The Last Hellfighter

by Thomas S. Flowers

  According to his sources—storytellers mostly, nervous reporters willing to laugh off what the Army was getting itself involved with in its now third year in the war. First it was a mass urgency to take Bagdad. And then it was the oil fields and the IP stations and the whole broken political spectrum. The court trials. Prisons like Abu Ghraib. And even protecting what remained of the historical landmarks, those crumbled ancient relics of the past—the preservation of history and culture, for whatever that meant to a blood-bathed landscape soaked in tranny and negligence.

  Ben watched the convoy continue of their way.

  Watched as the yellow dust settled on the broken slabs of pavement and bits of discarded material, trash mostly.

  They weren't going far, he knew.

  Just down the road outside Goptapa.

  He wondered how close Helwing had gotten. Perhaps not close at all. Goptapa was a small place along the Euphrates river. Long ago, centuries, the entire area had been thick with Cypress trees, a great forest oasis surrounded by scorched thirsty land. And even longer back, it was said to be an even greater tropical paradise where a long-forgotten civilization gave birth to the most horrid of creation to walk this world.

  How could the Professor had missed this in his books? Ben wondered. He patted his cargo pocket and fished out his corncob pipe. Stuffing tobacco, trying not to spill any as his hands shook, he lit and puffed smoke. Children resumed playing in the street, kicking a football back and forth, shouting joyfully now that the Americans were gone

  As he watched, he wondered if these seemingly tranquil people knew. They say the Kurds know evil—human manufactured maybe, but what about the other, the darker more mythical evil that latches onto mankind's knack for suffering. The evil we only speak about in tales and legends.

  Ben recalled the reports, how in Goptapa the Americans found a lost ruin to some forgotten time and place.

  Or did these Kurds simply pretend to no longer know? Did they force away the memory? Forbid the lore, the tales of what was born here—and what still resides in those tombs?

  Again, Professor Helwing's voice called to him from his past.

  "West Asia, in the collapsed Ottoman Empire now called Iraq by the British government. We searched within the Tigris–Euphrates river system for the Lost Temple of Lamashtu...a Mesopotamian goddess depicted typically as having a hairy body, the head of a lion, donkey teeth and ears, long fingers and fingernails, and sharp bird-like talons for feet. It is said that Lamashtu crept into homes at night to kill babies in their cribs or in the womb."

  Was that all that survived the centuries? Bedtime tales?

  Is there nothing more to say?

  Can what has been done be undone?

  Would he have his revenge?

  "Ben!"

  —it was Mina's voice now, calling to him, pleading with him to save her before the painful sicking sound of the snap of her neck.

  Harker coughed smoke, nearly spilling his expresso. Locals turned and glanced at him. The waiter came with a towel. Ben offered whatever apology he could muster with just a few low grunts and a flash of a few extra dinar.

  As the waiter left, Ben rubbed his temple, finishing the last droplets of his drink. Clenching down on his corncob pipe. It was becoming harder and harder to control his thoughts. With each passing year—the end was inevitably close at hand. If he wanted to know what secrets were in that temple, it would have to be soon.

  Raising his hand, Ben ordered another expresso. Bringing his hawk-handled cane close to him, he then settled in and waited for dusk.

  Chapter 39

  Ben leaned back in the cab. The desert heat blew in through the open window, already it was beginning to cool dramatically as the sun set in the west. Watching as the dark orange star faded into the glimmering horizon casting deep purples and reds along wispy clouds reminded him of so many sunsets he'd witnessed. Memories of standing on his land gazing out across a much greener landscape. And across endless rows of golden wheat. And he'd seen worse before—beauty kissing the beast, a touch of light on the dust of the 1930s or the mortar-riddled No Man's Land, peering over the cusp of the rat-infested trenches. He'd seen grace, even then. Curious, was this to be his last sunset?

  A bump in the road jarred Ben from his thoughts.

  He glanced at the back of his driver's head. It had been difficult finding a driver willing to take him close to the site. For fear of the soldiers or the ruins—he did not know. Perhaps both, he reckoned. Some places, Ben believed, contained the essence of the evil that resided there, no matter how many years ago. Or how recent.

  Ben gripped the handle of his cane.

  Could he face the Countess?

  "My god..." Captain Harris breathed. His voice echoed from the past, teasing Ben with its memory.

  "Yes. Seeing is believing," Ben remarked, glancing around, searching for the one he truly wanted. "And believing can be a terrible burden."

  Shaking, Sergeant Strong opened fire first. Bright bursts boomed from his M16. He yelled, battle worn and no doubt terrified.

  Angel soon joined.

  And then Sergeant Shimerman, letting loose with his thundering M60 Machine Gun.

  And then PFC Marsters.

  And then Captain Harris.

  And even Agent Oz.

  No.

  There was no doubt. He would perish this time—as would the soldiers protecting the site, just like before in Vietnam. He could not go through something like that again. Whatever kept his mind together with snap—and then it would be over.

  No.

  He did not hope for her to show. This was just to be an intelligence gathering. The last intelligence gathering for the last move of the game.

