by Craig Zerf
And Emily unleashed the full force of her coercion.
The crowd fell silent. The leavers turned and came back. Then she spoke again.
‘You will follow me.’
The mayor repeated her words in Italian.
‘What will you do?’ Questioned Emily.
‘Vi seguiremo,’ they shouted. ‘We will follow you.’
‘Good. Now, go to your houses and collect whatever weapons that you have. Be quick and meet me back here. Go, now.’
The crowd dissipated as they ran to arm themselves.
‘Antonio,’ said Emily. ‘Can you get some sort of hand cart and fill it with drums of gasoline. We’re gonna have ourselves an old fashioned burning tonight. From this day on I aim to make the castle of Gandolfino into a quaint, burned out ruin.’
Antonio left at a run to do Emily’s bidding.
Less than an hour later the crowd had reassembled. Emily walked amongst them and split them into two groups. The women, children and elderly she told to stay and guard the village. The rest, all men between sixteen and sixty, she took to one side. There were exactly ninety of them. Then she asked Antonio and the mayor to get all the best weapons and as much ammunition that they could find and ensure that the group assailing the castle had them.
Another half an hour ticked by and her troops were as kitted out as they could ever hope to be. Being a rural village most of the residents had some form of hunting firearm. Mainly shotguns but also many rifles in various calibers. As well as that there was a smattering of handguns ranging from modern semi-auto pistols to old WW1 Webley revolvers.
So ever man had at least one weapon and a handful of ammunition. Emily had taken a Browning hi-power 9mm and two magazines of ammo to supplement her weapon of choice, the axe, Deathwalker.
She gave them all a last check and then led the way, marching towards the castle. As they walked, she clamped down on the thoughts of guilt that were assailing her. She had coerced these people into doing this. She had stripped their power of choice from them, torn their free will away and replaced it with her own agenda. She had done it even though she knew that many of these fine, innocent people would die as a result. They would die and it would be her fault.
But she also knew that this was a battle that needed to be fought. A battle that needed to be won. And if that meant that she had to lose a little of her own humanity to do so, then so be it.
‘So, Donna Mannaro,’ asked Antonio. ‘What is the plan?’
‘There is no plan,’ she answered. ‘We storm the building, go in through the front door and kill everyone and everything inside. Then we pour gasoline all over the place, flick a Zippo and go home to celebrate.’
‘You make it sound so simple.’
‘It is,’ admitted Em. ‘War is uncomplicated. Fighting, destroying, killing. It’s straightforward. It’s easy. The difficult part is learning to live with yourself afterwards.’
The horde arrived at the front doors and Emily mounted the stairs and stood in front of them. She concentrated and Deathwalker appeared in her right hand. Then she drew her pistol in her left, rolled her head on her neck to loosen the muscles. And smashed the door down.
‘Right,’ she shouted. ‘Let’s kick ass.’
They streamed into the building, buoyed up by years of oppression and generations of being forced to kowtow to the creatures of darkness that had controlled their very lives.
This was revenge on an industrial scale.
Around thirty men spread out on the ground floor and the rest went up the stairs, looking for someone to kill. Almost straight away the booming reports of the shotguns filled the air, followed by the sharp crack of rifles and handguns.
Emily stood still at the foot of the stairs and let her mind flow, seeking out the Nosferatu. She could feel them all about her. Some on the ground floor. Some above her.
Then she found a crowd of them. Below. The basement.
‘Antonio,’ she called. ‘Get the gasoline. Quickly.’
The Italian rushed outside and grabbed the handcart. Loaded onto it were four forty-five gallon drums of gas. It had taken four men to drag it to the castle and, try as he might, Antonio could get it to the foot of the stairs but no further.
Emily sprinted to help, moving at vampire speed she grabbed the handle of the cart and bounced it up the stairs and through the shattered front door.
