by King, Danny
“Well there’s a few hop pickers in the fridge over there,” Sebastian replied, pointing them in the direction of Mr Thatcher’s mates in the corner.
“That weren’t nothing to do with me, honest. That was the wife,” Mr Thatcher maintained, trotting out the party line and insisting every problem could be traced back to Mrs Thatcher as if he were Ken Livingstone on coke.
Angel took a step towards Mr Thatcher and glared him into silence. He was a worthless stain on humanity as far as she was concerned. She killed because she had to, because she needed human blood in order to live, but the Thatchers had no such necessity. They killed because they liked the act killing. They might have butchered and eaten their poor unfortunate victims afterwards but that merely served to consecrate the joyous misdeeds. It had nothing to do with subsistence. They were sadist murderers, pure and simple, and their type had plagued mankind since before the first vampires had ever appeared.
“We pick our hosts very carefully,” Angel told Sebastian, which was true. Every Coven meeting took place at such a charnel house. They were isolated by tradition and each resident maniac usually went to great lengths to keep their nosy neighbours at bay. Occasionally the Coven would let their hosts live, if the circumstances were mitigating enough, but more often than not they did everyone a favour and buried them out in their bone yards alongside their own victims. How many rueful runaways and trusting travellers they’d saved by observing this practice was anybody’s guess but this wasn’t the intention. The Coven didn’t kill for philanthropic reasons. It simply made good commercial sense to cut down the competition if the chance arose.
“Yeah well, it’s all worked out a treat, hasn’t it?” Sebastian had to say several times to be heard above the rattle of machinegun fire, adding “No offence” when he Angel had turned to glare at him.
“Don’t worry, we’re not going to kill you,” Angel reassured him.
“What about me?” Mr Thatcher asked hopefully.
“You belong in one of your own jars,” Angel growled before relenting. “But then again, who are we to judge?”
The atmosphere eased a notch or two now that everyone had played their cards but Henry was still stressed. He felt the weight of his own immortality bearing down upon him and it wasn’t something he was shouldering comfortably. Dying was never easy, but at least for most creatures it was inevitable and accepted as such. But Henry and Angel hadn’t had to think about death (not their own, at least) for more than five hundred years, substantiating the old adage “the more you have, the more you have to lose”.
“Don’t worry, this isn’t over yet,” Henry told Angel. “We still have a chance.”
Angel knew to what Henry was referring and gave him a supporting embrace. “If anyone can do this she can,” Angel agreed.
CHAPTER 19
Across the courtyard, on the other side of the farm, Fourth Squad had taken up positions to defend a dirt track that snaked through a little gully and disappeared into the darkest part of the woods. If anything got past them they’d never see it again – until it was too late.
Forth Squad had yet to see much action yet but were prepared for anything. They’d seen what had happened to First Squad and they were determined not to have their names inscribed in the same piece of marble. As such they kept every weapon trained on all points leading to their carefully defended positions.
Just as the worst of the mayhem was dying down in other parts of the homestead, Sergeant Harefield heard a strange noise that grew louder and louder with every passing moment. His men heard it too and braced themselves for the inevitable onslaught but none of them could’ve predicted what was about to emerge from the shadows.
Thud thud thud! Thud thud thud! Thud thud thud!
“Steady lads, steady. Pick your targets and make your shots. Here we go,” he said.
A suddenly movement caused eight muzzles to train on the same figure.
“Excuse me, but could somebody help me? I can’t walk very fast,” Alice said, thud thud thudding her zimmer frame steadily closer towards Fourth Squad.
Two of the Sergeant’s men chuckled and lowered their weapons but the Sergeant barked at them to stand fast and get ready to fire.
“Oh no, don’t do that. I’m not one of them, you see. They held me prisoner,” Alice pleaded without success, fooling no one. The guns remained pointing at her and the Sergeant warned her to turn back. It was better she was kept in the farm until the sun came up than tangled with now.