  * * *

  The driver let him out a few blocks from where the site would be. It was as close as he was willing to get. Already the driver's broken English was becoming more and more frustrated and less and less intelligible. An internalized anxiety about the ruins. Stories, Ben realized, have a way of permeating down into our genes, passed on genetically to our children, and their children's children until we have forgotten precisely why we are so afraid of the dark; only that we are.

  Ben paid the man and stood away as the cab turned and drove off, back the way they had come, in a cloud of dirt.

  On the horizon, the bright warming sun gave one final wink, and was gone. Ben nodded, and started toward the ruins, following a soft dim light breaking the darkness less than a mile ahead of him. Around him the area looked to be very rural. No signs of habitation. He was not surprised, given the driver's inclination. There was little doubt no living soul lived in these parts, though the Euphrates poplar trees grew tall and the river carried fresh water from the north. And along with that, fish and vegetation. But as he had pondered on before, evil has a way of permeating into natural environments and poisoning fertile ground.

  The trees swayed, and the river sang its rushing song, but nothing else stirred.

  The land was silent.

  Mute.

  Dead already, perhaps.

  Or sleeping.

  * * *

  He walked, leaning on his cane more and more with each step. This had been a lot easier once. He had been fast then. Less pain in the joints. More energy. Quick. Oh, how Ben longed for just a few more ounces of that wasted vitality.

  How long since the driver had dropped him off?

  Couldn't be that long. An hour, maybe less.

  Shouldn't be too much longer still. The glow ahead was growing, casting shadows of the thistle brushes and broken pieces of stone. For a moment, Ben came to a rest, sitting on one of these flat and angled rocks. They were smooth in some places, as if at some moment in time they had been given shape and design and purpose. What remained, he assumed of the Babylonian civilization. The place the Countess had come from. These stones were her roots, her home—he knew, could feel the dark energy still saturated in the crafted boulders.

  Not far ahead, a familiar report of gunfire, popp
ing off, like a crackling of fireworks. Followed by shouts and orders and more volleys.

  Standing, Ben glared into the dark.

  Was he too late?

  Had the Countess already come—returned to her birth right?

  Or worse...did she know he was here? Did she know his intention?

  No. No. It could be anything, this was an active warzone. Maybe the locals told the insurgents that American soldiers were here. Vulnerable out here in the desert, so far from any base.

  Could be that.

  And then he heard the howls, the screeching wails of hunger from that shark-mouthed horde. They were here—the vampyre, but was she? If not directly, she would not be ignorant of the happenings of her ilk.

  He started off. Walking briskly. Huffing, ignoring the pale dizzy feeling crawling over his skin. It was this or nothing at all. Would he forfeit the game after so many pieces have been taken from him?

  No. He would never stop, that much had been decided decades ago when he heard the snap of his wife's neck. Even when he said he had given up the game, he never truly had.

  Walked and walked he did.

  Forcing his aged bones to muster on.

  Finally, he passed the last of the large stones. In front of him was a clearing with Humvees staged around it, and at the epicentre, fractured black marble columns, worn by centuries of sand and dust. And between the column steps leading down into darkness. Above the entrance into the temple, most of what remained of structure had collapsed in on itself. Broken statues lined the perimeter, reminding Ben of a mixture of Egyptian and something else, something older, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

  In the center, where no structure existed nor any vegetation grew, the soldiers he had watched drive by the café earlier were taking cover where they could, firing M4 rifles and SAWs at a pack of darting black blurs that ran from pitted stone to pitted stone, making their way closer and closer to the fighters.

  Smiling with a long-forgotten pleasure—that old hate kindled the flame of his heart, cooking his veins with adrenaline, Ben Harker unsheathed his blade from his cane. The silver glimmered slightly in the glow of the headlights of the armoured trucks.

  He stepped out and made his way to the centre of the area of engagement.

  Gunfire continued to rattle around him, impacting the ground in soft thuds and chipping at the stones that had fallen when the world was still new. He stopped. Pinching two fingers into his mouth he whistled, as he had before when he was not a hunter but a farmer, calling his dogs home.

  The black shapes stopped where they were.

  They stiffened and turned.

  Pale and red-eyed they smiled at him with needle teeth.

  Ben raised his silver sword in a mock salute.

  The first one, some man dressed in a thobe that still looked white in some places, the meager inches of space not coated in dirt. The vampyre came toward him in a sort of playful trot, inching closer and closer.

  The vampyre lunged.

  Ben sidestepped and swung his blade down.

  With a wet thud, the vampire's body hit the ground while its head tumbled away.

  Almost at once the gunfire ceased.

  The next vampyre came at him, another man in a simple gauze shirt and pajamas like pants. This one stopped short from lunging and crept toward him. It's eyes burning red, gnashing its monstrous teeth.

  Not wanting to lose momentum, Ben lunged for the vampyre. His first swing missed, as intended—to position the drone where he wanted. And with the second strike, he pivoted. The silver sword cut through easily, splitting open pale flesh. Spilling not a single drop of blood. Only dust and crusted dead flesh.

  Another and another of the vampyre abandoned the retreating soldiers in pursuit of the old man. Gnashing and growling and clawing with freakishly long talon hands. And with each one that came at him, Ben removed the head. He slashed at the legs to get them into position. Others he let them carry themselves across his honed blade.