‘Follow me,’ she commanded as she ran down the corridor. At the end there was a large set of double doors that led to the kitchen. And on the right of them another smaller set. These were less ornate, and they had no lock. She kicked them open. A flight of steps led down into the darkness.
Using her enhanced strength, Em grabbed the drums of fuel, ripped the tops off and threw them down into the basement. The fourth and final drum she rolled down the stairs, leaving a river of gasoline in its wake.
Then she turned to Antonio and held out her hand. ‘Zippo.’
The Italian man smiled and slapped a chrome lighter in her palm like a theater nurse handing a surgeon a scalpel.
Em flicked the wheel, stood back and cast the flickering flame down the stairs.
There was a solid thump as the gas took flame and then a fireball billowed out of the doorway.
‘Get back,’ she shouted at Antonio as she readied her axe in her right hand and pointed her pistol at the open doorway. ‘Here they come.’
A score of burning vampires came screeching up the stairs, and they launched themselves at Emily. She pulled the trigger and the Browning High Power sounded like a submachine gun on full auto. The first three bloodsuckers went down, their heads riddled with bullets.
Then she dropped the empty magazine and slapped in a fresh one, all was done at a speed that defied the human eye. To Antonio everything was simply a blur of movement. Flashes of color and then dead vampires dropping to the floor at Emily’s feet, their heads almost non-existent due to the fact that she had blown them away.
The pistol ran dry and Deathwalker took over. Emily swung the butterfly shaped blades like she was dancing. And the flames reflected off the polished steel, creating a circle of fire in front of her. The six headless bodies became ten, then fifteen and finally the last one fell twitching at her feet. A pile of dead bloodsuckers that would trouble the village no more.
Without pause, Em ran back to the entrance and checked on her troops. The ground floor seemed under control so she sprinted up to the next floor.
Two vamps on her right at the top of the stairs. On the floor, six dead villagers. Deathwalker sang, and the vamps went to their true death.
Three more at the end of the corridor. Men shooting at them. Puffs of blood spraying from the vamps as the shotgun pellets struck. But still the bloodsuckers moved forward, slashing, maiming and killing as they did so. Emily engaged them. They died.
The next floor. More bodies. More innocent villagers lying in twisted agony. More blood. More death.
Emily killed again. And again.
And then Antonio was grabbing her shoulder and she could feel the heat from the flames as they crackled around her.
‘It’s over,’ he shouted in her ear. ‘Everyone else is out. We must go now before it’s too late.’
But it already was too late. The flames billowed up the stairs and beat at their faces like a living creature. They ran, back down the corridor but it followed them, hissing and roaring.
Emily vanished Deathwalker, picked Antonio up in her arms and jumped out of the window, landing safely in the garden three floors below.
She put the Italian man down and looked about her. The men that she thought of as her troops were standing in a group in the front garden. Far enough away from the flames to avoid getting scorched but close enough to dispatch anything that might make it out of the inferno, however unlikely that may be.
Em did a quick head count. There were forty three men left standing.
She was responsible for the death of forty seven men.
She shook off the mas
sive blanket of guilt that threatened to suffocate her. She was at war and needs must. She would not allow herself the comfort of caring. Of allowing her feelings to matter. The Nosferatu were evil. They had to be exterminated. That was the be all and end all of the matter.
Father Grimaldi walked up to Em, took her right hand and kissed it. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We are free.’
Em tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘You are. Where is mayor Bertolini?’
The priest frowned. ‘Unfortunately he did not make it. But he died well, taking out at least one of the forsaken by himself.’
Em struggled to hide her emotions. To keep back the tears. He had died well, she thought to herself. And I suppose that is all that we can hope for in this life. To die well.
‘What now, Donna Mannaro?’ Asked Antonio.
Emily shrugged. ‘Now…you live. Your final battle is over and you have won. But for me, my war continues and I have many battles still to wage. I need to make a phone call. Does anyone have a cell phone that I can use?’
Antonio handed her an iPhone, and she dialed a number from memory.