Alice took exception to the young man’s tone of voice and leaned into her walker with an undisguised contempt before telling him, “If you let me through, I might even let one or two you live.”
Despite the Sergeant’s best efforts and Alice’s warning, a giant of a man, known to friends and enemies alike as 23, stood up and withdrew 2ft long machete from its sheath.
“I got this one,” he told his comrades.
“23, retake your position, that’s an order,” Sergeant Harefield shouted but 23 wasn’t about to back down and be accused of running scared from a little old lady, undead or otherwise. He approached Alice with his machete drawn and poised to strike. The blade was so sharp that it could’ve felled a tree trunk as thick as 23’s forearm in a single swipe. And with seven red dots lighting up the old lady’s cardigan, the lads had his back if she sprang any surprises.
Alice quivered as 23 drew nearer. She’d had bunions for the past 900 years and they were really playing her up tonight (of all nights), bloody things.
23 stopped the other side of Alice’s zimmer, knocked her hat off and grabbed her hair stop her from pulling her head away.
“Sorry my dear but this might smart a little,” he chuckled, swinging his machete back a last few inches to maximise its swing.
Alice slapped 23 in the chest, knocking the wind out of his sails with her surprisingly sprightly strike, but not so much that it threatened to put him off his stride. But then 23 suddenly felt very queer indeed; a dizziness swamped him accompanied by a horrible nausea. The machete dropped from his hand and he felt himself sway. And then, just as he fell to his knees, he saw something wet and dripping in Alice’s hand. It was his own beating heart.
“Some people never listen,” Alice snapped, as 23 coiled over onto his face to die.
“Fire fire fire!” Sergeant Harefield shouted, lighting up the night with tracer fire as they raked Alice back and forth across the open dirt track.
But the old lady was like a blur. One second she was in one place, the next she was elsewhere. Before he could empty his cartridge, 30 looked up to see she’d closed thirty meters and was now bearing down on him. She snapped his neck and leapt at 28 before the former’s gun had hit the dirt, still firing in futility long after Alice had swept through them.
Sergeant Harefield saw their bullets were having no effect on Alice. Unlike Chen, Alice had barely any muscle to stop their rounds with; consequently their bullets passed through her like a knitting needles through wool. The more they raked her the angrier she got. She must’ve still felt something but she didn’t let it show. Now was not the time to dwell on her pain. Now was the time to serve it back tenfold.
Sergeant Harefield shifted his line of fire from her body to her head to at least disorientate her but the thought had occurred too late and she was suddenly on top of him, teeth glistening and nostrils flaring.
“No respect for your elders, that’s the world’s problem today,” Alice snarled as she pulled the Sergeant’s head from his shoulders and threw it at 34 to lay him out too. Only 33 remained, stumbling back and slinging his gun away as useless as he tried to flee.
Alice laughed. There was no getting away from her in this mood and 33’s flight was only pressing her buttons all the more. She yanked him back before he got to the trees and held his face in her hands.
“Not running from old granny, are we?” she chuckled, her fangs engorged and her eyes blood red. “And after I knitted you a scarf as well.”
She now pulled
the tangled monstrosity she’d been knitting all week from her pocket and wrapped it around 33’s neck. His eyes bulged and the veins popped out of his temples as he choked but Alice wasn’t trying to strangle him, merely to build up the pressure in his arteries so that when she bit into his neck, the spray would saturate her senses in a way that she found almost orgasmic.
“There there,” she smiled as he fought to claw her hands away. “Hush little bunny”.
Alice now leaned in and licked his neck. No soap or aftershave. Just how she liked it. She was about to bite when a white-hot pain skewered her from behind.
She looked to see 34 lowering his crossbow and felt her chest to find an arrowhead poking through.
“Now that was uncalled for,” Alice gasped as 34 reloaded but there was no need. He’d scored a bullseye first time. She was dead before she hit the ground. At least she would’ve been but she didn’t make it that far. A sudden gust of wind came out of nowhere to carry her off on its breeze, leaving just her clothes and scarf for 33 to untangle himself from.
