The Last Hellfighter

by Thomas S. Flowers

  Though he couldn't see the official symbols on the side of the sedans very well, Ben could guess who they were and what they wanted. They had sent a message in the mail. So, he took another sip of tea and another toke from his pipe and waited for their arrival.

  Chapter 2

  "Hello, Mr. Harker?"

  "Mr. Harker, can you hear us?"

  "Mr. Harker, we're from the Public Relations Ministry..."

  "Mr. Harker?"

  The group similarly dressed group, almost in uniform with the same light grey slacks and grey blazers and black button-up shirts, buttoned all the way to a tall tieless collar, horded together, pressing in on Ben's porch screen door. He sat in his wooden rocking chair, staring at them as they clamoured to get inside to talk to him, struggling not to laugh. In his one hundred and forty-four years, the world hadn't changed all that much, not really. Human nature was and still is as it always has been. And the Public Relations Ministry, in one form or another, has been around since he was a boy yearning to prove himself a man. Perhaps less insidious during Woodrow Wilson's administration than the current one. At least back then, these Public Relations people looked like everyone else, they had a soul and they had fire and grit and purpose. Not anymore. These people wore masks of perfection. Perfectly cut and combed hair, slicked back and wet. Eyes vacant of any original thought. Teeth glimmering unnaturally white in the bright sunlight. Red horrid lips that smiled emotionless smiles and smelled like decayed flowers. Undetermined of any sort of sex.

  "Mr. Harker, can you hear us?" one dared, stepping farther onto the screened porch.

  "Yes, I'm not deaf. I can hear you just fine," Ben barked, clamping tighter with his corncob pipe between his teeth in a near snarl.

  Undeterred, the reporter smiled. "Good. Good. Mr. Harker, correct?"

  "You know I am," Ben replied, taking a toke from his pipe.

  "Marvelous, sir. May we come in?"

  "If you must," he exhaled smoke.

  More smiles, more pretentious nodding and bowing as the group of uniformed gray suited reporters herded into the now very cramped feeling porch.

  "Mr. Harker, we're from the—"

  "I know government types when I see'em," Ben interrupted.

  "We'd like to—"

  "And I know what you want," he interrupted again. He gazed at them coldly. "And the answer is no. Now, get off my porch and head back the way you came, if you wouldn't mind."

  More smiles, some nods between them. The same head Public Relations rep looked back at Ben. "But Mr. Harker, not everyone turns 144 years old. This is the first time in recorded history, in fact. And—"

  "Don't care. I know how old I am." Ben rocked back in his chair, grinning like a fool on the inside. He knew what the eventual outcome would be. These creeps wouldn't leave until they got what they came for. And the sooner they were gone the better, but still...it was fun seeing how far under their skin he could get, how far he could push them before that well-groomed posture waned, if only a smidge.

  Again, with the smiles, though perhaps with more teeth now. "Mr. Harker. This is a direct request from President Adams."

  Ben tried to look impressed. "Oh?"

  "Yes, Mr. Harker, from the President of the United States."

  "Really?" He rocked, puffing on his nearly extinguished pipe.

  The smiles waned. "Mr. Harker, this story is of the upmost importance—to the President."

  Again, mocking surprise, "How could a story on an old nobody like me be so important?" Though he pretended, the question was sincere enough. He knew why they were here. True, not everyone turned 144 every day, or any day that he knew of, not anyone human at least. But why would someone like the President care so much about something so trivial compared to more national related matters? If he cared so much about the people, why weren't these goons covering a story that really mattered?

  As if reading his thoughts, the reporter answered, "Mr. Harker, as you are certainly aware of, there are a lot of troubling things happening in our country. Talk of dissension and traitorous political opposition and many of other lies conjured up by fake news unapproved of by the Administration nor by the Public Relations Ministry. We are here, Mr. Harker, on the President of the United States' orders, to help facilitate a needed rest in the daily cog of news reports, a measure of entertainment for the loyal citizens of our country. The people demand respite, Mr. Harker, and the President is answering. Will you deny him? Will you deny your countrymen?"

