Fiends of the Rising Sun

by David Bishop

  "Now you're talking," Maeda replied, grinning from ear to ear.

  Hitori stared at the Rumanian, uncertain what to make of this demon. He had heard rumours about monsters stalking the battlefields where the Wehrmacht was crushing the Red Army, creatures that emerged at night and fed on the enemy as if they were carrion. Some said the demons sucked the blood from their victims, others claimed the fiends consumed the souls of the fallen. Hitori had believed such reports were merely ghost stories, the kind of legends one would tell a child to frighten him.

  Fables about demons and supernatural monsters had been among his favourites as a child, but he had put away such childish things when he became a man. Now General Tojo was asking him to believe this grinning Rumanian standing opposite was just such a monster. Hitori could not deny what he had seen with his own eyes, but he still tried to convince himself it was a trick of the light, or perhaps a hallucination brought on by something in the tea or sake.

  "You're wondering if I'm real," Constanta said in Japanese. "You're trying to tell yourself all of this is some dream or nightmare, the imaginings of a poisoned mind perhaps, an illusion. I may not conform to any of your native legends, but I am real, Zenji Hitori. I am the most real thing you have ever seen."

  "Prove it."

  The Rumanian smiled to himself.

  "Very well." He snapped his fingers and the double doors to Tojo's office swung inwards. Suzuki ushered in a Chinese soldier in a tattered uniform, the prisoner's hands tied behind his back, bruises on his face and forearms mute evidence of the struggle he had endured. Suzuki gave his old friend a look - what's going on in here? - but Hitori could offer only the slightest shake of his head in reply.

  "That will be all," Tojo told his adjutant, and Suzuki withdrew, closing the doors after him. The general moved to his desk and sat down behind it. "You will find this demonstration... illuminating," he said to Hitori.

  Constanta waited for a nod from Tojo before approaching the prisoner. He grabbed the Chinese soldier by the throat and lifted him bodily off the floor. The Rumanian tossed the prisoner against the double doors, throwing the soldier as if he weighed no more than a rag doll. The Chinaman sank to the floor, all the breath knocked out of his body. Constanta glanced over his shoulder at Hitori.

  "Many of the world's oldest cultures have tales about my kind and our abilities. They have tried to portray us as monsters, parasites and creatures of darkness. Nothing could be further from the truth, of course, but mortals are fond of their lies. I have made a limited study of your nation's literature, its myths and legends. Until a few years ago, when foreign cultures insinuated themselves into your literature, the word vampyr did not exist in your language. Together, we shall change that."

  He advanced on the prisoner. "Stand up," he commanded. When he did not move, Constanta snarled at him in a Chinese dialect that Hitori recognised from Manchuria. The captive soldier clambered to his feet, terror all too evident on his features.

  "Become like me and you can command mortal men, hold them in your thrall simply by the force of your will," Constanta said in Japanese. He turned back to the prisoner, locking eyes with him. At first the enemy soldier's fear remained, his breath coming in short gasps, his eyes betraying his fear. But soon his expression softened, his shoulders relaxed and his breathing became more regular, more controlled. In less than a minute he was placid, almost smiling, staring lovingly into Constanta's eyes. "You see? He is utterly in my power. He will do anything I ask. That makes him a valuable tool, an insurgent we can turn against his own kind, a weapon against your enemies."

  "Incredible," Hitori whispered.

  "Keep watching," Tojo commanded, "there's more."

  Constanta spat a two word command at the prisoner. He moved closer to the vampyr, tilting his head aside to expose his neck and throat. The Rumanian smiled at Hitori. "This is how you will feed. Once you become like me, the hunger will be strong within you, a creature that must be sated with blood from a living human. You must feed, otherwise you will die; it is one of the few ways our kind can perish. You will have no choice in the matter. Feeding to us is like breathing for mortals, a matter of instinct. It will come naturally to you."

  He rested one hand against the prisoner's face, tilting the head still further away. The Chinaman did not object. Constanta drew back his lips, revealing the length of his twin fangs, before clamping his open mouth against the prisoner's neck. A look of panic and pain crossed the Chinese soldier's face, but still he did not pull away, did not fight back. Hitori found himself urging the prisoner to strike out, to defend himself, but the prisoner remained docile even as a trickle of blood escaped from the side of Constanta's sucking mouth.