‘William?’ She said. ‘Yes, I’m alive. Obviously. I’m in Italy. It’s a long story. I wonder if you could send Latobias to pick me up?’ She gave the Omega her location. ‘Thank you,’ she continued. ‘Yes, I know. He’ll be here in ten minutes.’
Chapter 38
It had been five days since Nathan had gotten news that his castle had been destroyed and all of the brethren there had been murdered. Once again he had underestimated that bitch. But never again.
He had put a plan in motion that would finally defeat her and her animal minions. And then he would go back to his castle and visit pain and suffering on those villagers the likes of which they had never even dreamed of in their worst nightmares.
His Nightwalkers had spent the last few days gathering every one of his brethren from the United Kingdom and bringing them to his dockland fortress.
Nathan walked swiftly down one of the long, seemingly endless corridors that made up the interior of his new abode, seeing perfectly despite the almost complete lack of lighting.
At the end of the corridor, a steel door. He spun the locking handle and pulled the door open. Two inches thick, over a ton of hardened steel that swiveled open on silent, oiled hinges to reveal a massive room.
A room with three flickering naked bulbs swinging from the high ceiling. A room with a bare concrete floor. A room with no windows and extra-thick, reinforced walls.
A room that was full of Grinders. The brain damaged offspring of the true Nosferatu. With all the strength and speed and healing powers but no thought or emotion save that of which to feed and kill any human being that they came across.
And Nathan’s Nightwalkers had collected over two hundred of them.
The Capo walked amongst them, stroking their heads as they knelt before him. Scratching the odd one under the chin or patting their shoulders as the gibbered and slobbered and giggled insanely.
Any other Nosferatu would never have chanced walking amongst so many Grinders but Nathan knew that, above everything, the Grinder respected strength. And at this moment, every one of their burned-out brains registered one hard cold fact. The entity walking amongst them was probably the most dangerous living thing on the planet.
So instead of swarming him and ripping him into bite sized chunks they smarmed and simpered and worshipped.
They waited to do his bidding. To rend and tear at his command.
To kill the Capo’s enemies.
Nathan smiled. ‘Soon, my children,’ he said. ‘Very soon.’
He locked the door behind him and headed back to his main suite of rooms, calling out for the Nightwalker, Bartholomew as he walked.
In a blur of motion, the Nightwalker appeared at his side like magic.
‘How many of the brethren do we have here?’ Asked Nathan.
‘Seventy six, Capo,’ answered Bartholomew. ‘Twenty four Bloodwraiths, seven Elders and the rest are level one Youngsters but all of good quality.’
‘It is time,’ stated Nathan. ‘Do it.’
Bartholomew bowed deeply and left at the same speed that he had arrived. Off to do his masters bidding.
***
He was known as Slateshard Robert Essex Metamorphic, Guardian ninety four thousand seven hundred and twelve. And he was one of the few guardian gargoyles that had company. For over five hundred years he had shared the roof of the church of All-Hallows-By-The-Tower in London.
His two companions were Limestone Trevor Kent Sedimentary and Basalt Rupert Cornwall Igneous. Together they had survived the Great Fire of London back in 1666 and he still remembered the famed diarist, Samuel Pepys, climbing onto the rooftop to watch the progress of the fire as it swept across the capital city. He recalled the blitz during the Second World War, the sounds of the bombs as they exploded, knocking down a sizable part of the church. They had survived the snow and the hail and the sun.
But he knew that their time was finally up. Because, although Gargoyles are patient and dedicated and as strong as…well…as strong as a rock. They cannot move very quickly. In fact, to get from one side of the roof to the other took any of them the better part for a day and a night.
So, when it came to self defense, they simply didn’t have any.
Standing opposite him, backlit by the full moon, stood three vampires. All of them were carrying twenty pound sledgehammers with three foot Hickory shafts. And it was obvious that they had not come for any social reasons.
The group of vamps split up, one heading for each guardian.
Before they started swinging Slateshard asked a question.
