style badge on his right forearm. Unlike the impi at Mqanduli, he did not have any assegai emblems or trinkets denoting kills, high-rank or achievement in battle.

  He was impi, I reminded myself. But he hadn’t done anything. Yet.

  Sifiso’s easy smile grew wider.

  “I’m glad you decided to stay!” he said, and it sounded earnest. Why did he care so much about if I stayed or not?

  He offered me the bowl. I stared at its contents, sceptically, before accepting them.

  “I apologise for the lack of variety,” Sifiso said, sincerely. “It’s all we get. Unless we’re being deployed. But that’s a long way off.”

  To me, food was food. And while I tried to look nonchalant, my mouth was salivating.

  Sifiso waited, expectantly, as he glanced inside the shack.

  It was a long walk from the camp to the shack. He must have travelled since the sun came up.

  I stepped aside, letting him enter. He ducked inside the little shanty, the tip of his rifle barrel still clanking against the doorframe.

  There were two stools in the shack. Both of which I had used as a part of the barricade. Sifiso corrected both of them, placing them apart, and then took a seat. He didn’t have food for himself.

  I took a seat and considered my companion.

  “You aren’t going to eat?” I asked. I realised it was the second time I had spoken to him.

  Sifiso shook his head. “I’ve eaten already. Half of breakfast. That’s the other half.”

  Shocked, I considered the bowl. The pap and mince had been expertly put to one side. He had saved half his rations. For me.

  “Why?” I asked, simply.

  Sifiso shrugged. “You looked hungry.”

  It was that simple. I sat down and began eating. Sifiso considered me in silence. Every so often, my eyes were brought to his rifle. It was longer than the rifles that most impi used. But its design was similar.

  “You said you’re a marksman?” I finally asked, in between bites.

  Sifiso beamed at the acknowledgement, as he puffed up his chest, proudly.

  “I am! Best shot in the squad. And the company. Once we’re done with basics here, the company marksmen are going to go for specialist training. There we get to use bigger rifles. I hope to use the new Isikweletu-I. Only the company sniper gets to use it.”

  I must have looked completely and utterly confused, as he explained.

  “It’s a new sniper rifle. Fifty cal. That’s the size of the bullet. And it’s a Zulu gun. No more using this relic.”

  He indicated his rifle – the R1.

  “How old is it?” I asked, surprising myself as I realised I was genuinely curious.

  Sifiso unslung the rifle and put it on his lap. He frowned.

  “I’m not sure. It’s been re-stamped.”

  I sidled over to inspect the rifle. Most of the rifle had a black metal exterior, but there were sections that had been worn down to the more silvery original metal. As if something had been sanded off.

  “My cousin says that the impi carry guns from the SADF,” I said. Themba had a lot of interest in military history. His dad had been a soldier, apparently. I wasn’t sure for which army. Not the Zulu Empire. But not the SADF either.

  Sifiso nodded, sadly. “Buffels and Casspirs are also from then. But we’ve started making our own. I wish we had our own design. But, apparently, the armoured cars don’t do well at the Three Point Line.”

  “Why?”

  I was from a backwater village but, even with my ignorance of military matters, I knew about the Three Point Line. It was a series of bridges and fortifications marking the border between the Zulu Empire and the State of Good Hope.

  Sifiso looked pleased to be explaining something. Most people were happy to be in the lecturing seat. Gave them justification for absorbing so much knowledge. And everybody wanted to feel smart.

  “The commander says that the bridges are too narrow. We would have to send a lot of cars across to break the defences but, if we sent too many, they would cause a traffic jam. Then those settlers could use their magic to push us into the ravine.”

  “But you’re training to assault it?”

  Sifiso nodded, puffing up his chest again.

  “Why?” I asked simply. The bowl was empty. I was still hungry, but also feeling a bit guilty. This was half of Sifiso’s breakfast.

  “Why?” Sifiso asked, incredulously. He pondered the question and then looked me straight in the eyes, more earnest than I’d ever seen him before.