  Ben nearly choked on his pipe. He coughed out smoke. "Well, far be it for me to deny the people a distraction from reality."

  The smiles returned, cold and toothy. "Good, Mr. Harker." And with that, the lead reporter signalled for the rest to set up. Three went back out to the sedans and returned a moment later carrying large silver cases. Popping the trunks, they quickly staged the area, propping four cameras in front of Ben. Spot lights flashed on. Dials and switches, a veritable recording booth right there on the dusty wood porch of a farm house on the northern most tip of Texas, facing the rickety edge and endless rows of wheat and wind of No Man's Land.

  One of the grey suited clones leaned in front of Ben. "Do you mind, Mr. Harker?" he gestured to the wireless microphone, no more than a black dot, pinched between two slender pale fingers.

  Ben nodded and mumbled, "Like I have a choice."

  The other smiled and stuck the mic on Ben's overall bib pocket.

  Finished, the lead reporter, Ben never bothered catching his name, unfolded a chair one of the other clones had brought in for him, and sat a few feet from Ben's rocking chair. He crossed his legs almost femininely and stared at the old man, grinning with that fake, odd smile. "Ready, Mr. Harker?" he asked.

  Ben finished the last of his sweet tea, keeping the jar in his hands, allowing the cold condensation to numb the throb slowly ticking against his nerves. Outside, the sun was lowering on the horizon. In a few hours, it would be dusk. And a few hours after that, night would come, and he didn't know why, call it intuition sharpened over one hundred and forty-four years, but he had an inkling something else would be coming in the dark. Something much older than he was...something ancient and vengeful and utterly evil. Something he had been waiting a lifetime to face once again.

  "Let's get this over this," he said, his milky gaze remaining on the waning orange orb in the sky.

  The other sat ridged in his folding chair. "Very good, Mr. Harker. We'll be asking some simple questions for the citizens watching at home. According to the Federal Birth Registry, you were born in 1900 in New York City, can you tell us a little bit about that?"

  Ben glanced at the cameras hovering soundlessly in front of him. "Is this live?" he asked.

  The other nearly laughed. His smile deepening, revealing most of his unnaturally white teeth. "Oh, heavens no, Mr. Harker. We'll take what we record here and edit it back at the Ministry. Protocol, you understand."

  He nodded, "Sure."

  "You were saying about New York?" the other prodded.

  "Harlem."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Harlem, that's where I was born and raised."

  "Right, until you joined the..." the reporter verified something on his small electronic notebook, "15th New York Infantry."

  "Harlem Hellfighters."

  "Sorry?"

  "That was our name, during the war."

  "And which war was that?"

  "The Great War." Ben frowned, looking more closely at this young man in the grey suit. He glanced around, realizing how remarkably young they all were. No older than twenty-five a piece. "Don't tell me you don't know what the Great War was."

  The other smiled again, continuing. "When did you move out here in the mid-west, Mr. Harker?"

  "Some years before the Dust Bowl."

  "The what?"

  Ben shook his head. "1925."

  "Were you a farmer?"

  "I tried to be."

  "How do you get along now?"

  "Get along?"


  "On the day to day, Mr. Harker. I assume you no longer work?"

  "You want to know my financials? Fine, I suppose. Enough to live on with the veteran's pension and what not."

  "And the Senior Welfare Entitlement, correct?"

  Ben nodded.

  "Correct, Mr. Harker, a tax-free stipend provided for by President Adams?"

  Ben nodded again.

  "Correct, Mr. Harker?" the reporter pressed, his smile thinning.

  Ben exhaled. "Fine. Yes, provided for by the government."

  "Fine, Mr. Harker." The reporter turned to another standing nearby, "Make a note that we'll need to edit in the President's name." The other nodded.

  Watching them closely, Ben smirked.

  The reporter grinned still, now checking again his digital notebook. "And your health, Mr. Harker, how are you feeling?"

  Ben glanced around. The other reporter clones were checking their digital notebooks and watches as well. Smiles gone. Replaced by what he could only determine to be something between fear and denial. He looked back at the cameras, "I'm feeling just fine."

  The other smiled, "Good health provided by President Adams's National HealthCare Act, correct?"