“What the fuck was that?” 34 gawped as he prodded her cardigan and overcoat only to find more ash.
“I don’t know, but maybe the dementia tax isn’t such a bad idea after all,” 33 replied, feeling somewhat underpaid after all.
CHAPTER 20
The battle was over. The two sides withdrew to lick their wounds. And count their dead.
Some of the outer buildings were ablaze. Burning chickens and red-hot shot had ignited several hay bales and now the resident horses and pigs were kicking at the doors of their filthy paddocks and squealing in panic as the flames crept closer.
Colonel Bingham lowered his binoculars as his units radioed in their successes and failures.
“Three of them bugged back to the farm, Colonel, but we neutralised the other,” Third Squad reported in.
“We nailed one on the western track,” Fourth Squad, or what was left of them, echoed.
“And how many did we lose?” the Colonel asked.
When the counting was done the figure seemed to suggest nine all told.
“Dead or wounded?” Larousse demanded to know.
“There are no wounded, Mr Larousse,” Bingham replied with contempt.
“We’ve barely two Squads left, Captain. That’s not enough to hold this place,” Larousse objected.
“They’re down as well, Mr Larousse. There are only three of them now and they’re hurt. They won’t try that again.”
Bingham turned away from his Larousse and headed up the hill to get on with the business of repositioning his pawns. There were still hours until dawn and his troops had been decimated and yet they were somehow hanging on.
“Actually sir, there are four of them,” a voice called to him from behind.
Colonel Bingham turned to see three of his men traipsing up the hill with an offering that almost made this whole catastrophe worthwhile. Battered, burnt, bloodied and bruised, a woman stared back at Colonel Bingham with malicious eyes. She was tethered around the neck with strong wire and held at arms length between the two soldiers with snare poles while the third kept the crosshairs of his crossbow sights trained on at all times.
“Give that man a cigar!” the Colonel uttered, staring at Vanessa with a mixture of horror and greed.
Larousse was equally stunned and asked with incomprehension, “Is that one of them?” scarcely believing what he was seeing. Few men got this close to the Ungodly ones and those that did rarely lived to tell the tale. And yet here they were with a living, breathing demon in their midst.
“So, how’s your night panning out?” Vanessa asked sardonically, almost as interested to meet Bingham as he was to her.
“What should we do with her, Colonel?” the soldier with the crossbow asked.
Colonel Bingham edged nearer – not that much nearer, just a little – for a closer look and marvelled at the unnatural forces at work in Vanessa. Her clothes were shredded and singed from the force of the RPG blast and yet her lily-white skin beneath was all but unblemished. Vanessa watched Bingham as he examined her and wondered if she should offer to drop her pants and bend over too.
“Magnificent,” he said, so full of admiration that he almost wished he could switch sides – it wouldn’t have been the first time he had – but ultimately the Colonel concluded it was too late in the day to defect now. Besides, it might mess up his plans to see out his remaining years counting his money and lying on a tropical beach, sipping cocktails.
“Please! We have to kill her now. She’s too dangerous to hold,” Larousse pleaded, breaking the spell Vanessa had cast over the Colonel.
“What, little old me?” Vanessa simpered, making a mental note of the chink in the Bingham’s ranks.
Bingham nodded and the soldiers either side of her yanked on their respective poles to choke her by the throat. Vanessa reacted instinctively, snatching back at the poles and almost pulling the soldiers off their feet.
“Desist!” the soldier with the crossbow warned her and Vanessa reluctantly heeded his warning, if only to live long enough to see these fuckers skinned for their impertinence.
Colonel Bingham was impressed with the demonstration and smiled broadly. “I think I’m in love,” he laughed.
“Then here, kiss me,” Vanessa replied, puckering up as best she could to hide her engorged fangs.