  With his back turned, he could hear the last one. Hissing and moving towards him. Wanting desperately to take advantage. Ben squeezed the handle of his sword. His strength was rapidly fading.

  Just one last cursed thing.

  One last swing.

  He willed himself. Gripping the sword tighter. His arms shook, not for fear but exhaustion.

  The vampyre was almost upon him. He could smell its rancour breath.

  He couldn't.

  The sword merely fell as he tried to lift it.

  This was the end.

  He closed his eyes.

  I'm sorry, Mina—I have failed you.

  And as the vampyre growled and squawked it fell to the ground beside his feet.

  Ben glanced down.

  The skull was partly missing. Blown away by—

  Turning, a soldier stood in front of him, aiming his rifle at the dispatched creature.

  "Thank you," Ben wheezed, struggling to catch his breath.

  The soldier relaxed, shaking his head and smiling, as if he didn't quite believe what he'd seen but couldn't dispute it either. "I suppose we should be thanking you, mister...?

  He could see the other troops beginning to come from cover. Listening, wanting to know who this stranger was. "My name is Benjamin Harker."

  "You're American?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay. Well, my name's Sergeant Jacob Burner, you mind telling me what the hell just happened here?"

  Chapter 40

  Despite the one soul he thought he knew and was painfully proved otherwise, a name he refused to utter out loud—regardless of that person, Ben Harker thought himself a rather good judge of character. After one hundred and six years walking this planet, he'd seen his share of them. From the heroes to the desperate to the cowards, and everything in between. And among the lot, Jacob Bruner was no coward. That much he was certain. Nor were his men. To face such an extreme polar twist on how one understands reality, to know what is true and false, fact and fiction and have it split open at the seam, spilling out the innards of a boxed imperfect world to find it more mysterious and utterly terrifying than it was before.

  Ben sat in the provided fold out chair, leaning forward on his cane, his corncob pipe clenched between his teeth. The men and women of 401st Military Police Company 2nd squad surrounded him, leaning in, others murmuring to themselves. Sergeant Bruner knelt on one knee in front of him, his thumbs resting on the open flap of his green camo Kevlar vest by his armpits. His DCU helmet lay on the ground. Taking a few glances, the old man could see pictures from home, of a woman with long straight hair and a warm inviting smile.

  "You want us to do what with the bodies?" Bruner asked again.

  Ben closed his eyes, nodding. "You must burn them, Sergeant. I know it sounds extreme—that you are destroying the only evidence you have, to prove to your superiors, the world, of the evil in this place. But you cannot." Opening his eyes, he looked from shell shocked to shell shocked face, resting finally on Bruner. "The world should not have to know about this—or them."

  More murmuring.

  "Why not?" one of the soldiers asked.

  Harker turned to him. "It is a great and terrible burden knowing. Imagine your family, friends, those you care about, what if they knew the truth? How would that knowledge change them? Could they sleep at night knowing such horrors are lurking in the dark?"

  The murmuring quieted. Faces downcast in miserable understanding. Ben recognized the lonesome acceptance, the look most soldiers carry with them back home after war. The look of a soldier standing in front of a wife or husband or child or mother or father too terrified to tell them all the dark secrets they'd gleamed of humanity down the crosshairs of the rifle.

  More shouting around him now.

  Footsteps. Heavy. Panting.

  He looked up into the face of his brother, James.

  And then shortly thereafter, Mina.

  She offered a drink and he drank.

  Feeling the cloud lift, h
is mind cleared, and so Ben sat up, assisted by James.

  "I'm sorry," Ben said. "I must have been daydreaming."

  Mina looked at him sideways. "You better be sorry, you gave me a start."

  Ben glanced at her and then looked away. Fred and Tess trotted and brayed, sounding very annoyed. "I don't know what happened, too much sun, I suppose."

  Mina grunted her response.

  "Want me to finish the row?" James offered.

  Ben shook his head and gestured that he wanted to stand. James and Mina both helped him to his feet. "Nah, I reckon we've done enough this season. Let's spread the seed and see what grows."

  Mina protested. "Not you, Ben. I want you to come inside for a spell."

  Ben started to argue.

  "No mind, brother. I can fill the seed," James said, touching Ben's elbow. He smiled in that knowing sort of way and started off toward the barn. He took Fred and Tess and lead them with him along.

  Watching James for a moment, waiting for him to be out of earshot perhaps, she turned back to Ben. "What was that really about?"

  Ben frowned. "I don't know."

  "You don't know, or you don't want to talk about it?"

  "I don't know, both?"

  "What were you thinking about?"

  Ben scratched the back of his head. "France," he said.

  "The war," Mina said as kindly and patiently as she could. But there was always that tone, that phrase of the word, as if it were ritualistic, unholy, and dirty. As if the sum of everything he saw and experienced could be compacted into such a simple term.

  "Mr. Harker," Bruner started, "you okay?"

  Ben shook his head and puffed on his corncob pipe. "Sorry, I was remembering something."

  "How long have you been doing this?" Bruner asked doing a poor job not looking concerned at the old man.