  "Sure."

  The other in front of him uncrossed his legs. "Good, Mr. Harker. I think that'll do it. Thank you for your time." And with that, he stood and quickly helped the others as they disassembled the equipment. One came over and unstuck the microphone from Ben's bib pocket.

  As if reminded of his habit, Ben reached and fished a pinch of tobacco and stuffed the loaf into his corncob pipe. "So soon?" he asked, patting his other pocket for a match.

  Without looking at him, the reporter said, "Yes, Mr. Harker, we have plenty. Again, thank you for your time and your service." And then he and the rest of the Public Relations clones were out the screened porch door. Loaded in their white dust caked government plated sedans, they whirled out of the gravel drive, kicking up clouds of dirt.

  "Service? Right..." Ben sighed. Finding a match, he struck it against the arm of his rocking chair and puffed on his pipe. Smoke swirled around him when he heard the door to his house creak open. He jerked from the unexpected sound and stared, nearly coughing, as a pale-skinned young man with slicked back hair, wearing a gray suit, stepped out of his house and onto the porch, his face an expression of apology.

  "I'm sorry to intrude on you like this, sir," said the young man, glancing out the screened windows on the porch, watching as the convoy of sedans disappeared into the horizon.

  Ben wheezed and spat, clutching at his chest. He hitched a thumb in the direction of the dust. "You missed your ride. Bad time to take a piss." He laughed, drily.

  The young man brought his attention back to Ben. "No, I'm not with them, sir."

  Ben frowned, his interest peaked. "You're not, huh. Well, just who in the hell are you with?"

  The young man stepped forward, his hands out before him in a sort of beggar's stance. "My name is Clyde Bruner, sir. And...this is going to sound insane, but..."

  "Yes, out with it."

  "Mr. Harker, I want to ask you about...vampires."

  Chapter 3

  Inside Benjamin Harker's house, Clyde again would have sworn he'd stepped inside a museum of curiosities. The place was filled with an assortment of random objects, of native islander statues and taxidermized animals ranging from deer to tigers to foxes and even a wild boar or two. Wood spears hung over the fireplace in a giant X, dull handles yet sharp looking blades that glittered in the sunlight filtering through the living room windows. And pictures of places he'd never been or ever will set in frames and nailed to the walls. African. European. Amazonian. Asian. Jungles and deserts and high mountain peaks. Odds and ends from every corner of the globe. Most of the photos were in black and white, a few in color but faded orange. Pictures with wide open spaces. Of urban areas and overcrowded streets. And of villages and ruined castles too. Some with eager jubilant hopeful faces, others not so much. It was like walking through a time bubble, seeing this thin shrivelled and wrinkled elderly black man and then seeing him in the pictures, walking through the course of 144 years of life. From smooth overzealous youth to a worn and withered age. Among these photos, one in particular caught his eye.

  "Is this one in Egypt?" Clyde asked, gesturing to the photo.

  Mr. Harker grunted something unintelligible, tittering precariously on his feet and then falling into a very used recliner. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as if the act of walking from the porch to his chair, no more than three-feet, had physically exhausted him.

  Clyde brought his attention back to the black and white photo of three men, two with dark skin, the other white. One of the dark-skinned men he assumed was Mr. Harker, but as a younger man and not the elder before him, the other...he wasn't sure, he seemed very strange looking with oval thick sunglasses that hid his eyes. His jaw looked oddly plastic or artificial in some way, as if he wore a partial mask to hide his face. Both dressed in dusted suits and dark small hats upon their heads. The white fellow was older than the two, like how Harker looked now, minus twenty or thirty years, give or take. He wore a thick beard that hung down to his chest, and on top his head sat a bowler hat with a plume stuck in the cuff. And taking up the entire background, worn statues of bird-headed men, the base of what he could only assume to be the Great Pyramids of Giza.

  "When was this photo taken?" Clyde asked, more out of curiosity than anything else, but also to show some interest in Mr. Harker, to hopefully get him to start talking, to grease the wheels so to speak, anything to make the soon to be harder questions all the easier.

