Dracula vs. Hitler

by Patrick Sheane Duncan

  At the edge of the stairs, Lucille peered over the railing to see the shoulders and grey cap of another guard. Ouspenkaya aimed his pistol at the man below. Lucille pushed the gun hand away and shook her head, whispering, “No, let us try to remain undetected as long as possible.”

  The guard was speaking to someone. “Bunkhouse rumours. Pah! Vampires and werewolves and monsters. Horse shit between two slices of rye bread.”

  Another voice answered. “I didn’t hear about the werewolves. Where? Is that what killed Schreck?”

  So there were two men at the bottom of the stairs. She circled the railing and could see the boot tips of the other soldier.

  Ouspenkaya moved to descend the stairs. Lucille stopped him.

  “My turn,” she whispered as she handed him her Luger and stripped off her coat, then her shirt and trousers. One of the men began to protest, but she hushed him with a look. Under the clothing she wore a thin batiste camisole and panties, but no brassiere. Clothing she had rescued from the ruins of the Van Helsing home.

  She found a few of the gypsy men staring at where her nipples were visible through the camisole and, rather than being indignant or embarrassed, she smiled with satisfaction. This would work.

  Stepping over to one of the gas lamps on the wall, she removed the glass and dipped a finger into the accumulated soot. Applying the black around her eyes and a lighter usage onto the hollows of her cheeks, Lucille checked the results in the reflection of a glass-covered painting hanging on the wall. Satisfied that she was appropriately phantasmal, she started walking down the steps.

  Ouspenkaya laid a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

  “What needs to be done,” she whispered back, pointedly removing his hand from her clavicle.

  “You don’t have a gun,” he said. “Not even a knife.”

  “I have these.” She cupped her breasts defiantly, then began the walk down the stairs. She kept her eyes wide, raised her arms into her best White Zombie walk.

  The two sentries first saw her feet, then her pale legs. One called “Halt!” but Lucille kept her slow, deliberate pace.

  One of the guards aimed his Schmeisser at her, but his vigilance was modulated when her breasts came into view. The gun barrel dipped as his eyes riveted to the areolae easily visible through the thin fabric.

  His partner’s concentration fixed upon the same area.

  Gas lamp flames danced shadows across the hollow-eyed specter appearing before the two men, an erotic vision from out of their dreams—or nightmares, depending on their Jungian bent.

  “What the f—” one muttered.

  Lucille, eyes wide and unblinking, maintained her sleepwalking enchantress act and walked toward the nearest guard, murmuring softly.

  “. . . help me, help me, help me . . .” She kept repeating the phrase. The Nazi in front of her was perplexed, aroused, allowing Lucille to come closer, closer.

  “I’ll help you,” he leered. “With this.” He released the machine gun and grabbed his crotch. Just what she was waiting for.

  “Careful, Fritz,” the other cautioned.

  Too late. Lucille kneed good old Fritz in the groin. He genuflected in front of her. Snatching the Schmeisser from his hands, she clubbed him in the head with the butt.

  The other guard roused himself and aimed his own weapon at her. Lucille moved to him, but her legs became entangled with the fallen Fritz and she fell.

  The second guard stepped over her and put the barrel of his own weapon into Lucille’s face. She scrambled to aim her commandeered Schmeisser at him. But the weapon had become trapped under Fritz’s leg. She struggled to free it.

  The man above her smiled and flicked off his gun safety. The metallic clack was like a thunderclap in the small room.

  Lucille prepared to die.

  Then a shadow fell over her and the guard. There was a muffled crash as the second guard hit the floor with a fierce Ouspenkaya upon him, stabbing the man repeatedly.

  The gypsy had jumped straight down the stairwell, hurtling toward the guard, landing on him like a sack of grain, and driving the man to the ground.

  With both sentries eliminated, the rest of their force rushed down the stairs and joined them. Lucy put her clothing back on and wiped her face with a proffered handkerchief. She received her Luger back from Ouspenkaya as another gypsy eased open the lone door on the landing.

  “This is it. The prison,” he announced.