“Sir?” the soldier repeated, eager for the order to kill her and neutralise the threat. But Bingham wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth and gave the order that made Larousse’s toes curl in dread.
“Break out the frame.”
CHAPTER 21
Boniface seemed to be back to where he’d started; in the Thatchers’ kitchen and staring at the same tablecloth they’d all found themselves admiring earlier. Only this time he found himself alone.
Boniface liked his own company. He would’ve been a loner had he lived a normal life, so immortality suited his temperament. And yet there were times when companionship was desired – like now for example, when a merciless enemy had him surrounded on all sides and was intent on wiping him from the face of the Earth. He could’ve done with another friendly face just now but the others had all left him.
He wondered if any of them had made it. If they had, it was clear that none of them had doubled back and taken on the enemy from behind as agreed. The treacherous bastards! He knew he couldn’t rely on his so-called friends when push came to shove.
Why had he even come here tonight? Indeed why did they even need a Coven or a European Council? Why couldn’t they go their own way and do their own thing, as nature intended? The strong hunted the weak. They always had and they always would. What more was there to discuss? Snakes didn’t have rules. Sharks didn’t have rules. Lions didn’t have rules. Or at least, they didn’t have quotas. They had rules of another kind but they didn’t vote on them. The biggest lion just roared and all the others went away and brought him back a zebra. Why couldn’t they do that?
Naturally, it didn’t occur to Boniface, not even for a moment, that he might not necessarily be the biggest lion.
A creak behind an internal door caused Boniface to jump. He grabbed a chair leg from amongst the rubble and braced himself for the final round of this evening.
The brass handle clicked a couple of times, the hinges groaned as the rickety door swung open and Boniface swung his weapon.
“Careful now. You’re liable to hurt someone with that,” Henry warned him with a smile, causing Boniface to check his swing at the last moment and breathe a sigh of relief.
“Fuck!” Boniface said, tossing his weapon away as his colleagues climbed up out from the cellar to resume their meeting. As relieved as he was to see Henry and Angel again, Boniface would’ve rather never seen either of them (or this place) again. Their gambit had failed, their numbers had dwindled and their hopes had faded as a result.
“Are we the only ones who made it back?” Boniface asked righting a chair and retaking his place at the confere
nce table – or rather, the Duke’s old place. And it didn’t go unnoticed.
“Not quite,” Angel replied, peeking out of the window to make sure the night held no more surprises – for now.
Sebastian trudged out of the cellar and acknowledged Boniface with a smile before finding his own chair to flop into.
“Perfect. My night’s complete,” Boniface sighed.
“You and me both, chuckles,” Sebastian agreed, lighting up, this time without asking for permission.
Angel looked around the smashed up room. The place hadn’t exactly been the Ritz before but now it looked more like the Blitz.
“Oh Lord, the missus is going to go nuts when she sees this lot,” Mr Thatcher gasped when he emerged from the cellar to join the rest of the party.
“I think you’re safe on that front,” Henry reminded him, and Mr Thatcher’s face fell when he remembered.
“Oh. Oh yeah,” he nodded, his grief rekindled but his sense of purpose suddenly lost. He’d loved Mrs Thatcher, he truly had. And she’d loved him. They’d been soul mates and no two hearts had beaten more closely, particularly whilst pickling their postmen’s privates. He set about straightening a few pictures on the walls but it would take more than a hoover before the old place looked back to its best. Not that much more but a little.
“So, what do we do now?” Angel asked in case anyone else had any bright ideas. She’d meant it for Henry or Boniface’s consideration but it was Sebastian who ultimately answered, putting his brains into gear and asking himself what he would do in their position –not the vampires but the soldiers up on the hill.
“Why don’t you try talking to them?” he suggested, puffing on his fag and scratching his head to show he could multi-task as well as come up with fantastic ideas.
“Talking to them?” Henry frowned.
“Yeah, you know, strike up a pow-wow. What have you got to lose?” Sebastian asked.