  The Rumanian ripped his face away from the prisoner's neck, his lips stained crimson with fresh, wet blood, his eyes alive with animal hunger. "How long you feed decides whether your meal lives or dies," he hissed, licking his lips to get every last drop of blood off them. "Take a little and they will survive, ready to provide further sustenance, eager to succumb to your will. Our saliva leaves a coagulant film across their wounds, to prevent them bleeding to death needlessly. Take too much and you will kill your victim, but that has its uses. In extreme circumstances you can resurrect them from the grave, to act as an undead army on your behalf. Such warriors are cannon fodder at best, their value deriving from the dread and horror they instil in your enemy. Few mortals enjoy killing their dead comrades." Constanta pushed the prisoner across to Hitori. "Taste his blood."

  Hitori caught the soldier and held him up, stopping the weakened Chinaman from collapsing. He stared at the two puncture wounds on the prisoner's neck and could see blood inside them, pulsing below the surface. Hitori swallowed and looked away, unable to contemplate what was being asked of him.

  "I can't."

  "Can't, or won't?" Tojo asked, a chill of disappointment in his voice. He rose from his seat and stalked around the desk. "There is someone else waiting to meet you, Hitori, in the next room. Perhaps he will be able to persuade you." The general marched to a side door and held it open. "You will come with me, now!" Hitori did as he was told, not daring to look Tojo in the eye. The general ushered him through the door, before glancing back at Constanta. "Feel free to get rid of that as you see fit," he said, gesturing dismissively at the prisoner.

  "You're too kind," the Rumanian replied. As Tojo followed Hitori through the side door, the Chinese captive screamed for mercy. The cry was cut short, replaced by the sound of hungry sucking and slurping.

  Hitori found himself in a narrow passageway. The general pushed past him and strode along the corridor, towards another door, Hitori following close behind. When they reached the door, Tojo stopped his former adjutant and stared into his eyes. "It saddens me that I was not able to convince you of the wisdom of accepting what Lord Constanta has to offer. But I'm certain you will not be able to refuse the person who waits beyond this door. Now, in you go."

  Hitori reached for the door handle, aware that his whole body was trembling. He opened the door and stepped through it into an ornately furnished room. A single, gold framed chair stood in the centre of the chamber, facing away from Hitori, its high back shielding whoever was sitting in it from view. He watched as the occupant stood up, pulling on the hem of his jacket. He walked around the tall chair and faced Hitori, who dropped to one knee and bowed his head. He was in the presence of Emperor Hirohito, living god and leader of all Japan.

  Father Kelly sat in the cathedral sacristy, sipping a cup of coffee. "I'm sorry we haven't anything stronger," the other priest said, "but I keep the communion wine under lock and key these days. One of the new altar boys is rather too fond of sampling it away from the altar."

  "Coffee's fine," Kelly replied, deciding not to mention the scent of whisky on his confessor's breath. The two of them had retired to the sacristy where they could talk face to face, rather than continue discussing the visiting priest's problems in a confession box as if they were simply another litany of misdeed
s to be admitted and forgiven. Father Kelly had been startled to emerge from the confessional to find he was facing Bishop Sweeney, leader of the Catholic faith for all of the Hawaiian Islands. The bishop was well over fifty, but had the burly physique of a former prize fighter, with a pugnacious face to match and a crop of unruly silver hair. He was an imposing figure, not at all what Kelly had been expecting. The visiting priest waited until they were in the quiet seclusion of the sacristy before asking why the bishop was hearing confession in the cathedral.

  "I like to keep my hand in," Sweeney quipped. "The higher you go within the church, the easier it becomes to forget about your flock, their daily woes and troubles. They need a confessor and I'm as well qualified for that as any of my parish priests. Besides, it makes me feel like I'm doing some good."

  "Making a difference, helping people," Kelly replied.

  "Exactly. That's why I became a priest, to help people." Sweeney finished taking off the last of his vestments and sat down. "Why did you become a priest, father?"