  And then they heard the familiar stutter of a machine gun.

  EXCERPTS FROM UNIDENTIFIED DIARY

  (translated from German)

  Herr Wolf found himself unable to move as the Vampire strode toward him with vile intent in those red eyes. Herr Wolf knew his End was at hand. These last years he had been sure Death was impending—the assassination attempts, his ill health, one close call after another. He just had not expected his Demise to be at the hands of some mythical beast.

  But then Major R stepped between him and Dracula.

  — Step back, my Fuhrer, the stalwart soldier cried and wielded his new sword.

  With a flick of his wrist he quickly scored a cut upon the vampire’s forearm. Dracula reacted as if scalded and stepped backward, clasping the wound.

  — Silver! was his response.

  The Major confirmed this statement and proceeded to attack the Vampire, who retreated.

  Herr Wolf shouted an order to the Major not to kill the Creature. The Major replied that his intention was but to subdue. He drove Dracula back a few steps more and the Vampire was now cornered. The Major preened for a moment, relishing his victory, always a mistake.

  With a shriek of fury, the Tommy leapt from behind Herr Wolf and crossed the hall to tackle Major R. The two tumbled to the floor, the Major losing his sabre in the tussle. Dracula instantly pounced upon the Major and sank his teeth into the man’s neck.

  Herr Wolf was transfixed, fascinated at bearing witness to this act. Then he remembered his mission, how crucial it was that Dracula not be allowed to kill the Major. Without even thinking, Herr Wolf found the gift pistol in his hand. He did not remember taking it from the stand next to his chair. He reflexively chambered a round and aimed, the movement bringing back a vivid recollection of his days in the Great War.

  Herr Wolf fired at the Vampire, hitting it in the upper arm. Dracula cried out, lifted his face from his feeding, and released the Major, who fell to the floor, gasping, still alive.

  — Silver bullets! the Major shouted in triumph.

  This must have been true, as the Vampire writhed with some vigor, clasping the wounded arm.

  Herr Wolf now had a clear shot at the vampire and fired again. But the Englishman threw himself into the line of fire and Herr Wolf’s shots, five of them, hit the Tommy instead.

  Dracula leapt to the fallen spy and lifted him clear of the floor and carried him away with his unwounded arm. They both disappeared around the corner of the corridor.

  Herr Wolf rushed to Major R’s side, hoping that the officer was still alive. He was and told Herr Wolf that they must vacate this area before the Vampire returned.

  Staggering to his feet, the Major retrieved his silver sabre and directed Herr Wolf down the corridor and through a door that they secured behind them. Herr Wolf had to help the Major, who was bleeding profusely from his neck bite and demonstrated a profound weakness.

  With the Major giving directions, they made their way through a maze of subterranean tunnels. All the while, Herr Wolf had one thought on his mind—if the legends were true, he now possessed his own Vampire, obedient to him! Here was Immortality! Idunn’s apples were in his hands!

  EXCERPTED FROM THE UNPUBLISHED NOVEL THE DRAGON PRINCE AND I

  by Lenore Van Muller

  Lucille and the others waited until the gunfire ceased, then eased their way into the underground prison. The corridors were dark; the ceiling lights hung too far apart, leaving stretches of deep shadow. The
bulbs were dim, as if the generator was overloaded. You could see the filaments glowing orange, and what light they produced barely reached the floor.

  The partisans crept along, expecting to encounter armed Germans with every step. But strangely, the corridor was empty. A ring of keys had been found hanging from the wall next to an abandoned desk, a cigarette still smoking in the ashtray. Ouspenkaya directed his people to begin opening the cells.

  They freed their compatriots, and Lucille found herself appalled at the state of her friends. Captivity and torture had rendered many of them unrecognisable. The filth of the cells, the damp, and the cold had drained them further.

  They found Farkas and Mihaly, their bloody faces bruised, cut, and swollen almost beyond recognition by beatings. Only their joyful voices gave a clue to their identity. There were embraces, but both men were so physically broken that they had to be carried out.