  Without opening his eyes, Mr. Harker replied, "Isn't there a date written on it?"

  Clyde looked. So, there was, "1922," he said.

  "Well, there you go," the old man growled low.

  "Was this taken on a vacation or something?"

  "Or something."

  "Right." Clyde frowned, thinking hard, remembering back to his history lessons with his father. His eyes brightened. "1922, isn't that when the tomb of Tutankhamun was discovered? By Howard Carter, wasn't it?" Clyde peered more closely at the faded framed picture. "Were you there when it happened?" He glanced over at Mr. Harker.

  At this, the old man opened his eyes, staring intently at his young uninvited guest. He smiled, wily, "My, my, and here I was beginning to think they'd burned all the history books."

  Clyde looked to the photo, scratching his nose. "Yes, well. There are still a few old ones that have survived, before the Nationalist Standard edition."

  The old man laughed and seemed to relax. The hitch of his chest quieted and slowed to something that sounded relatively normal, or as much as Clyde could tell, with gentle rises and falls of the old man's bib overalls.

  He exhaled. There were so many questions he had to ask and Clyde didn't precisely know where to start or how much excitement Mr. Harker could take. And there was the question of memory too. After 144 years, how much could Benjamin Harker remember, and with what level of accuracy?

  This was foolish, coming here, he thought.

  —but the stories Pepaw had shared...

  How much of that was just that: stories?

  —even in the most fictitious lie, there are some nuggets of truth, right?

  Better than nothing, I suppose.

  "And what about this one?" Clyde gestured to a photo of a young African American woman, as much as he could tell. The picture was horribly faded with inch-thick dust along the glass of the frame which made it harder to tell who it was standing next to her. Odd, he thought. Of all the photos, this one is the only dirty one.

  "None of your business," Harker growled.

  "Sure. Okay." Bruner moved down the row of frames, pausing now in front of some sort of award, a medal square-cross with swords. "Wow. Is this a Croix de Guerre?" He leaned in closer, reading some of the script, examining the age of the ribbon and the marks on the brass.

  "How about you cut the bullshit and get to w
hat you want?" Mr. Harker snapped, his glare fully alert and glued on Clyde.

  Smiling shyly, Clyde backed away from the framed photos on the wall and all the other knick-knacks and joined his aged host in the living room. He sat down in the couch opposite the recliner. There was no TV. No computer or holographic projectors one might find in a typical American house. Here it was quant and simple. From another era of over a hundred years of forgotten time. The only pieces of furniture were the tables and ends, most had books stacked on them. The only thing untouched was a dresser-looking cabinet set against the wall.

  "Right." Clyde held his hands together, resting on his knees as if in prayer. "I suppose we should—"

  "Are you one of them? And don't try lying. I can tell when someone's lying. So, don't test me," the old man interrupted, his gaze cold and unblinking.

  Clyde held his mouth agape and then asked, "One of who, a vampire?" stupidly.

  Mr. Harker laughed, thunderous and quick which turned into gasps and wheezing coughs. He hacked and fished for a rag on the end table next to his recliner. He spat, still coughing and giggling. With his faded milky gaze, he looked back to Clyde. "No, you idjit. We'd be having a different conversation if you were one of them. No. No. Are you with those Public Relations reporters? Are you one of those?" He hitched his thumb back toward the front door.

  Clyde laughed too, though humorless. "Sorry, no. I'm not with the Public Relations Ministry. Like I said before, I just came with them so that I could talk with you, privately."

  Mr. Harker narrowed his eyes, licking his lips. "You sure look like one of them."

  Glancing at himself, Clyde said, "Had to dress the part, right?" He grinned. Then, looking at his hands, he started again, myrrh gone, and said, "I'm not sure how much you are aware, but things are getting worse out there. Did you notice how quickly those reporters packed up? I imagine some message came in, telling them to high tail back to Dallas. State borders are getting harder to cross nowadays. Security is tight on every major highway. Drones are patrolling rural routes. For a lot of good that's doing." He smirked. "People are scared, Mr. Harker. And that's why I came here, that's why I snuck in with the Public Relations. I needed to speak with you and this was the only sure-fire way."