  "Kelly, Shamus Kelly."

  The bishop smiled. "There's a good Irish Catholic name. Where do you hail from originally, Chicago?"

  "Yes, the south side." Kelly took another sip of his drink, giving himself time to think. "I guess I was like you; I wanted to make a difference."

  "You don't have to take the sacraments to do that. I've known plenty of good Chicago Catholics who became policemen, fire fighters, even soldiers."

  Kelly nodded. "To be honest, everybody expected my brother Dermot would be the boy from our family who took the cloth. My sister Marie is a nun back in Chicago, but most people had me pegged for something other than the priesthood, for anything other than the priesthood, if I'm honest."

  "And your brother died, before he was ordained?"

  "How did you know?"

  "I've seen it before," the bishop cut in. "You're not the first person to find himself filling another person's shoes, and you won't be the last. Families can put terrible pressure on young men."

  "The thing is, I wanted to be a priest," Kelly insisted. "I believed in the sacraments, I still do. But when I got my first parish, something happened and..." His voice trailed off as he was overcome by the press of memories and regrets.

  "You began to doubt yourself, your vocation... your faith."

  "Yes." Kelly looked down at the tired rug on the floor, ashamed of his admission. "There was a young woman in my parish, little more than a girl."

  The bishop sighed. "How old was she?"

  "Fifteen, when she died." Kelly realised what his confessor was thinking and hurried to explain. "We never... I mean, I didn't-" He stopped, shaking his head as it all came flooding back. "Her name was Catherine. She fell in love with me. I thought it was just a schoolgirl crush, something she'd grow out of. I considered going to my bishop, asking to be transferred, but running away from the problem felt wrong. I believed I could handle the situation."

  "Did you love her?"

  "I cared about her, in the same way I cared for all of my parishioners. I tried to explain to her that we could never be together, that she had to put all thought of me as a man out of her mind. She promised to try, but..." Father Kelly was crying, bitter tears rolling down his face. "The last time I saw her alive, she seemed happy, at peace with herself. I thought it was a good sign, that she'd turned a corner, that things would get better."

  The bishop leaned back in his chair. "She killed herself, didn't she?"

  Father Kelly nodded. "I returned to my sacristy after saying mass one Friday and found her hanging from a curtain rail, naked, with the sign of the cross carved into both her wrists. Her face was blue and the blood was-" He broke down, overwhelmed by his memories of that terrible day, by what he had witnessed in the little room off the main body of the church.

  His confessor waited until the tears subsided before speaking again. "What did the girl's family do afterwards?"

  "That was the worst part," Father Kelly said. "They forgave me. It seems they knew about their daughter's imbalance, her obsessions, but they were too ashamed to get her the help she needed. They didn't blame me at all."

  "You wanted to be blamed?"

  "It was my fault, wasn't it?"

  "Not if what you've told me is true. This girl needed help and you tried to give it. We can't save everyone, Father Kelly. We can only do our best."

  "I know, but..." The priest sighed, brushing the blond hair from his eyes. "I couldn't understand how God could have abandoned that girl. If she was made in his image, how could she be so troubled as to take her own life? Where was God when she was hurting herself, when she was killing herself? How can her death be what God intended? Why did she have to die? Why?"

  The bishop stood and went to a stack of Bibles beneath a window. He selected one and opened it, retrieving a small bottle of whisky from within. "When I have too many questions, I give myself a sip of Ireland's finest export," he announced, pouring a liberal jolt of whisky into Father Kelly's coffee cup. "It doesn't provide any answers, but sometimes it helps numb the pain of knowing how little I do know, and how much less I understand."

  "Drink your way to happiness?"

  "Would that I could, I'd be the happiest man in the world by now," the bishop replied. "It's no surprise you had a crisis of faith after what happened, but how did you end up a chaplain in the army?"

  Father Kelly shrugged. "I wanted to be somewhere the same thing couldn't happen again. The army seemed like the safest place."

  "Hmm, I'm not sure I've ever heard the army described as a safe place," the bishop said, a wry smile on his lips. "Besides, there's more than one kind of love, no matter what the Bible may have to say on the subject."