  Farkas called out to Lucille as he passed, his voice a husky wreck, “They slaughtered Pavel!” he cried angrily. “Find me some revenge.”

  As shocked and dispirited Lucille was at the condition of her comrades, her focus was entirely centred upon the whereabouts and fate of the Prince. The opening of every door became a tortured moment of tense revelation and subsequent disappointment as the Prince was not found. And a following wave of guilt swept over her as the poor wretch who was inside was led away.

  Too many of the prisoners needed assistance and soon Lucy was accompanied only by Ouspenkaya, as the rest of her party had helped the weak toward safer ground.

  They continued their search for more prisoners and the keep where Dracula might be imprisoned.

  The corridor made a turn, and Lucille braced herself against the wall. She peered around the corner to see if any Germans lay in wait. But the fear was moot as the hall ahead was still, the fight there long over.

  She turned the corner and walked past the bodies of dead Germans littering the floor. Incongruously, an empty chair and an end table sat in the midst of this carnage. On the table, laid out as if for a tea party, sat a cup of congealed chocolate and a plate with a single dried date and a bit of half-eaten cheese, this surrounded by a tableau of blood and death.

  There was a smell of cordite in the air, the walls and ceiling pockmarked with fresh divots cut from the stone. A tripod-mounted machine gun lay on its side. Nine dead Germans lay in a growing pool of blood.

  Another cautious step past the next bend in the tunnel and Lucille halted, stunned. The Prince was sitting against the wall holding a limp Renfield in his arms.

  Lucy rushed over and went to her knees before them, examining both. Renfield had multiple wounds, one in his chest frothing blood in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest.

  His eyes were fixed upon the Prince, then they turned to Lucille.

  “Sergeant Renfield, reporting for duty.” He raised a mangled hand in salute, but the arm made it only halfway before his strength failed and the hand fell to the floor like a shot bird.

  “Can you do anything?” Dracula asked.

  Lucille shook her head. She had seen other men lung shot and knew that there was little to be done, especially with the other wounds and the loss of blood the Sergeant had suffered. His face was white and his lips blue as he tried to smile.

  Not knowing what else to do, Lucille reached out and swept the dying man’s hair from his eyes. How many times had she done this, tried to find some scrap of comfort for a man about to die.

  “Let’s everybody sing . . .” he began. But the song died on his lips. Lucille saw the life leave his eyes.

  Dracula released the lifeless man and rose to his feet. He regarded Renfield for a solemn second.

  “He died a gallant soldier,” Dracula whispered. “Sacrificing his life for my own.” He then turned to her and the gypsy. “I had hoped that you had fled to safety,” he said to Lucille as he embraced her with one arm.

  “You know me better than that,” she whispered into his ear, her breath warm on his neck.

  “Yes, I do.” They kissed. It was as good as their first, and she felt herself melt into his arms. He pulled away and attempted a smile, but it did not last long on his lips.

  “Hitler is here,” he said.

  Lucille cursed, first to herself, then out loud.

  “Impossible.” Ouspenkaya refused to believe it.

  “Know that it is possible and fact,” Dracula said and started back the way they had come. He clutched one arm with his hand.

  “You are wounded,” Lucille said. The Prince examined the flesh of his arm.

  “Silver bullets,” he remarked. “The Major is sagacious. Remove the offending bullet, please.”

  “I, I can’t. I don’t have any instruments, any sterilization,” she protested.

  “Here.” Ouspenkaya handed her his thin-bladed dagger. Lucille was quick, not wanting to prolong the Prince’s pain. She inserted the knife into the wound and pried out the spent round, which fell to the floor with a dull clink.

  “We should suture that,” she told the Prince, returning the dagger to the gypsy, who wiped the blade clean on a dead German’s tunic.

  When she turned back to him, Dracula was gone, running down the corridor so fast as to blur.

  EXCERPTS FROM UNIDENTIFIED DIARY

  (translated from the German)

  The Major directed Herr Wolf to a room deep in the penetralia of the castle. Herr Wolf shut the thick door and barred it with a beam he found leaning against the wall.