  “We are the peacemakers,” he said. “We come to bring order to this world. To rid it of the oppressors and the traitors. Before the Empire, there was only flame and darkness…”

  “How could it be dark if there were flames?”

  Sifiso seemed shocked at my jab, but then chuckled.

  “A metaphor. It’s how the commander put it. But it was a dark time. Monsters, criminals, and chaos ruled. The fools in the South African government refused to do what they must to bring peace to this land. The Honourable and Righteous Emperor Ukuhleleka, first of his name, gave the fools a choice. Allow him to save this country or die. But the fools died foolishly, as they refused. The Emperor took charge of the country, all except for the settlers in Good Hope. They still held onto the idea that this was their land. They refused to believe that the Emperor brought light to this dark land. And others refused. Traitors took his life and the blighted Magocracy took a third of the country.”

  He sighed, and I noted that he was no longer smiling. I knew a lot about what he was saying. But never had it been taught as passionately as Sifiso spoke it now.

  “I train,” Sifiso continued. “Because I want peace for this land. After I finish my tour, I will have the right to marry. I hope by then that this land will be united, and we can have peace.”

  A horn blew, punctuating his lecture. He stood up, slinging his rifle onto his back once again.

  “I will be back,” he said. “If you plan on staying. I’ll bring something to start a fire with later.”

  “No!” I said, suddenly. “…please…”

  He eyed me curiously, but then left, bidding me farewell until lunch.

  “Peace…” I muttered, as Sifiso disappeared. I snorted.

  If Mqanduli was the Zulu peace, I didn’t want to see their war.

  ***

  Sifiso returned at lunch with food but had to leave promptly. I thanked him, this time, unable to feel guilty that he was running on half-rations because of me. He didn’t seem to mind.

  Over the next few days, Sifiso returned three times a day. Like clockwork. Every breakfast, we would speak for a while. He told me about the girl he hoped to marry, about his hometown in Natal, about his father who was a commander o
f a White Battalion. On the third day, I asked him about his badge. It was different from Dlamini’s and the other impis I had seen.

  Sifiso looked the proudest I had ever seen him.

  “It is the badge of my company. The 131st. Every company has a cowhide badge. We don’t use hide shields anymore, but this is a part of our heritage. Every company’s badge is different.”

  He leaned forward to show me his badge in more detail. To me, it just looked like the splotches of a brown and white cow.

  “We each have to make our own badges. My mother helped me with mine…” he almost seemed to blush. “She saved up for the materials. She’s a teacher.”

  I felt a pang, remembering my mother. She had baked for a living. She made the best pot bread in the village. I used to eat it fresh out of the oven.

  I would never be able to do that again.

  Sifiso had asked about my family before. I ignored his questions. He never pressed. Perhaps, that was one of the reasons I began to like him so much.

  I was shocked, at first, to realise that I liked an impi. At first, I thought it was just the food. But, as he spent time with me, as I hid in the confines of an isolated shack, afraid to leave lest I never find a roof over my head again, I realised that Sifiso may be an impi, but he was also human.

  He spoke Zulu to me, and I spoke Xhosa back. We both understood each other. Our languages sounded different, but, at the core, they were the same. And, perhaps, it was the same with us.

  Sometimes, Sifiso stayed late into the night. He said that he was expected to patrol the far-flung corners around the camp, but there was nothing but opportunistic beasts that wouldn’t dare attack an armed soldier. He didn’t consider shirking his patrol duties as too sinful.

  Night patrollers got extra rations so, on those nights, there was enough for both of us to eat our fill. I realised that, as the days went by, I began to open up.

  I told Sifiso about Mqanduli. Not what happened there, but about my life before. About the girl I had liked but who was, most probably, dead. About Themba and his wisdom. And Wisdom and his lack of it. About my mother’s food, my cousins’ herds. About feast days and celebrations.

  I spoke of all this with a joy I hadn’t felt in a while. I forgot about the fires and the bloodsuckers. I was able to remember the good times. And, soon enough, my days and nights spent in the little shack with the impi became those good times.