‘Why?’
The bloodsucker shrugged. ‘Because you chose the wrong side.’
And the guardian smiled. Because he knew that he had not.
The hammer came down hard.
Within minutes there was nothing left but three piles of rubble.
‘Weird,’ said the vamp that Slateshard had spoken to. ‘They don’t bleed or nothing.’ He picked up a chunk of rock and rolled it around in his hand. ‘It’s just stone. Like they never were alive.’
‘Yeah,’ laughed one of the others. ‘Well then don’t try to feed off him.’
There was a general chuckle and the lead vamp took a note out of his pocket and laid it under one of the pieces of the broken guardian.
It was simple, short and to the point.
“Emily. This has to end. Preston Industrial Estate. Isle of Dogs. London Docklands. Bring your friends. Yours in Death – The Capo di tutti capi, Nathan Tremblay.”
Nathan had thrown down the gauntlet and it was up to Emily to accept the challenge.
Chapter 39
Latobias brought the helicopter in low and fast, approaching from over the Thames River, the rising sun behind it. As he passed over the first guard tower, Tag leaned out the side door and opened up with Missus Jones. 7.62 cartridges poured out of the breech and fell from the aircraft like golden hail. The guard tower disappeared in a flash of fire and lead.
Then Latobias swiveled the helicopter and brought it in to a broadside position on the next tower. The sniper in the guardhouse managed to get off a single shot that ricocheted off the fuselage and then Missus Jones shredded him.
Within thirty seconds the other guard towers were reduced to kindling and the helicopter was hovering in front of the main gate. Twelve foot high, inch thick, solid steel.
Missus Jones tore it to shreds like it was tinfoil.
And the werewolves streamed through changing as they did.
The battle had begun.
Latobias landed the helicopter in the open area in front of the main warehouse and William, Troy, Tag, Dietz and Emily jumped out before he rose back into the sky.
William led the way, flanked by Troy and Emily.
Tag and Dietz took up the rear, moving at a much slower human pace. Dietz was laden down with two extra crates o
f ammo for Missus Jones as well as his MP5 submachine gun. He was also carrying two flasks of Holy Water. And this time it wasn’t his usual tricksy acid-based concoction but rather, they were actual bottles blessed by the Holy Father himself. Because this time he felt that, instead of a bottle of acid, he genuinely needed a little help from the Lord. He took the bottles out and gave them each a quick kiss before he pocketed them again.
Tag and Dietz were left behind as they ran at normal human speed but William wasn’t worried about them. With Tag’s superhuman strength and Dietz’s guile and battle experience, they were a two man wrecking crew and woe betide any bloodsuckers that thought that those two humans would be easy pickings.
The Pack had already smashed open the front entrance to the warehouse complex and had streamed inside, barking and howling. Twenty seven wolves, all seeking to avenge Bastian and Sylvian.
Behind them came the Omega, the Alpha and the Daywalker. A trio of power the likes of which had never before been assembled.
The Pack spread out, breaking into smaller groups of five or six as they entered the building, running down the myriads of corridors, smashing open doorways and seeking the Nosferatu.
The first group of five wolves came into contact with a gaggle of vamps in a room to the right of the main corridor. Five Bloodwraiths. There was no pattern to their attack, it was simply bite and rend with jaws snapping and teeth grinding.
The vamps fought back with their superior speed and long razor sharp talons and the battles were short and extremely bloody. But unfortunately five wolves were not quite a match for an equal amount of Bloodwraiths and at the end of the first skirmish, five wolves and three vamps lay dead. Their mutilated bodies torn to shreds, wolf and vamp mixed together in a final bloody orgy.
Another group of wolves ran down an ancillary corridor, chasing the scent of a gaggle of vamps only to run straight into a trap. Three claymore mines, all recharged with silver ball bearings instead of steel, exploded and scythed through the group, blasting legs off and tearing deep into their flesh. All four went down in a welter of blood and agony as the silver prevented them healing.