  The centre of the room was dominated by a large, circular opening in the floor. It was an old cistern, the source of water for this ancient fortress, most likely fed by underground springs. The water glistened under the wavering light from the gas jet, flickering in the draught of the castle’s exhalations. Herr Wolf peered into the dark depths of the water and could see no bottom.

  Herr Wolf turned from his examination of this architectural artefact to see the Major sprawled on the floor, writhing in the throes of great pain. His screams echoed across the chamber, the sound reverberating against the hoary stones. Herr Wolf’s skin tightened at the sound and he searched for an exit, but realised that the barred door was the only way in or out.

  He was trapped with a dying man. At least this was what he thought until, upon closer examination of the Major, he discovered that the man was instead undergoing some kind of transformation. His skin was turning pale, not the purple-lipped, yellow-skinned pallor of death that Herr Wolf had become so familiar with on the Western Front.

  No, this was a profound change in the substance of the skin, metamorphosing into a glass-like translucence, the man’s eyes reddening with burst capillaries. In the midst of an ear-punishing scream from the wretch, Herr Wolf was able to discern that the Major’s eyeteeth had become fangs.

  The transformation was happening before his eyes!

  But then another thought occurred to Herr Wolf. He was trapped in this room with a Vampire. Would the transmutation affect the man’s reasoning? Would he attack like some famished animal? Would his Ungodly thirst dominate his Common Sense, his allegiance to his Fuhrer?

  As the Major ceased writhing in his physical anguish and grew still, Herr Wolf backed his way to the door. Clutching the pistol loaded with silver bullets he casually aimed it in the Major’s direction. Then the Major rose unsteadily to his feet, slowly, carefully, as if an invalid finding his strength after a long recovery. He turned to face Herr Wolf, an expression on his face that could only be described as ecstatic, exultant.

  It struck Herr Wolf that this moment was another event that would define his Destiny. This was the culmination of his Superiority over the rest of humanity. His victories over his enemies had repeatedly proved his Supremacy. Herr Wolf was no longer bound by the restrictions of ordinary human mores. He had Evolved into a super-human state and before him was the opportunity to take the next inevitable step, to rise to his rightful seat next to the Gods.

  Immortality stood before him. Could he do this?

 
He thought of Dr. Schertel’s declaration—He who does not have the demonic seed within himself will never give birth to a magical world.

  Could he do this? He must.

  HE MUST!

  FROM THE WAR JOURNAL OF J. HARKER

  (transcribed from shorthand)

  After parting with Lucy and her contingent, I followed the young gypsy boy, Sandu, up the stairs. The passageway was narrow, and my elbows constantly banged on the rough wall. The castle had been wired for electricity recently and rather crudely: Bare wire was stapled to the walls and ceilings; switches, outlets, and lighting had been installed with no regard for the chipping of marble, stone, or the mutilation of centuries-old hardwoods. Obviously these Nazi troglodytes bore no respect for history. To my embarrassment, I struck my head on the lintel of the first-floor exit with a resounding thud. The boy turned to me with concern, and I gestured for him to proceed.

  On the third-floor landing, I committed the same foible. This time the collision of beam and my forehead caused a wound and blood to seep. The boy raised his eyebrows at me, then pointed to a door.

  I eased it open and immediately the effluvium of men cohabiting together floated out like a miasmal fog with an accompanying musicale of grunts, snores, and coughs. Peering inside, I could see folding bunks crowded together in what must have once been a magnificent library. A small wood stove had been set against one wall, and the flue pipe ran up the wall to poke through a broken pane in the window. It was evident that the German savages were using the books for fuel; a pile of tomes, some torn into stove-sized bits, were strewn about the floor next to the stove.

  This sacrilege roiled my gut and seemed reason enough to set the charge at the door. I attached a length of fishing line to the doorknob and tied the other end to a pull switch, which I then inserted into the charge. The whole package, a block of gelignite wrapped with nails, was set on the threshold. Then we crept up the stairs to another landing, to a door that accessed the roof.