  "I'll take my chances."

  The bishop returned the whisky bottle to its hiding place. "It's obvious you're still haunted by what happened in your parish. Running away from that won't change the past, and it won't get the image of that dead girl out of your thoughts, or your nightmares, either."

  "How did you know?"

  "The black rings under your eyes are something of a giveaway in someone so young. It's obvious you haven't been sleeping well lately."

  "No," Father Kelly admitted, "but what can I do?"

  "I can't offer any easy answers. All priests must face the same questions, the same uncertainty at some point. We get hurt and we see hurts done to other people when we're helpless to intervene. Over time those wounds will heal and become scar tissue. Eventually, you start to wonder if you're nothing but scar tissue. Your particular wounds are an extreme example, but most men who take the cloth face such dilemmas in their lives."

  "You haven't answered my question. What can I do? What should I do? How can I find my faith again?"

  "I'm sorry, but you'll have to find that answer for yourself." The bishop rested a comforting hand on Father Kelly's shoulder. "When you do, write and let me know. In the meantime, I'll keep you in my prayers."

  "You may stand," Emperor Hirohito said in a quiet, humble voice. Hitori rose from his knees, but kept his eyes fixed on the ornate rug covering the floor.

  "Forgive me, my lord, I did not-"

  "You have done nothing that needs my forgiveness," the emperor said. "But our conversation will be much easer if you look me in the eye."

  "Yes, my lord, of course." Summoning all his strength of will, Hitori lifted his eyes up to gaze upon Japan's supreme ruler. He was surprised to see how small the emperor was, slight of build and unremarkable of appearance. When a man is worshipped as a living god, you expect him to have the stature of a deity. But Hirohito reminded the soldier of his father, with kind, concerned eyes and a small mouth. "It is an honour to be in your presence, my lord."

  The emperor waved the remarks away. "My minister of war asked me here so we might talk. You have met the Rumanian?"

  "Lord Constanta? Yes, my lord."

  "And you know what he is."

  Hitori nodded.

  The emperor clasped his hands together, sta
ring down at the interlinked fingers. "The power this creature possesses, the abilities Constanta is willing to share with us - it is a kind of weapon, we suppose, albeit a weapon of merciless savagery. We fear we shall have need of such weapons in the months to come."

  "For our war with the Americans," Hitori said.

  "It is not yet certain we will go to war with the Americans," the emperor insisted. "We know the likes of Tojo and his friends within the Black Dragon would have us attack as soon as possible, but we believe we should continue to negotiate until the last. Our battles in Manchuria have been costly enough. To go to war with the Americans, it may be a battle too far, even for us."

  Hitori acknowledged the wisdom of these words with a nod, not trusting himself to say more in such august company. Yes, he had fought in China, but merely as one soldier in a much larger army. To stand in the presence of the emperor and have him talk with such candour, it made Hitori dizzy. He felt some small inkling of how the weight of history and the expectations of a nation must bear down upon the narrow shoulders of the man standing opposite. What price divinity in such circumstances? He realised the emperor was looking at him, waiting for an answer to a question Hitori hadn't heard. "I'm sorry, my lord, I was too busy thinking about what Lord Constanta is offering."

  "Indeed," Hirohito said, his brow furrowing. "We asked what you thought of our prospects in a war with the Americans."

  "In truth, I know little about them as a nation. From this distance they seem scattered, lacking in unity, a people without the sense of community or collective purpose to be found here in Japan. I've heard it said the Americans lack the stomach for war; otherwise they would have come to the aid of Europe long before now. If we strike a great enough blow against them, I believe it will cause one of two reactions. Either they will retreat in shock, or they will strike back with a force ten times as strong as the injury they suffered."

  "We fear the latter will probably be the case," the emperor sighed. "The United States is a young nation, but a proud people. We'll need all possible weapons against them if a war is our collective destiny. That is why we're asking you to surrender yourself to Constanta, to sacrifice yourself for the greater good of the empire. It is not an order, Hitori, but it is the wish of your emperor. Will you do this terrible thing, in the hope it may turn the tide of war?"